Yom Hashoah

My grandfather was born in Warsaw on October 26, 1911, the youngest of seven and the only boy. His name was Motel (pronounced mut-TEL) Rajsman. He had green eyes and thick black hair, although by the time I knew him, only silver wisps remained, clinging stubbornly to the sides of his pale head.

His father died when he was a young man, so my grandfather dropped out of school to help operate the family's butcher shop. All of his sisters were married with children. My bubbe once told me that the three oldest sisters lived in Germany and owned a chocolate factory. From papers that Bubbe prepared requesting reparations from Germany, I learned that the middle sisters were named Tema and Estera. The youngest sister, Doba, was my grandfather's favorite. My younger sister, Dana, was named in her honor.

On September 1, 1939, Hitler launched his blitzkrieg - lightening war - through Poland. The Polish government conscripted all men of fighting age. Sixteen days later, the Russians stormed in from the east. Doba's husband was sent to the eastern front. My grandfather fled.

Once, when I was in elementary school, I asked my grandfather what happened to his family. His clear green eyes clouded over and he was quiet for long enough to scare me. Finally, he shook his head, peered down at me, and yelled for my bubbe to bring him a pear. She scurried to give him one, then walked back to the living room where she had been crocheting an afghan. Grandpa held the light green fruit up.

"See this pear?"

I nodded.

"It's shaped like your bubbe's tuchus!" he said, and we laughed together at her butt as she turned to glare at us through the doorway. Then he patted me on the head, his eyes twinkling.

Whenever I imagine my grandfather's last interaction with his family, a mostly black and white film with splashes of color unreels in my head. I see three dark-haired women assembled at a large dining table. Their husbands are at work or in the army, their children are at school, and their mother, Pesha, is upstairs resting. Then lean into the center of the empty table, hashing out a plan. They need to save their only brother. When my grandfather returns from their butcher shop, six sets of green eyes look up at him.

"What?" he asks.

"It has been decided," Estera says. "You leave tonight for Russia." Although Russia is known for anti-Semitic violence, and is at war with Poland, it is the closet country not occupied by the Nazis. He might be able to slip through the borders undetected.

"No!" The bag containing provisions he has brought from the market slips out of his arms. Vegetables spill on the polished wood floor, a mess of colors.

The women shake their heads. (I costume them in wigs, as Orthodox Jewish custom dictates for married women.) Doba speaks. "We are women with children, and out mother is frail. The Nazis won't bother us. I can't bear to lose you to the army or worse..." Her voice is quiet, like my sister's. She stares in her lap at her small folded hands.

They pack a satchel of food and clothes. They collect money from the deep pockets in their simple dresses and count it at the table. They shuttle him toward the door. Doba presses the bills into Grandpa's hand, and Tema passes him the bag. They kiss him good-bye. As he walks down the street, he turns back one last time to look at them. Doba calls out, "L'shanah haba'ah birushalayim - next year in Jerusalem."

He never sees them again.

Stike Out for Choice!

Others might make jokes about "striking out a life" (which I find really funny, by the way, because my gallows humor on this topic is so finely honed; another good one might be about alleys), but I am participating in an abortion access bowl-a-thon in April. Seriously.

"But Suzanne," Dear Reader may be thinking, "abortion is legal. How can it not be accessible?"

Yes, that's what I used to think, too. Then I found out that 87% of counties in the US have no abortion providers. This affects approximately 1/3 of American women. The lack of providers increases exponentially for women who need abortions after 16 weeks.* These women are forced to travel long distances, sometimes as many as hundreds of miles, to get the medical services they need.

Add it up: there's the cost of the procedure (not covered by Medicare in 32 states; although those lucky enough to have private health insurance are covered by many policies for now), the cost of transportation, and potentially the cost of a motel if the person has to stay overnight. Since 50% of women who get abortions already have children, there's the cost of child care, too.

While abortion may be legal, it is only really accessible to women who live in certain geographic regions and/or those who have financial resources.* So, I join the abortion access bowl-a-thonin an attempt to keep pins, not women, in (back) alleys. Um, or something like that.

*There are many reasons for why that may happen.
**Just like other health care! How nuts is that?!?!

The Census is Coming! The Census is Coming!

A white envelope waited for me when I checked the mail last night. In huge letters it said, "United States Census 2010." Excitement surged through my veins. Ooooh! The Census! Not only do I love filling out questionnaires (seriously), but I love helping New York get its fair share of resources.

I ran back into the apartment. "We got the Census form!" I told Husband, waving the slim envelope triumphantly in the air.

"Are you sure? It could just be a letter telling us that the Census is coming."

"Oh." Suddenly the tiny envelope made more sense. I ripped it open. It was a letter. In bold letters, it said, "About one week from now, you will receive a 2010 Census form in the mail."

Fine. I got all excited again. "The Census is coming! The Census is coming!"

I sort of hope that my enthusiasm for the Census will not be matched by people who live in states that don't believe in government services or civil liberties. I don't want them getting their fair share of representation if they are going to use it to deprive me of my fair share of rights. I'm just sayin'....

International Women's Day Was Yesterday

Basically, I have no idea what is going on outside of my little sphere of work and thesis writing. I thought today was March 8th, which is International Women's Day, and was all excited to write about it. I understand now that March 8th was actually yesterday. I'm going to say some shit anyway.

I wrote a post for BlogHer about 30 Woman Making History, a campaign by the Woman's Media Center to highlight, yes, 30 women making history while also raising some dough to employ women to write about news and politics. Good idea. I picked five women that I thought were making history (Shada [Shatha] Nasser, Eveline Shen, Sindiwe Magona, Shirley Rodriguez Remeneski, and Alysa Stanton). Links for more info on each awesome woman is in my post at BlogHer if you want to know more, and yes, that's my way of getting people to click over there. Whatever.

Today I read a post over at another awesome woman's blog, Suebob's Red Stapler. She quoted a not awesome woman blogger who said that equality is stupid because it is about fairness and we all know that life isn't fair. "Fuck that!" was essentially Suebob's reaction, echoed by all the excellent people who left comments on it.

One comment in particular stood out: "Vagina's are wasted on some people I swear." This was written by Thordora, who totally made my day.

And now, back to my day.

Another Disturbing Ripple in My Universe

My mother and I are planning a trip to Warsaw in mid-June. We will visit the Jewish cemetery and try to find my great-grandfather's grave. (He died before the war, so he probably is lucky enough to have a burial place unlike my grandfather's sisters and mother.) We will see the few remnants of the wall of the Warsaw ghetto. We will visit the Jewish Historical Institute. We will do a records search. We will pass by the address where my grandfather's family owned a butcher shop and/or lived.

We will also go to Treblinka.

I always assumed that my grandfather's family died in Auschwitz, if they even lived to be deported from the ghetto. But, one of the dangers of Holocaust hagiography is that the fame of Auschwitz dwarfs reality. Deportations began in 1942, and when Warsaw's ghetto was liquidated in the spring of 1943, everyone left was sent to Treblinka, 2 hours outside of Warsaw in an isolated forest. There was no work at Treblinka. People died within an hour of their arrival.

Husband has a friend who lives in Warsaw who is very kindly helping me arrange my trip. He sent me a link to the Treblinka Museum. One of the things that fascinated me when I first learned about the Treblinka site is how noncommercial it is. Auschwitz, to me, is tourist attraction at this point. Tour groups go, people gape at the convent built on site, they exclaim over the signs proclaiming how much the Poles suffered* because it was initially built for Polish political prisoners. Treblinka was completely destroyed by the Nazis, so there's nothing "fun" to see. It is a sober monument to the 800,000 Jews and thousands of Gypsies and Romani murdered there.

Anyway, as I read the museum's website, I was taken aback by this statement:

The memorial should be visited with due seriousness and respect.
Within the area of the museum it is forbidden to bring dogs, smoke or eat ice cream.

Damn, I can't eat ice cream there? Well, I guess I'll have to pack ham and cheese pierogies and chocolate kolacky.

I hope that this was a translation error and in Polish it says, "no eating." Otherwise, WHAT THE FUCK? How weird is the focus on ice cream? Even weirder, it reminds me of a fucked up Hasidic monument I visited in Israel:


I mean, they are not the same thing, but the utter randomness of what is forbidden strikes me as similar. (In case the photo does not appear, it is a sign that says that it is forbidden for women to dance at this site.)

Anyway, it is going to be an intense trip. I believe we will also take a trip to Krakow, as Husband's friend recommended.

*Oh yeah, and some Jews, gypsies, and homosexuals died there, too. But whatever. (This is written in the vein of signage at Auschwitz, so pardon my bitter glibness.)

Bring on the Funny

My thesis, which is about the spoken and unspoken experiences that I inherited from my paternal side, uses humor to explore the horrible things that happened to my grandparents and father during and after World War II. The humor is integral because my grandfather relied on jokes to deflect topics that he didn't want to deal with and as a coping mechanism for his enormous losses. I think that this reliance on humor is something that I inherited from him.

Anyway, today I spent some time reading Jewish humor books. Partly it is for research, partly to procrastinate because I have no ideas at the moment. I thought I'd share one:

Sadie says to her husband, "Moshe, I'm fed up with frozen chicken. Please buy for me a live chicken for a change. Then I can make for us a lovely meal."

So Moshe goes to the market and buys the chicken. On his way back, he sees that Funny Girl is showing at the movies. He calls Sadie on a pay phone. "Sadie," he says, "They're showing Funny Girl at the movies. I think I'll see it before I come home."

"OK," replies Sadie, "but what about the chicken?"

"I'll take it inside with me," Moshe answers.

Moshe stuffs the chicken down his trousers and goes in to see the film. Unfortunately, part way through the movie, the chicken pokes its head out. Two women are sitting next to Moshe and one turns to the other and whispers, "There's a man next to me with his shmeckle hanging out of his pants."

Her friend says, "Why be shocked? If you've seen one, you've seen them all. Just watch the movie."

"But this one's different. It's eating my popcorn."

OK, this joke totally cracked me up because it is so weird and random. I can almost hear my grandfather telling it. (He really liked dirty jokes, just like I do.)

Heads Up!

For a nanosecond, I wanted to scream when I stepped onto the subway on Tuesday morning. In a seat between two disinterested women lay a disembodied head, face down. Its black hair stood up at odd angles, and its brown neck was evenly sawed off from a torso.

I quickly realized that the reason that the women were so nonchalant about this horror was that it was a severed mannequin's head. Further inspection lead me to notice that the mannequin's little bud nose rested on a cosmetology magazine. The head seemed to belong to the woman on its right, who thoughtfully gave it its own seat so that actual humans had to stand.

At 42nd Street, the woman gathered her shopping bags, scooped up the head and magazine, and exited the train. I sat down in the seat formerly occupied by the lifeless head. I love living in New York City.

Heaping Piles of Seething Rage of Steaming Anger

Two years ago, my friend Sara and I were interviewed for documentary on abortion. I even put on make up and shit so that I would not look like a fetus-eating zombie on film, hence making the pro-choice side of what we were assured was a "balanced" look at the abortion debate look bad. Nope. I wanted to represent!

I never heard back from the motherfuckers. Not even, "Thanks Suzanne. It was nice of you to take time out to help us make a shitty documentary that no one will see." So when I discovered that the filmmakers actually did come up with something - and it is a scripted "dramamentary" about abortion in which the pretty blond white girl is treated like shit by nasty nurses in an abortion clinic and thus of course have her baby and all is good and - deep breath; this is an angry run on sentence/rant, sorry - the black girl who is raped and comes to NYC to have her abortion is saved by the nice white woman who hosts her through the Haven Coalition (which I was, at the time I was interviewed, the co-head of), I was mad fucking pissed. These douches could at least have had the courtesy to email me and let me know their shitty "unbiased" film (featuring a really cuddly 22 week old fetus in utero) that I helped them with was coming out. Or at least a "Lifetime"-esque trailer that befits a solid piece of filmmaking such as this was online for my viewing pleasure.

Oh. And I did I mention that this "balanced" film is executive produced by the guy who made that other even-keeled movie, Passion of the Christ, and the awesome Ben Stein movie about how "science" teachers who want to teach that evolution is all a lie are persecuted by baby- and Christ-killing Jews like me? Right. (CORRECTION: "The Passion of the Christ" guy is the one marketing this balanced film, although the exec producer is a right winger, too - "Hollywood's Most Powerful Christian," according to Christianity Today magazine. My bad.)

Of course, some of the documentary footage that these tools shot is in the film. (Hence the "-umentary" part.) The pro-choice people, according to the "LA Times," all get to say things like how fetuses are nothing more than parasites (which, sorta, is true, but unlike digestive parasites which make women thin, fetus ones make them fat - ewwwwww). I'm assuming (hoping and praying) that I didn't make the cut, but since this doesn't appear to be available to pro-choice audiences, I may never know. I think it's unlikely that I'm in it, since I said that people who supposedly are "pro-life" have killed a lot of actual people, and that they really scare me. Seems like something that a "balanced" film would not want to highlight.

The Tipping Point

One of my former bosses told me that she always knows who has had restaurant experience when she goes out with a group of people based on how much they tip. She said that people who've never worked in the food service industry generally give tips of up to 15%, but people who have worked tables give closer to 20%. I am fortunate enough to have been able to go through life thus far without waitressing (I guarantee that I would be awful*), but I tip 20% unless service was utterly abysmal (i.e. - the staff was actually rude to me). My ex-boss said I am an exception.

I find that in NYC, most people are calculate tips in one of two ways: they double the tax (which is 8.75%) or they give 20% of the subtotal. Either way seems right to me. The minimum wage in the restaurant industry in NYS is $4.60. In theory, if staff do not earn enough tips to average them out to $7.15 an hour, the restaurant must cough up the extra dough. But how likely is that? Not very.

I rant about this now because I have gone out with some people a few times who consistently refuse to acknowledge that they have to pay tax and tip. It is so bad that I've actually pulled out a calculator to show how their $15 entree is really over $19 when you add tax ($1.31) and tip ($3), so putting in $20 is fair. Even after this, people have argued with me that they overpaid.

Not everyone is good at math. I understand that. I'm no math genius myself. But when I fucking run through the numbers and explain them, and my co-diner still doesn't want to pay his fair share, I am going to be very angry. Because I'm not going to short restaurant staff because my companion is too fucking cheap to pay what he owes, I get stuck paying for it. And it adds up over time. Eventually I just focus on how the person is going to screw me or someone at the end of the meal, and I don't enjoy myself. It makes me not inclined to dine out with certain individuals any more.

*Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, would never be able to keep up with all the orders and I'd always forget to bring people drinks or who ordered what and all that.

15 Years is Very Good, But Expensive

If Husband and I had saved ten cents for every day we've been together, it would have paid for our ridiculous blow out celebration. Fortunately, the amount of change that Husband stashed away in his parking meter bank more than covered it. (Incidentally, now that he's got everything counted and sorted in wrappers for the bank, the bag he plans to transport the coins in weighs more than 60 pounds!)

We kicked off our anniversary date by signing our wills, power of attorney documents, and health care proxies. It was very romantic. Yeah.

After the business of love was done, we went to the cozy Bookmarks Lounge on the top of the Library Hotel for a drink. I threw all caution to the wind and ordered an insanely expensive hot apple toddy, which I quickly realized that I could barely drink because it was more alcohol than cider. But the sips I had warmed me up on a rainy night, and I tried not to feel guilty about wasting money, so all was well. Husband enjoyed his overpriced glass of Chardonnay.

We took the bus up to Daniel. A few of my friends have celebrated anniversaries there, so I thought it might be nice for us. We left with extremely full bellies and an empty wallet. When I made the reservation, I mentioned that it was our anniversary, so they printed us little copies of the the menu that said happy anniversary as souvenirs. This is good, as I could not understand our French waiter, so I had no idea what we ate. Plus there was a lot of it, so I doubt I'd remember it all anyway. We did the eight course chef's tasting menu. Here's what we indulged in:

Course One
Mosaic of capon, foie gras, and celery root with pickled daikon, Satur Farms mache, and pear confit

Duo of duck foie gras terrine with figs, raisin chutney, spinach, and daikon salad

Course Two
Meyer lemon royale with sea urchin, North Star caviar, Barron Point oyster, finger lime and tapioca vinaigrette

Vodka-beet cured hamachi loin with walnuts and lettuce wrapped tartare with North Star caviar

Course Three
Duo of Florida frog legs and fricasse with kamut berries and black garlic, and "lollipop" with spinach, mushrooms, crispy shallots

Katafi crusted Maine lobster with broccoli mousseline, ricotta salata, lemon-pine nute gremolata, and sweet harissa sauce

Course Four
Bacon Wrapped montail fish with Maine lobster, green lentil ragout, tahoon cress

Slow baked striped bass with creamy endive, black truffle arancini, and perigueux sauce

Course Five
Roasted Liberty Farms duck breast with watermelon radish, spinach subric, cara cara orange, sauce "Bigarrade"

Course Six
Duo of dry aged black Angus beef - red wine braised short rib with porcini marmalade and seared rib eye with chestnut-potato gnocchi and swiss chard

Elysian Fields Farm lamb loin with braised radicchio tardivo, confit fennel, crispy polenta, and Sicilian olives

Courses Seven and Eight, but really more like Seven through Eleven
Desserts were little things made from fruits and chocolate (an apple tart, a spiced pear thing on semolina cake under a chocolate flake with warm chocolate sauce, peanut butter chocolate cake) with small blobs of ice cream (including smoked vanilla, which was repulsive), followed by a special plate of dessert for our anniversary, followed by warm mini Madelines, followed by four types of little chocolate truffles. We also had tea and coffee. In addition to the menus, we got a box of warm Madelines to take home for breakfast.

So, it was amazing overall. For the most part, I behaved myself. (I considered stashing the left over Madelines in a sandwich bag that I had left over from lunch, but restrained myself.) I will say that I do not like frog legs - the consistency made me gag, but I did not spit them out. I just smiled and switched plates with Husband. I also killed a moth while we were there, and spilled all sorts of things on the table. The service was crazy attentive. Every time I made a mess, a guy came over with a napkin and covered it up, which was sort of embarrassing. The bread guy also came five times, and I consumed four pieces of raisin walnut bread, which was the best bread I have ever tasted, along with the most delicious creamy butter on the planet. Today, I am still a little full...

5,479 Days, But Who's Counting?

A little over 15 years ago, I rang Husband at his dorm room. I told him that I had something that I wanted to ask him. Before I got to my question, we spoke for two hours.* Then I said that I hoped to see a film over the weekend, and was wondering if he would like to join me. He said yes.

So, on Feb. 23, 1995, I met Husband in the lobby of his dorm and we walked to the East Village Cinemas to see "Pulp Fiction." I wore a pair of rainbow striped stockings, a turquoise skirt, and a black tunic-y thing with orange embroidery at the neck and sleeves. And blue Doc Martens. I was nervous that Husband didn't know that I meant to ask him out on a date, but when he paid for the tickets, I thought he knew.

After the movie, we went to a cafe and drank the worst hot chocolate I've ever had foisted upon me. It was like the staff dropped a Hals into it and let it dissolve. We laughed about how nasty it was. When we left, I forgot my ear muffs. Husband asked if I wanted to go back and look for them, but I said, "No, they are diarrhea brown. I'll just get a new pair." He thought this was hilarious.

He walked me back to my dorm, and we stood in a light drizzle for another two hours, talking. When we finally parted around 4 am, he hugged me good night. I've been on cloud nine ever since.

*And how my roommates, who were trying to sleep in our one room dorm cell, did not punch me in the face (as I deserved) is beyond me. I sat right next to one of my roommate's beds as I obliviously chatted away.

What's the Frequency Kenneth?

Last Wednesday, I took a closer look at the nail on my big left toe. It had been a bit yellowed for a few weeks, but I thought nothing of it. I hate feet. They are gross even under the best of circumstances, so my toes aren't exactly shining pedicured beauties and the slight discoloration didn't really register.

It turned out that my nail was sort of in the process of falling off. "Hmmm," I though. "I should probably do something about this." I considered ripping it off myself, but wasn't sure how much blood that would entail and how I might, without a toe nail, eventually stop it. So I put a bandage over it and called a podiatrist the next day. They gave me a Friday morning appointment.

The doctor looked at my toe and asked me when I traumatized it. "Huh?" I said. He said that I must have stubbed it at some point, causing the break, which was then allowed a fungus to get in. I wracked my brain. Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, amped up. We came up blank. I'd think that something that would cause my toe nail to crack open would be something I might remember, but I guess not. The story of my life these days...

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On a side note, changes are coming to CUSS! I have an awesome person helping me deal with the technical issues that Blogger threw at me a few weeks ago (I can't use their publishing service after March 26 for a variety of reasons), and she's going to be moving CUSS to a WordPress format. CUSS readers (all two or so of you, who I love dearly) will still find the blog at the same URL, cussandotherrants.com, and I think the feeds won't be affected. It'll just be a shiny new look (eventually) and a different way to leave comments.

Anyway, given all the blogs out there and the limited amount of time people have in which to read them, I just want to thank you for reading CUSS. It means a lot to me.

When Worlds Collide

When I moved to New York City from the 'burbs of Chicago 15 years ago, one of the biggest adjustments I had to make was the lack of Walgreen's. NYC had plenty of pharmacies/drug store chains to choose from - Duane Reade (as ubiquitous in NYC as Walgreen's is in Chicago), CVS, Rite Aid, the one that was on 8th Street between Broadway and University whose name I am blanking on but that no longer exists, etc. - but I thought Walgreen's had a better variety of random products than any of them. Whenever I went out to Long Island, I rejoiced in the Walgreen's near the train station that served Husband's parents' town.

Over time, however, I adjusted. Duane Reade, still annoying in general, spruced itself up a bit as it expanded its presence. (At one point, it seemed like the only commercial space left in the City would be bank branches, Starbuckses, and Duane Reades.) I adapted to its overpriced merchandise, surly cashiers, and long lines. They introduced a card in which you got points for every dollar you spent, and they rounded up, which made me feel a bit better about paying $2 for a Diet Coke that the corner bodega might sell for between $1.25 (if I'm lucky) and $1.75. Once you get a $100, you get $5 off your next purchase. I love bribes.

So, when I got Husband's email this morning that informed me that Walgreen's acquired Duane Reade, I was shocked. Even more shocked than by the fact that the New York Times finally posted what was rumored to be such a scandalous story about Gov. Patterson that he'd immediately be forced to resign and it turned out to be boring. I mean, Walgreen's taking over Duane Reade? This is craziness! I can't decide if I am excited or horrified.

For now, Walgreen's is keeping the Duane Reade name, but it will be really weird if they replace it and there's no more Duane Reade in NYC. I wonder if this is revenge for Macy's buying Marshall Field's and then changing the name, an affront to the civic pride and identities of Chicagoans everywhere. Huh. Maybe I've uncovered a diabolical plot. Now that Duane Reade is threatened, I feel very defensive of it, even though I fucking hate that store (other than the bribes). Interesting.

Jews Love Money

If every stereotype emerges from the tiniest kernel of truth, Husband gives the anti-Semitic crazies a good basis for their rants. Before I left to visit my sister in Iowa for the weekend, he gleefully announced that he would spend the weekend counting money. It was a moment for which he'd waited about five years.

Husband hates carrying change. He'd empty out his pockets at the end of the day, save up the change, then count it out and take it to the bank. He counts it because the counting machines at the bank notoriously undercount. Plus, I think it allows him to slip some old coins replaced by Euros into the rolls, but that's just my suspicion.

Anyway, I gave him a plastic parking meter bank for Hanukkah abut five years ago, and he's been patiently feeding it change since then. I guess the manufacturers thought whatever kid would use it would be too impatient to fill it, as it collapsed from the weight of the coins about six months ago. Since then, it lay on the floor as Husband faithfully inserted his change.




All told, he said there were over 3,000 pennies alone. The total was slightly
more than $600. I can only imagine what would happen if someone broke into our apartment and tried to steal Husband's bounty. It would be a loud and very slow get away.

The Cats Say It's Time to Go

My bubbe dislikes cats. She says that they are "false, and hypnotize
you." Dana's cats, though, are pretty honest. They are sending clear
signals to my allergies that it is time for me to go.

I had a great time. The monster truck rally rocked. I ate lots of junk food. I went to a mall. I had brunch with Maren. Dana and I watched home movies of us as
kids that I just had transferred from 8 mm film on to DVD. One of the films turned out to be of my mom's 30th birthday and another was of Dana's 1st birthday, which was cool because Dana's 30th birthday is today. (Happy birthday, chooch!) Most important, I spent lots of time with Marcus, who is a little thief. Yes, he stole my heart. (Cue the cheesy music.)

But now it is time to go. My eyes itch. My nose is stuffed. My ass is frozen. Sadness. Fortunately, Marcus's 1st birthday is just around the corner, so I'll see everyone again in April or early May in Chicago to celebrate the little bugger. Yay!

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Monster Trucks!

My sister's 30th birthday is Monday. Back before I remembered how bad winter is in the midwest, I decided that I would visit her over the holiday weekend and join her celebration. Living in New York has spoiled me. Sure, it gets cold here and snows, but this is kid stuff compared to what I grew up with in the Chicago area. I have become soft.

I expressed my fears to Dana. She told me to wear layers. I laughed. "It's 25 degrees here and I am already wearing a hat, scarf, down coat, lined mittens, tights, knee socks, leather boots up to my knees, jeans, a long sleeve shirt, and a sweater (and, of course, undies). I am still cold." She laughed. "Damn, you're a wuss."

And speaking of wusses, when she told me a few days ago that she would like to celebrate her birthday at a monster truck rally, I hesitated. Part of me was really, really, really excited. The other part feared the Confederate flag waving, pick up truck riding majority of the audience. I assumed that I had enough sense of self-preservation not to get into a fight with anyone, but who knows? I challenged a fucked up Jamie Kennedy at his own documentary. (Not that he was a threat, but it shows that when I feel insulted, I don't think before I open my mouth.)

However, excitement got the better of me, and I cannot wait! Not only does the show feature truck stars Killer Bee, Rislone Defender, Bar’s Leaks Eliminator, Storm Damage, "the ever so popular monster truck 'The General,'" but - but! - if we arrive early enough, we can take a family ride on a monster truck known as Bone Crusher. Fuck, this will be amazing. Bring on the monster trucks!

Now, if only my flight gets there OK, given all the snow, and equally importantly, gets me back on Monday...

Snowstorm, Revisited

I took this picture on March 2, 2009, but today is a similar day in terms of weather, and I love it so much that I can't help but re-post.



Wherever you are, I hope your day is filled with lovable mini snowfolk.

The Jamie Kennedy Experience

This story was told to me by Husband and Brother-in-Law. Although I have never done illegal drugs, nor have I ever even been drunk, I do not remember this incident at all.

In 2007, Husband, Brother-in-Law, and I went to see a documentary at the Tribeca Film Festival about stand up comedy. The film was done by the comic and actor Jamie Kennedy, who wanted to know why people don't find certain brands of humor funny. The first half of Heckler included many famous comedians talking about hecklers. The second part of the movie, however, focused on why critics hated Kennedy's movie, Malibu's Most Wanted. He hunted down critics and badgered them, insisting that they just didn't get it. (Husband said it was the worst movie he's ever seen at the Tribeca Film Festival, and I'm sure I hated it, but of course, I don't remember.)

Usually screenings at the Festival are packed. This one had only about ten people. Still, Jamie Kennedy came out after the movie to talk about it. Once Husband mentioned this part to me, I did recall that Kennedy was wasted on something. He heckled the audience. At one point, he asked us a question about what we find funny and why, and I made the mistake of raising my hand to answer it.

He did not like my response, whatever it was, and yelled at me. I yelled back at him. Apparently, we argued loudly for some time. Husband and Brother-in-Law found this hilarious.

I wish I could remember when I got into a verbal slam down with Jamie Kennedy.

I Married a Lunatic, Part 79

At lights out, I wished Husband a good night.

"I am concentrating now so I can dream about walruses," he replied.

"What? Really?"

"Yes, I want to know more about walruses, and the best way to understand large animals is to study them closely in your dreams."

A few nights before this, he explained to me that some unicorns are ugly. The public just doesn't know about them.

Freudian Slip

Before I went to my peer advisory writing group this evening, I attended a going away party for a friend at work. There were many inappropriate discussions about snatch, viewing porn on a BlackBerry, and women ogling other women. (Oh, how I adore my colleagues!)

The latest draft of my thesis, which is about how I inherited my Jewish identity and outlook on life through what was both spoken and unsaid by my grandparents' and father's Holocaust legacies, includes this line about a nighttime asthma attack I had when I was seven:

"I could almost taste the blackness as though an octopus has replaced the night air with its inky discharge."

We discussed the strangeness of the metaphor/image and why it worked even though it shouldn't. Then my friend asked what the plural of octopus is.

"It's octopussies," I said. Then I turned bright red and we laughed until it hurt.

End of an Era

When I wanted to start a blog in 2005, I selected Blogger because it was easy. I didn't need fancy templates or design features. I just wanted a little home on the internet for my rants against shaved snatch.

For the most part, this has worked well. Not long after I started blogging, I decided to get a domain name and host for my work. This was partly because cussandotherrants.blogspot.com was a reallllllly long URL. The transition was not without any pain. The blogspot URL was supposed to link visitors to the new URL, but after a few weeks someone hacked the blogspot URL because it was not quite programmed right. This sucked, but was not awful.

This afternoon, Blogger sent an email to the 0.5% of Blogger users who use FTP to upload their blog to a non-Blogger hosted site. They said that as of the end of March, we can't do that any more. People with custom domains would need to transfer to their custom domain services. This means no more cussandotherrants.com. It also means that Google is my host. I understood their reasons, but I still fell into the fetal position and rocked back and forth.

Once I uncurled myself and got up off the metaphorical floor, I realized that maybe this was OK. I pondered the issue on my walk home from work. Sure, now is the worst timing to have to change CUSS to another platform, but it could use a good overhaul. There's no way I could pull this off myself under even the best of circumstances (i.e. - not working full time and writing a thesis). However, people spend money on their hobbies, and so far, blogging has been a pretty cheap one. It's time to invest in it.

So, anyone know a good web designer? I'm pretty excited to work with someone to take CUSS to a new level.

Things I Do Not Understand, Part 794A

1. The YIVO Institute has the records of American Displaced Persons Camps in Austria, Germany in Italy from 1945-1952. Since my grandparents and father lived in camps in Austria during that time period, I am eager to see what is in the archive. YIVO is conveniently open Monday-Thursday from 9:30 am to 5 pm. However, the reading room is open until 7:30 on Mondays. I called and asked until what time the library was open today and was told 7:30. After work, I rushed down to get as much time as possible with the records.

After passing through the metal detector and sending my bag through the x-ray machine, using the mandatory coat check, and providing photo ID, I took the freezing elevator to the library and reading room on the 3rd floor. The woman at the information desk informed me that since YIVO closed at 5:00, I could not get the records I wanted. I am extremely confused as to why a reading room is open when the records that one is supposed to read in that room are unavailable, but there were people in there using computers and looking over books from somewhere, so what do I know.

2. On the subway home from my failed trip to YIVO, a woman rushed onto the train with a stroller and four or five year old girl in tow. After mowing people down to get the stroller in the middle of the car, she wedged herself in the small space between me and the extremely large man on the other side. She struggled to pull her daughter onto her lap.

"Excuse me," I said. "Would your little girl like to sit down?" I gestured at my seat and moved slightly to get up.

"I HAVE TWO KIDS WITH ME AND I NEED TO SIT," she yelled in my face. That is when I realized that she had earphones on. They were blasting music. Not only could she not hear me, but if her kids needed something, they were shit out of luck.

Resisting the urge to slap her, I tried again. "Yes, I see that you should sit. Would your daughter like to sit also?"

"DIDN'T YOU HEAR ME? I SAID I GOTTA SIT DOWN BECAUSE I GOT TWO KIDS WITH ME!" One of the earphones slid out of her ear slightly when she pulled her daughter up higher.

"Yes, I heard you," I sneered. "But I am asking if your girl would like my seat." At that, I stood up and tried to wiggle around the stroller to get away from this cuntface.

"Oh, naw. She'll just sit on my lap."

Since there was really no standing room, I sat back down. The woman standing in front of me who witnessed the whole scene sighed. "Yeah, no good deed goes unpunished," I said.

"She's probably just used to people being rude," the stranger replied. The woman, of course, could not hear a word anyone was saying. The stranger was very kind, and chatted up the little girl about Valentine's Day. For all the mother knew, she was soliciting the kid. When she got off the train, the little girl kept waving and saying, "Bye bye. Have a good night."

It broke my heart. I know that there are times when parents don't want to hear their kids, but the girl kept trying to talk to her mom, who just nodded, unhearing. So awful.

Join Today!

Anyone who is 50 or older, whether they are working or retired, can join AARP for $16 per year. I know this because they sent me a membership card and requested that I send them my $16 check immediately to activate my exciting benefits as an AARP member.

I will say one thing: I look damn good for someone who is 50 or older.

If You Want to Look Good, Check This Out

Although I cannot be bothered to wash my face on a daily basis,* I am excited to link to my friend's blog, Ask An Esthetician. She is a licensed esthetician who is giving out excellent (free!) advice on beauty, particularly skin care. I know that most women are not slovenly shlubs like me who wander around with uncombed (albeit usually clean) hair, un-moisturized skin, and legs and armpits that make them look like Chewbacca's midget sister, so I thought I'd do a public service promote her blog.

*Despite this gross habit, my skin is pretty clear. I am not sure why this is since in my pre-teens I was a horrid pizza face on the way to scars that would make Norriega look like a beauty queen. My mom insisted that I go to a dermatologist even though I protested, and the antibiotics he prescribed made a huge difference. (Thanks, Mom!)

After years of happy skin, I was covered with cyst-like zits in my early 20s. Another dermatologist gave me drugs, which did not work well, and he said I should consider Acutane as an option. No fucking way was I going on Acutane. In addition to requiring me to take birth control pills (which I was on anyway) and submit to regular pregnancy testing because it is so dangerous to fetal development, and cause hair and skin to fall out in chunks, it could cause people with depressive tendencies to commit suicide. I told him I'd rather be zitty than dead and fleshless.

BOMB and Explosion

My friend Mark and I went to check out Brooklyn's Other Museum of Brooklyn (BOMB) after work this evening. (If you visit the website, note that the BOMB we went to and the BOMB depicted are different buildings. BOMB moves with the real estate market.) It is open every Tuesday from 7 - 9 pm.

The new BOMB is in a building that is not heated or necessarily finished. As I went up the staircase, I was slightly fearful that I would plunge through the boards. It was sturdy, though. When we were upstairs, the curator, Scott, offered us beers. When I said I don't drink, he sweetly said he also had cranberry juice and various flavored seltzers.

Basically, BOMB is a museum dedicated to promoting the historic preservation of Admiral's Row, which is a set of buildings in the Brooklyn Navy Yard that the Mayor's office wants to tear down, and a place for the curator to store things that he rescues from the trash. Here's what Mark and I saw (apologies for the blurry pics - I used my BlackBerry phone):

If you squint really hard at the upper right, you can make out a canister used during Prohibition to make alcohol. The twisty spigot is wrapped around a gumball machine. Near the furnace to the right, sort of behind the fireplace, is a long black cylinder which is a rusted out sewage pipe. The window shade is pulled back by a paper mache puppet that looks out the window and admires the neighborhood.

The bathroom counter is covered with items that Scott, the curator of BOMB, found on the beach. This includes a femur, many pieces of broken china, coins, and rocks.

This portion of the wall was part of a church steeple in the 1800s. I love it. Yes, that is a cow skull hanging in the center of it. The Disgruntled Cow uses Scott to express her displeasure at how the Mayor milks the City dry. The object with wheels is a racing car from 1920 that reminds me of a go-kart.

This torpedo used to hang outside the museum. I sort of like it in the niche at the top of the staircase.



Mark and Scott are far more knowledgeable about Brooklyn than I can ever hope to be, so I mostly listened to them chat as my feet went numb from cold. Scott gave us all kinds of goodies to take home. Of course, I loved every second of my visit.

The explosion on the subway ride home, though, was terrifying. As we sped through the tunnel, a passenger with a wispy white goatee suddenly blew up at another rider. He jumped in the man's face and bellowed, "Why are you staring at me? Get your eyes off me! Do you have a problem with me. I said stop looking at me. Are you sweet for me, huh? Are you a homo? DO you want me to shove something up your ass? Fuck you!"

A few months ago, someone was randomly stabbed on the subway under very similar circumstances, and even though I was at the other end of the car, my heart thundered away. The other passengers watched the scene unfold and looked nervous, but only I changed cars when the train stopped. The man who was harassed got off, whether it was his stop or not. I hadn't been that nervous on the train since I was caught in the middle of a fight during rush hour and a guy broke a glass bottle and brandished it at someone.

Time Vampire

Urban Dictionary's Word of the Day is Time Vampire. This is something that sucks away your time like a vampire does blood. I love, love, love this concept.

My thesis is a time vampire. Or at least it will be once I start working on it for real. My goal is to write 3-4 pages a day for the next two months, not including weekends for the most part.

Probably it is bad that I describe the writing of what I hope will be my next book as a time vampire, huh?

One Star!

I noticed a new review of Off the Beaten (Subway) Track: New York City's Best Unusual Attractions on amazon.com. Then I noticed that it was for one star. The last time I received a less than stellar review, the reader complained that the book only had weird and unusual attractions. I was curious what the problem was this time:

I was actually looking for places "off the beaten track" but this book had nothing you could not get off the net or regular tourist book. It's basically a listing of museums and churches. Very Very disappointing

I'm very intrigued by this. Partly because I don't agree at all that it is a list of museums and churches that you can get off the internet (without searching pretty damn hard, anyway - you can get anything off the internet with a little effort) and definitely most places are not in regular tourist books (although some are, and I put an unusual aspect of the place in my book, like the vertical tour of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine). Mostly I want to know what the person expected the book would be about. It has parks, restaurants, museums (some inside people's homes), a former airport, forts, churches, stores, and monuments. Aren't those what constitute "attractions?" I'm not asking to be defensive, I'm asking because I genuinely want to know for next time and there's no way to contact this dude and ask. Any thoughts?

Happy Anniversary, BlogHer!

Four years ago, someone took a chance on me. I'd only been blogging for a few months when I heard that BlogHer was looking for volunteer contributing editors for a new site they were launching. I rushed to their current homepage, noticed that people already claimed the topic I most wanted (feminism and gender), and saw that travel and recreation was still open. Well, I love traveling and do it a lot. I had just blogged a trip to France. I left a message with links to three posts (this was before I had any idea what HTML was, not that I'm an expert at it now), and hoped for the best.

Not long after, I heard from Lisa Stone, one of BlogHer's founders. She said that she "loved" my blog and offered me the gig. I was thrilled! (Re-reading her email today, which I just looked at again, brings tears to my eyes. Yeah, I still have an email from January 2006 in my inbox.) My first post - Introduction to Travel and Recreation appeared on January 22, 2006. I hoped for many things, but was not sure what to expect.

Four years later, I still write for BlogHer, although on feminism, not travel. It offered me a platform when I was just exploring writing. It offered me a platform when I sent out proposals for a travelogue I was writing about unusual things to see and do New York City. It offered me a platform when my book, Off the Beaten (Subway) Track, was published 2.5 years later. It offered me a platform to meet and be inspired by other women.

Sure, it hasn't been all champagne and roses. When I realized that my four year anniversary was coming up, I compared it to my marriage: sometimes I wanted to scream and stomp around with selfish, delusional indignity, but overall my life is richer, happier, and better in every way because I have it. (Husband was slightly offended by this analogy, but I stand by it.) I'm so lucky.

Go Figure

Yesterday my grandmother finally recovered enough from the sedatives given to her before her angiogram/angioplasty for my mom to tell her what happened. We expected Granny to be upset. My mom assured her that we would find her another doctor.

Upon hearing that her doctor forgot which stents he was supposed to use, my grandmother, apparently, shrugged. "Well, I like him. He doesn't talk to me like I'm senile or a child."

My mom was confused. "So do you not want a new doctor."

"No," Granny said. "I'm happy with this one."

While I hope that he does not commit a much bigger fuck up in the future, I'm relieved that she is not upset about what happened. This doctor got lucky. That's all I'll say.*

*Except that if he does anything to hurt Granny in the future, I will come after that fucker with everything I've got.

I Don't Even Know What to Title This

Granny is mostly OK. Sunday the cardiac doc came to discuss her options. Her blood work indicated that she had a very small heart attack, so he wanted to do an angiogram. Depending on what he saw, he would insert balloons or stents into her arteries. Everyone agreed that because she needs oral surgery soon, he would use nonmedicated stents because the medicated ones would basically cause her to bleed out if she had dental work.

On Monday morning, the doctor told us that the test went well. He said that her heart was strong and that there was no damage from the heart attack. Then he said he saw a lot of heart disease and inserted a balloon and two medicated stents.

My mom and I recoiled. "What do you mean medicated stents?" she asked.

"Oh. Ooops. I forgot. I even wrote it on the board and I forgot. Sorry about that."

Yes, that is actually what he said. "Ooops... sorry about that."

"What about the oral surgery?" my mom asked. She was trying not to punch him. (She later told me that she was more angry about his flippant tone than the fuck up, not that she condoned the fuck up.)

"Oh, she'll have to wait at least six months, but I really recommend a year," he said as if it's no big deal to have a mouth full of rotting teeth. "Maybe you can find a dentist who would be willing to do a procedure while she's on Plavix."

I pictured some back alley dentist ripping up my Granny mouth and leaving her to bleed out when things went awry. I wanted to slap the doctor. (Husband suggested slapping the doctor - with a lawsuit.) I know it could be worse, but this really, really sucks.

Early morning at the hospital

Granny's hospital cubicle was dark when the nurse arrived slightly
after 7 am to prep her for her angiogram/angioplasty. "I want to turn
the light on so I can see you," she told Granny.

"You'll be sorry," Granny replied. I realized then how much of my
repertoire I take from her.

As Granny rose from the bed to go the the bathroom, the back of her
hospital gown flapped open.

"Take a good look so you'll know what your butt will look like when
you're 87," Mom said to me.

"Hmmm... It's not that different from now," I noted.

"What's going on here?" Granny mumbled. "No peeking!"

A real house of yuks, her room is.

While Granny used the facilities, the nurse's assistant waited outside
the bathroom door. My mom hovered near by. I slumped in my coat in a
chair by the empty bed.

The nurse turned to me and smiled. "So are you in high school?"

I sat straight up and giggled. "Me? Really?" She nodded. "I'm 34 -
thank you!" I guess I look pretty good compared to the other senior
citizens she sees every day. A room full of yuks, I tell you.

--
Sent from my mobile device

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

A Hospital Conversation

My mom, sister, and I sat with my grandmother in her hospital cubicle,
chatting (and sweating, since Granny convinced the nurse to turn the
thermostat to 80, which may kill the woman sharing the tiny room). I
told them about the 8mm films from the "olden days." One was a
birthday party of Dana's.

"Hey, so you remember how old you were when you got that stuffed
animal dog wearing a purple striped leotard and leg warmers?" I asked
my sister.

"You mean Fifi?" Dana replied. "Hmmmm... I don't know how old I was
when I got Fifi."

"What?" Grandma cut in. "Why are you talking about feces?"

--
Sent from my mobile device

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

Report from the Homestead

Because I worried about my grandma when I saw her at the end of
November, Husband and I headed to Chicago for the weekend. Things are
not so good.

Upon landing I learned that Granny went to the ER earlier that
morning. She had woken up in a cold sweat with aches at 4 am. My mom
went to her house and called an ambulence. The EMTs thought it was
the flu.

At the ER, they decided to admit her for observation, although they
ruled out the flu. Blood work indicated that she may have had a small
heart attack. She's going to get an angiogram on Monday, but
hopefully we'll know more tomorrow.

Since our original plan to belatedly celebrate my mom's birthday at
Red Lobster was scrapped, we had a little cake from the grocery store
at home instead. This could have sent my 8 month old nephew to the
hospital, as my bubbe tried to give him a piece of cake. Seriously.

When my sister all but slapped it out of her hand, Bubbe pouted and
told her it was OK because she was just giving him crumbs, as if
infants should eat cake and sugary frosting and my sister was
depriving him. Then she winked at me.

On a more uplifting note, we did have a hearty laugh when my
brother-in-law mentioned that Marcus is already 8 months old, but
lacking a job. "He needs to do some hard labor to earn his keep,"
Ryan said.

"He does hard labor," my mom said. "He works really hard when he
makes a doody!" Marcus, who sat in my dad's lap during the discussion,
banged happily on the table in approval.

--
Sent from my mobile device

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

Breaking the Law Hurts

I hit my knee this afternoon while I was breaking the law. Now it hurts. I didn't want to break the law, but I was forced to when my monthly MetroCard pass stopped working and several the subway station clerks refused to give me an envelope to return it, insisting that it will work if I run it through the turnstile enough times.

It doesn't.

The good news is that it works in one turnstile in the station nearest my apartment, so I can get to work on time. The bad news is that it doesn't work in any other; all it says is "PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN." This would be fine if people actually worked in the stations and could buzz me through, but their jobs where eliminated, so many of the stations I use are completely unattended. When my card doesn't work, I have to jump the turnstile.

So this afternoon when I left work, I tried to swipe my card. I gave it a good five minutes before I realized it was not going to work. My initial attempt to duck under the turnstile (which worked well for me in Times Square on Tuesday night) led me to fall, partly because my backpack got caught on the turnstile. It was ugly. Fortunately, no one was around to witness me embarrassing myself. Then when I stepped over the turnstile, I banged my knee.

"Crime" doesn't pay, I guess.

"I Am Not a Hero"

Miep Gies, one of five people who hid Anne Frank's family and four other people, died on Monday night. She was 100 years old. I read parts of her memoir, "Anne Frank Remembered," a few months ago when I went to research at the Holocaust museum in New York City.

"I am not a hero," she wrote. "I stand at the end of the long, long line of good Dutch people who did what I did and more - much - more during those day and terrible times years ago, but always like yesterday in the heart of those of us who bear witness."

If anyone can read those lines without crying, I don't understand how.

Today the New York Times published a letter from someone praising Mrs. Gies and lamenting the lack of "empathy, courage, and selflessness" that exists in people today, noting that these "were once the kinds of behaviors we valued most in human beings." This is a nice sentiment, but it is not true. It has never been true. If we really valued these behaviors, the Holocaust would not have happened. Years of institutionalized and individual racism would not exist because people would have stood up and said, "This is wrong," no matter what the cost. People were as narcissistic and self-involved back then as they are today. That is what makes Miep Gies so special.

Mrs. Gies said that she was "only one" of many who acted so humanely and courageously, but that is another indication of her generous nature. Then and now, people pay enormous lip service to the "sanctity of life." Most people will not risk their own lives to stand up for others. I think often about what I would do if I were in Mrs. Gies situation. I only hope that I would act as she did.

Speaking of Fame...

Obviously, this photo is of the crowd of shrieking 12 year old girls who lined West 75th Street on Friday night, the police cars that escorted a black SUV down the street to the stage entrance to the Beacon theater, and Nick Jonas getting out of the SUV.

I passed by the mob scene on my way home from work and thought it was hilarious enough to stand around in the cold for a few minutes and repeatedly mumble, "Oh. My. God. It's the Jonas Brothers!" as other startled Upper West Siders made their ways home. The best part is that I didn't know it was Jonas-related, but decided that it had to be, given the situation. (I guess it could have been for Taylor Swift, but then maybe boys would also be there.) I was only partly right - the show was Nick sans Brothers.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, I was a 12 year old girl. The New Kids on the Block were the hotties of the moment. The female tweens would line up on cold streets and shriek for their heartthrobs, but I didn't really get it back then, and I still don't today. This weekend, Dr. P and I discussed our wonderment at the crazed desire that girls threw toward Elvis. (We saw a clip of an Elvis flick on TV and she commented that he was sort of chubby, even before he was Fat Elvis.) Maybe if I was a youth when the Beatles first journeyed across the ocean would I feel compelled to participate in such behavior. I'm such a dork.

Bobblehead Suzanne: Online or On TV...

I wish that I didn't nod nervously throughout my interview with the wonderful AnneLise Sorensen, but I am glad that I didn't look like a zombie:



Thanks again to AnneLise for having me on her show!

Thanks for the Heads Up

A minute ago, an email popped up on my BlackBerry. It was from an organization that I interviewed with in early November. The email thanked me for recently interviewing with them.

Since they had told me at the time of my interview that second round interviews would take place in mid-November and then no one called me, I used my finely honed logic to deduce that I was not a finalist for the job. It wouldn't bother me if they had just sent an email two months later thanking me for coming in and informing me that I didn't get the job but for the fact that it said "recently." Two months ago - not recent. Either send a timely rejection, or don't bother. Yeesh.

Incidentally, I accepted my current job once I left that interview. All's well that ends well.

Best Public Service Ever!

A lot of people I adore are librarians. Not coincidentally, the
library was one of my favorite places when I was a wee lass. At
various ages, I loved the summer reading club, the blocks, the story
hour, and the librarians who ran it all. Once I was at the library
when a tornado hit, and I was so excited to see all the books they had
in the off-limits basement area in which patrons and staff took
refuge.

Anyway, when I first moved to NYC, the library system overwhelmed me.
Only in the past two years or so did I really turn to the library for
books instead of sitting in Barnes & Noble for hours or buying used
books. Now that I "get" it, I realize what an amazing system it is.
Cardholders can order a book from a distant branch and have it
delivered to one near them. Books can be renewed online, too.

Today I even discovered that one of the Manhattan branches is open
three days a week from 8 am to 11 pm. In economically hard times,
libraries are often lifelines for people. It swells me with pride to
know that my city library system is finding a way to deliver services
rather than cut them.

All libraries - and the people who staff them - are awesome. Thanks
for all the hard work!

--
Sent from my mobile device

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

My Stash

I sorted my stash tonight, and made a horrific discovery. One of my maintenance inhalers (Qvar) expired in October 2006. Even I'm not messing around with that - in the trash it goes. I also discovered that the sample of my regular inhaler (Ventolin) given to me in December by my allergist expired in June 2009. Harumph.

Ironically, earlier in the evening, while chatting with Dr. P on the phone, I discovered a jar of pasta sauce that expired in December 2007. It was unopened. Dr. P advised me to toss it. I put it back in the pantry. (It was unopened!*) I did, however, toss out the jar of pasta sauce that expired in June 2009, which seems to be a busy month for products to expire in my household. (It was half empty, and I thought I spotted mold in it, although it was refrigerated.**)

Fortunately, my 'stache stash is stocked and ready to rock the world, should I ever need a clever disguise or seven. Steph gave Husband a new extra long fake mustache and a mini mustache comb for the holidays. Between the asthma meds and the synthetic hair and glue, we are good to go.

*God, I am turning into my aunt. If I ever serve salad dressing that expired two years ago, then claim it is fine because it is unopened, I give the recipient of said dressing permission to slap me.
**There is hope for me yet.

Awesomeness

My cousin told me to say hi to Tina and Alex when I went for my taping at 30 Rock, but sadly, I did not see them. Heck, I didn't even see the guy who plays the page. Or Janice Huff, my favorite weather person, who I'd be far more likely to run into since I was on the same floor as the news. I think.

The lack of celebrity sightings did not make my first TV appearance* any less exciting. AnneLise calmed my nerves, assuring me that I did not look like a zombie with too much eye makeup. She also said she liked my pixie haircut. Once I saw myself on the monitor, I felt a little better. AnneLise and I sat in front of a green screen, and I thought the subway car backdrop that they chose was pretty awesome.

AnneLise was great leading the interview, and I had a fun time talking to her. The production staff was also very nice. After we finished, they asked if it was my first time taping for TV. When I said yes, they said I was very professional. It was just a super experience overall. I can't thank AnneLise enough, and I also can't wait to see the segment on New York Nonstop!

*This discounts various times that I showed up in the audience of shows, like The Bozo Show when I was a kid, or during my period of talk show obsessions in 1994-1995, when I made a comment on The Rikki Lake Show and possibly also The Rolanda Show. Also, I ever so briefly appeared eating hot dogs in MTV's episode of Real Life ("I Want to Be a Professional Eater") because I stuffed my face next to Tim "Eater X" Janus, who was featured on the program. Although exciting, I do not count these.

30 Rock

Tomorrow I will be interviewed about my book by AnneLise Sorensen for her weekly travel segment on NBC. I owe this exciting opportunity to Julie Ross Godar, who is friends with AnneLise and suggested that she contact me.

Barring any last minutes changes in studio availability, I'm meeting AnneLise during my lunch hour at - drum roll, trumpet blast, gong bang, whatever other large noise - 30 Rockefeller Center! Yes, 30 Rock! Man, oh man, I am so excited.

At the same time, I am scared shitless. Not to be interviewed - I'm psyched about that - but to appear on HDTV. AnneLise suggested that I will be fine if I wear "just a little more make up than usual." Ha ha ha ha! Oh, if only she knew. That means I will look like a zombie with a little lip gloss* and mascara. Sigh.

*That, however, is not like dressing up a pig in lipstick.

Bless the Internet!

Not long ago, I wrote about my mother's love of fruit cake (concluding that it takes one to know one), but I didn't mention that as she told me her tale of fruit cakeless woe on the phone, I plopped my ass down in front of the computer and ordered one online for her birthday. (I didn't want to spoil the surprise in case she read my blog before it arrived.) My blog friend Pamela kindly suggested a good online fruit cake source, but I had already secretly ordered from Hickory Farms. I believe that I will make online fruit cake ordering a new tradition. Next year: Pamela's suggestion, Collins Street Bakery. I love their history.

After I accomplished the fruit cake mission, I turned to the internet for some research. I was asked to contribute an article to an almanac about New York City. My assigned topic was a forgotten crime spree from the 1950s. The New York Times archives offered me articles from those days that gave me all the information I needed to complete my story. No microfiche! Hurray!

With the internet, is there ever a reason to leave home except to go to the gym, see people, or travel? (And the travel can be 100% planned through the internet!) I can do research, order gifts, and arrange for food to be brought to my doorstep. If only I could harness the power of the internet to work from home.

I love you, internet....