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.

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.

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.

There's Goes That

I decided in October to grow my hair a little longer. The guy who cuts my hair said that he'd cut it so it would grow back in stages. I loved it. I actually decided to keep it medium short, and went in for a trim this morning.

"Hey, I just want a little trim," I told my stylist.

"Sure," he said. Then he went outside to check out the traffic situation because there was a lot of honking. A few minutes later, he ran out to move his car before it got a ticket.

With all that disruption, he seemed to forget what I wanted because I am sitting here at my keyboard 90 minutes later with really short hair, depressed and wanting a paper bag to put over my head because not only is it shorter than I wanted, but it also is not that great. There are worse things in the world, but it's really frustrating to think that I'm right back to where I was two months ago, except worse because he didn't even cut it in a way that will grow back nicely.

Swish

If I were a cat wearing corduroy pants, no one would need to tie a bell around my neck to warn the little animals that I was coming. The swishing sound that my pants make when my thighs rub together as I walk would alert them to my presence. Meow.

No matter what I weighed or looked like, "chub rub" (a term I learned from my friend Alex Elliot) has always bothered me. I can't wear skirts without putting something (tights, shorts, whatever) between my bare flesh, otherwise my legs are red and burning within a few hours. Warm up pants are even noisier than corduroys. SWISH!

Now that I've got that out in the open, I'm off to pluck out my chin hairs. Such is life.

On the First Night of Hanukkah Someone Threw Up on My Face

Actually, it only looks like a cat threw up a yarn hairball on my face. In reality, Husband found this crochet sleeping mask on etsy. He said it made him laugh so hard that it was worth the few bucks.

He also gave me an awesome Snoopy watch that was advertised on eBay as "for girls." What it meant was "for giants." It was even too big on him. I love it, though. I'll just buy a new band. Fortunately, he assured me that it was very cheap.

The sweater I am wearing in the picture was a Hanukkah gift from him many years ago. When he first gave it to me I hated wearing turtle necks. However, it soon became my favorite sweater. It's shrunk a bit, and I am fearful that it may not make it through this season.

Incidentally, I gave Husband a Kindle last night. At least I didn't sell my hair to buy him a watch fob only to discover that he sold his watch to buy me fancy combs. Love is all you need.

Happy Hanukkah!

Survey on Grooming Habits

I found the following message in my in-box:

Schlesinger Associates is currently looking for females to participate in a paid online discussion on the topic of Razors from September 23-27. For this study we'll ship you a Creative Vado Pocket Video Camera (yours to keep upon completion) to record and post your responses to a secure website. It'll only take you 20-30 minutes each day for a total of about 90 minutes of your time, all from the comfort of your home! At the completion of the study, you'll receive $65 in compensation, in addition to the video camera.

Normally, I wouldn't bother responding to a focus group that pays less than $100, but the free video camera made up for the low pay. OK, that's a lie. I really, really, really, really wanted to talk about shaving. Honestly, I couldn't wait to fill the market researchers' ears with my insane rants about the tyranny of the blade. Plus the opportunity to film myself shaving struck me as hilarious. I might have done a focus group like this for free.

I took the qualification online survey. The last question was, "How often do you shave your legs?" Options were (I'm paraphrasing here, except for options a, d, and e):

a) six or more times per week
b) something less than six but more than once
c) once a week
d) once a month
e) less than once a month
f) I never shave my legs

I debated how to answer. If I average my shaving over the course of a year, it probably comes to about once a month, so that's what I chose. I sort of wanted to pick a, though. The next screen said sorry, but I did not qualify. What a lost opportunity!

When Then is Better Than Now

When I first posted the link to the WSJ article, the photos had yet to be posted. I may have been an enormous nerd in 4th grade, but now I am a woman who needs a better hairstyle and more sleep. Damn. And my friend Sara checked my make-up and everything before I met the photog. ("You look sort of like Rachel Maddow," my other Sara friend said, trying to be positive. Dude, Rachel Maddow may be awesome, but I do not want to look like her.)

The good news is that the new story links to the 1986 original. Yep, those were the days.

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.

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.

The Non-Guide to the BlogHer Conference

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marcus Is Home!

Here he is with Uncle Suzanne. Oh, I mean Tante Suzanne. (We think that the people at the hospital thought I was a boy. On Thursday, there was a crotchety weird old guy standing outside the entrance to my apartment building. As I passed by him, he muttered, "What are you looking at, young man? You better look away or there's gonna be trouble!" I was not sure if he was talking to me or this 12 year old boy who was walking the other direction.)

I Found...

At the end of last year, I found and rescued an abandoned pirate near Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco:



This was before the whole incident with the pirates kidnapping the American ship captain, of course, but my pirate doesn't seem to exhibit any such hostilities. He just guards the treasures (paperclips, tape, scissors, etc.) I keep on my desk.

Then, in March, I found and rescued a wood fish in Carroll Gardens, where my friend lives in Brooklyn:



Yesterday, I found Jesus! OK, I found a wood tile Jesus and saints wood tile bracelet (like the one below, but a little different - my icons are blurrier, which made it impossible to photograph) on the sidewalk just a few doors down from my apartment:



Once I spotted it, I dove and snapped it up, not that any one else was in the area competing with me for it. I have coveted a bracelet like this for a long time. I think it is cool, but Husband would not be pleased if I spent his hard earned cash (or my own, for that matter) on such a Christian item. I am very excited to wear it about town. I hope that it is a sign that good luck is coming my way.

Another Day of Life*

Job hunt. Run errands. Go to gym. Attend to last class of the semester. Coo over adorable baby picture:



Dana, my sister, is on the left, her friend is holding Marcus, and I'm in - er, I mean, on - the right, in my Jody Davis jersey. Heh.

*Also the title of a very interesting book I read this semester by Ryszard Kapuscinski about the civil war that engulfed Angola when the Portuguese withdrew in 1975.

Off the Beaten (Subway) Track: The Tour

The debut walking tour for Off the Beaten (Subway) Track was a smashing success! It was organized by the New York City Transit Museum, and all 30 slots sold out. The motley crew of explorers journeyed with me to the Socrates Sculpture Park, past a dental studio that displays weird dentures in its window, into the Cathedral of St. Demetrios to see the saint's ankle bone, through the Louis Armstrong House Museum, and onto the Queens Museum of Art. In between, we stopped at the Euro Market, at a pizza place, and at the Lemon King of Corona for refreshments. (The tour was blurbed in Time Out New York, too!!!)

Husband took many photos, including this one of me proudly leading the troops across the street:


I wore a ridiculous wide brimmed hat with a big red flower on it so that people could spot my short head in a crowd:


Plus my hat kept the sun off my ghostly face during the 88 degree day. It's the same hat I wore throughout my trip to India two years ago. I bought it when I was in high school, thinking it was the height of style. Now it is my touring hat. I still believe it is the epitome of fashion.

Now That's Talent

As the express train raced through the subway tunnel this morning, I watched the Canal Street station pass by in a choppy blur. Then I turned my attention to my fellow commuters. A woman with dyed blond hair applied thick black lines with a sharp eyeliner pencil to her lower lid, monitoring her progress in a hand mirror. Satisfied, she capped the pencil, dropped it in her bag, and pulled out mascara. Done with that, eyebrow liner emerged.

I was impressed. I can barely apply eyeliner and mascara evenly when I standing on solid ground. If I were on a bumpy train, no doubt I'd poke my eyes out. I'd then be forced, a la Odysseus Oedipus,* to wonder the streets of Manhattan with my eyes tangled in my beard. OK, my beard is not yet that bushy, but if I don't keep up with the plucking, it could be.

Actually, that's one thing I probably am talented enough to pull off - plucking chin hairs on a subway train. Yeah, I'm bragging.

*Thanks, Rebecca. That's what I meant. Stupid Maurice (the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain) let me down again!!!

True Age

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

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

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

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

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



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

schmoozer, loser

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

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

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

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