The number one rule of blogging is not to use people's names unless they tell you it is OK. Generally, I follow this rule religiously. Some of my friends and family are identified by their real names; others get fake ones. If I link to a blog, I use the blogger's blog name, which may be different from his or her non-blogging name.
So I have no idea what I was thinking back in February, when I wrote a post about why I hate Valentine's Day. Not only did I use the real names of guys I knew in high school, but I lost my mind completely and also put in their last names. Perhaps this was due to a carb deficit, as I was in Phase I of the South Beach Diet, and Maurice (the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain) was unable to perform at the minimal level he usually offers. Whatever the reason, not cool.
Even less cool is how this came to my attention. The gentleman now referred to as Mr. X was displeased that I shared this story. It seems his in-laws and maybe also fantasy football league googled his name and then mocked him, although I don't see why he was mockable - I'm the total fucking shit in the story. Whatever, he was not amused. I felt awful and took his name out, but we all know the problem with the internet - once it is out there, it's not entirely erasable.
I sincerely hope that this will not cause Mr. X any more grief. It was incredibly bad judgment on my part.
Showing posts with label those were the days. Show all posts
Showing posts with label those were the days. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
NaBloPoMo
November is National Blog Posting Month. I missed the Nov. 5 deadline to submit my blog as an official participant, but my goal is to blog daily anyway. My trip to London this weekend and my upcoming visit to my family in Chicago over Thanksgiving weekend may prevent me from achieving my goal, but whatever. I'm not on the blogroll, so I won't feel too bad about it.
In 2006, I volunteered as a NaBloPoMo blog reviewer. I was assigned to look at the participating blogs whose titles began with the letters H,I,J,K, and L. That was, uh, fun. If I wasn't so lazy, I would click on each of the blogs that I linked to and see how many are still around. Initially I was going to say that the best part of doing the reviews is that I "met" Eddie from Chicken Fat as a result, but I just realized that is not true. We met through some humor writing contest thing.
While I looked over my NaBloPoMo reports, I enjoyed the writing that I did in Nov. 2006. That was the month I issued my request for more information on Jewish pussy, which I deemed necessary because so many people came to CUSS while googling that term. I wanted to know what on earth they expected to find when searching for "jewish pussy." I still get comments on that, much to my enlightenment and amusement. (I think it is my most commented upon post, actually.)
November 2006 - good times!
In 2006, I volunteered as a NaBloPoMo blog reviewer. I was assigned to look at the participating blogs whose titles began with the letters H,I,J,K, and L. That was, uh, fun. If I wasn't so lazy, I would click on each of the blogs that I linked to and see how many are still around. Initially I was going to say that the best part of doing the reviews is that I "met" Eddie from Chicken Fat as a result, but I just realized that is not true. We met through some humor writing contest thing.
While I looked over my NaBloPoMo reports, I enjoyed the writing that I did in Nov. 2006. That was the month I issued my request for more information on Jewish pussy, which I deemed necessary because so many people came to CUSS while googling that term. I wanted to know what on earth they expected to find when searching for "jewish pussy." I still get comments on that, much to my enlightenment and amusement. (I think it is my most commented upon post, actually.)
November 2006 - good times!
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Association Residence for Respectable Aged Indigent Females
A few days ago, as I walked home from Harlem, I passed a Gothic-looking building on Amsterdam between 104th and 103rd St. I knew it was the New York branch of American Youth Hostels, but noticed for the first time a little sign on a porch indicating the building's historic value. I climbed the stairs to get closer. I nearly fell down laughing when I read the header, "Association Residence for Respectable Aged Indigent Females." Wow, I would never be allowed in there! I thought.
The New York Historical Society explains that the organization:
Setting aside the qualifications of widowhood, elderliness, and Christianity, the building would not have taken me because I have lots of opinions and voice them. It seems that respectable women are still not supposed to do that. Oh well.
The New York Historical Society explains that the organization:
Started in the fall of 1813 as a small association of women, the Society for the Relief of Indigent Respectable Females was formally established on February 14, 1814 in New York City. Intending to provide charity for a class of society they felt was neglected, the Society raised money largely through private donations to supply gifts of clothing, small stoves, and food for elderly women living in poverty. The Society was created out of religious obligation to a Christian ethic and continued to remain very close to the Christian faith throughout its history.The sign on the building, though, specified that it was founded to help widows of soldiers felled in the American Revolution and War of 1812.
Setting aside the qualifications of widowhood, elderliness, and Christianity, the building would not have taken me because I have lots of opinions and voice them. It seems that respectable women are still not supposed to do that. Oh well.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Truth or Dare
Two new chapters are up at Always. I must have been drunk with words as I typed them up, as I could not stop hiccuping. The force of the hiccups jerked my head and hands each time, so there are probably more typos than usual or intended. (I'm copying exactly what's in the notebook, so the punctuation is not great.)
Chapter 13 is all about a party that the main characters attend. It features, of course, the game "Truth or Dare." This is the second time that "Truth or Dare" appears in the story, but of course, nothing really interesting happens because I was/am a total nerd. It cracks me up. I was obsessed with this game through even the early years of high school. (And when the Madonna documentary came out, my dorky friends and I were rendered giddy by the title. Oooooh! "Truth or Dare!" How exciting!)
When I was in eighth grade, I once played a more risque version of Truth or Dare called Two Minutes in the Closet. Since were there three girls and only one boy, this was not such a balanced game. I was excited to kiss someone. That's about as far as I was willing to go. These days, it blows my mind how naive that was, although I am sure that there are plenty of geeks who also feel the way I did, just as I am sure that there were many kids who were doing all sorts of things that I barely even knew existed. OK, so I have no point except that I was a nerd whose heights of ecstasy didn't progress beyond slow dancing close to some guy. Whatever.
Chapter 13 is all about a party that the main characters attend. It features, of course, the game "Truth or Dare." This is the second time that "Truth or Dare" appears in the story, but of course, nothing really interesting happens because I was/am a total nerd. It cracks me up. I was obsessed with this game through even the early years of high school. (And when the Madonna documentary came out, my dorky friends and I were rendered giddy by the title. Oooooh! "Truth or Dare!" How exciting!)
When I was in eighth grade, I once played a more risque version of Truth or Dare called Two Minutes in the Closet. Since were there three girls and only one boy, this was not such a balanced game. I was excited to kiss someone. That's about as far as I was willing to go. These days, it blows my mind how naive that was, although I am sure that there are plenty of geeks who also feel the way I did, just as I am sure that there were many kids who were doing all sorts of things that I barely even knew existed. OK, so I have no point except that I was a nerd whose heights of ecstasy didn't progress beyond slow dancing close to some guy. Whatever.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Going to Hawaii Again!*
At the end of 2007, Husband had a lot of vacation time that he needed to use. (His employer does not let people roll over vacation days from year to year.) We decided to plan a blow out trip to Hawaii. Using large numbers of airmiles and hotel points, we were able to book one of the many luxury hotels on Oahu. Husband initially planned to stay at the historic Moana Surfrider, which was the first hotel in Waikiki, but it was full. This turned out to be an excellent, excellent thing, as we stayed next door at the Royal Hawaiian instead.
Known as the Pink Palace because everything - from the exterior to the linens - is pink, many famous people and presidents stayed at the Royal Hawaiian. (I love places steeped in history.) Because I like strange things that no one else cares about, I was particularly impressed that the doors to each room were a thick wood with a carving of Hawaiian royalty of some sort and a motto in Hawaiian. As always, I was a little obsessive about learning how to say things in the local language, so trying to pronounce the motto was a challenge. (We were in Hawaii during Christmas, so I managed to learn how to say "Merry Christmas" - Mele Kalikimaka! - which was fun. I love how that feels on my tongue. But I digress...)
Anyway, not only were we in Hawaii for Christmas and New Years, but I also celebrated my 32nd birthday while we were there. We indulged in the famous breakfast buffet at a restaurant that seems to no longer exist at the hotel. As always, I pocketed the little jars of jam that hotel restaurants always put on tables. (With flavors like Mango and guava, who can blame me?) I like giving them to people with the souvenirs that I actually purchase for them. I also like eating them at home. I don't really know why.
We pretended to be normal people and went to the beach once. Really, though, it was too chilly in December (for me, anyway) to spend much time in the water, plus I hate sand, and I had to protect the stab wounds I had on my feet from when I fell on a sea urchin or five while attempting to snorkel on the Big Island earlier in the trip. While on O'ahu, we spent most of our time hiking, meeting up with friends who happened to also be in Honolulu, eating, and enjoying our pink hotel room while I soaked my feet to prevent infection. We also snuck over to a local bar to watch the Giants game one afternoon. It was a good rest for my painful feet.
Man, I would love to go back. I am especially nostalgic because Husband is unable to take vacation in the foreseeable future. Those were the days, I tell you.
*Sadly, I am only revisiting this magnificent state on my blog. I wish I was heading over there...
This is a Traveling Mom dedicated post.
Known as the Pink Palace because everything - from the exterior to the linens - is pink, many famous people and presidents stayed at the Royal Hawaiian. (I love places steeped in history.) Because I like strange things that no one else cares about, I was particularly impressed that the doors to each room were a thick wood with a carving of Hawaiian royalty of some sort and a motto in Hawaiian. As always, I was a little obsessive about learning how to say things in the local language, so trying to pronounce the motto was a challenge. (We were in Hawaii during Christmas, so I managed to learn how to say "Merry Christmas" - Mele Kalikimaka! - which was fun. I love how that feels on my tongue. But I digress...)
Anyway, not only were we in Hawaii for Christmas and New Years, but I also celebrated my 32nd birthday while we were there. We indulged in the famous breakfast buffet at a restaurant that seems to no longer exist at the hotel. As always, I pocketed the little jars of jam that hotel restaurants always put on tables. (With flavors like Mango and guava, who can blame me?) I like giving them to people with the souvenirs that I actually purchase for them. I also like eating them at home. I don't really know why.
We pretended to be normal people and went to the beach once. Really, though, it was too chilly in December (for me, anyway) to spend much time in the water, plus I hate sand, and I had to protect the stab wounds I had on my feet from when I fell on a sea urchin or five while attempting to snorkel on the Big Island earlier in the trip. While on O'ahu, we spent most of our time hiking, meeting up with friends who happened to also be in Honolulu, eating, and enjoying our pink hotel room while I soaked my feet to prevent infection. We also snuck over to a local bar to watch the Giants game one afternoon. It was a good rest for my painful feet.
Man, I would love to go back. I am especially nostalgic because Husband is unable to take vacation in the foreseeable future. Those were the days, I tell you.
*Sadly, I am only revisiting this magnificent state on my blog. I wish I was heading over there...
This is a Traveling Mom dedicated post.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Invisible Stigmata*
During class last night, I spaced out a bit while the very intellectual professor recited a history of first person narratives from Roman times to today. What made me think about St. Catherine of Sienna is beyond me. The mind works in mysterious ways.
Maybe the mention of ancient Rome caused Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, think of Italy, which I first visited in January 1996 as part of a scholarship program at NYU. We took a day trip to Sienna from Florence, and visited a church which had St. Catherine's finger on display. (Now that I think about it, this may have been the start of my obsession with relics.) Our guide explained to us that Catherine's family wanted to marry her off to some guy but that she had pledged herself to Christ (sort of a feminist act, right?), and did not want to break her vows. Suddenly, she developed stigmata that only she could see. Obviously, this was a sign from above that she should not wed a mortal man, and her family shipped her off to a convent instead.
Far be it from me to suggest that Catherine invented the "invisible stigmata" to get what she wanted; that would have been very clever. I suspect that she became hysterical (and I think we were also told that she was locked into her room without food until she agreed to marry the dude), and these conditions likely made her hallucinate the stigmata. Since no one was on her brain hamster's wavelength, the bloody punctures were invisible to everyone but Catherine. I wonder if they really believed she had invisible stigmata, or if they just agreed that she did to shut her up. Interesting.
*I blogged a bit about the invisible stigmata in June 2007, when I saw her cloak in Milan.
Maybe the mention of ancient Rome caused Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, think of Italy, which I first visited in January 1996 as part of a scholarship program at NYU. We took a day trip to Sienna from Florence, and visited a church which had St. Catherine's finger on display. (Now that I think about it, this may have been the start of my obsession with relics.) Our guide explained to us that Catherine's family wanted to marry her off to some guy but that she had pledged herself to Christ (sort of a feminist act, right?), and did not want to break her vows. Suddenly, she developed stigmata that only she could see. Obviously, this was a sign from above that she should not wed a mortal man, and her family shipped her off to a convent instead.
Far be it from me to suggest that Catherine invented the "invisible stigmata" to get what she wanted; that would have been very clever. I suspect that she became hysterical (and I think we were also told that she was locked into her room without food until she agreed to marry the dude), and these conditions likely made her hallucinate the stigmata. Since no one was on her brain hamster's wavelength, the bloody punctures were invisible to everyone but Catherine. I wonder if they really believed she had invisible stigmata, or if they just agreed that she did to shut her up. Interesting.
*I blogged a bit about the invisible stigmata in June 2007, when I saw her cloak in Milan.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
More to Love
While I was at my parents' house two weeks ago, I found this photo of Husband and me from 1996 or 1997:
Here we are in July 2009:
There was a hell of a lot more of us to love back then. It is also nice to see that while we are almost entirely different people, not much has changed in my parents' kitchen.
(Thanks to everyone for the advice on photo editing software! I tried Piknik, Picasa, and Paint, and Paint was exactly what I needed to semi-disguise Husband. (I probably didn't block enough of his face out, but it would ruin the point of the picture if I blocked everything.)
Here we are in July 2009:
There was a hell of a lot more of us to love back then. It is also nice to see that while we are almost entirely different people, not much has changed in my parents' kitchen.
(Thanks to everyone for the advice on photo editing software! I tried Piknik, Picasa, and Paint, and Paint was exactly what I needed to semi-disguise Husband. (I probably didn't block enough of his face out, but it would ruin the point of the picture if I blocked everything.)
Thursday, May 21, 2009
School Dance Dream
The buzzing alarm clock cut through the picture unfolding in my head. It interrupted my ascent up a grand staircase dressed in a green knee length silk dress and matching bolero jacket and black satin shoes with chunky two inch heels. The dance was just about to begin.
In only the way a dream can unfold, my friends (I think from New School, but also from my previous graduate program at Columbia) and I were excited for our graduation dance. We spent hours picking out dresses, putting on make-up, and styling our hair. When we got to the dance, I immediately saw my ex-boyfriend from when I was 16. I worried that he would think I was following him, and somehow lost the group of giggling ladies who I accompanied.
Attempting to go in another direction, I headed up the stairs. At that moment, Mayor Bloomberg swept down with his entourage, ready to open the ceremony. It occurred to me that Mayor Bloomberg looked like my ex-boyfriend's unemployed, alcoholic father: short and overconfident. That's when the alarm ended it it all.
Usually I have no idea what sparks my crazy dreams, but I'm pretty sure this one came from two sources. The weather was perfect last night for a long stroll, so I walked home from school. That led me through Times Square, where I saw several groups of high school kids departing from proms in fancy gowns and tuxes. School dance: check. Then when I arrived home, I read an article about how Bloomberg is once again buying an election for himself (last election, he outspent his opponent by 10 to 1), not only through campaign ads, but also by buying off the best Democratic consultants through hiring them to run his campaign. Mayor Bloomberg: check. The ex-boyfriend tends to show up in my dreams when I'm upset about something in general, so that explains that.
The dream, though, made me miss the good old days. I would love to gather up my friends, get dressed up, and go to a school dance. How fun would that be?
In only the way a dream can unfold, my friends (I think from New School, but also from my previous graduate program at Columbia) and I were excited for our graduation dance. We spent hours picking out dresses, putting on make-up, and styling our hair. When we got to the dance, I immediately saw my ex-boyfriend from when I was 16. I worried that he would think I was following him, and somehow lost the group of giggling ladies who I accompanied.
Attempting to go in another direction, I headed up the stairs. At that moment, Mayor Bloomberg swept down with his entourage, ready to open the ceremony. It occurred to me that Mayor Bloomberg looked like my ex-boyfriend's unemployed, alcoholic father: short and overconfident. That's when the alarm ended it it all.
Usually I have no idea what sparks my crazy dreams, but I'm pretty sure this one came from two sources. The weather was perfect last night for a long stroll, so I walked home from school. That led me through Times Square, where I saw several groups of high school kids departing from proms in fancy gowns and tuxes. School dance: check. Then when I arrived home, I read an article about how Bloomberg is once again buying an election for himself (last election, he outspent his opponent by 10 to 1), not only through campaign ads, but also by buying off the best Democratic consultants through hiring them to run his campaign. Mayor Bloomberg: check. The ex-boyfriend tends to show up in my dreams when I'm upset about something in general, so that explains that.
The dream, though, made me miss the good old days. I would love to gather up my friends, get dressed up, and go to a school dance. How fun would that be?
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Names Changed to Protect the Formerly Young and Stupid
(With name changes, you know this will be a good one.) Facebook notified me that I received a message from Bob Gold. The subject read, "from someone long ago." "What? Who the fuck is that?" I wondered. This was not long after a girl with whom I had a Mean Girls-style friendship (I was the loser mean girl in the relationship, and the guilt has plagued me for years now) sent me a message on Facebook, so I was extra curious to see who else was crawling out of the woodwork.
Here's the message, typos included:
Nope, still no clue as to who the hell this is. I read on:
Oh my God! I totally know who this dude is. (If he hadn't referenced my friend Rachel and the other guy, though, I have to admit I would still not have the foggiest concept of who this person was.) This was when I was in 7th grade, and Bob and I were chatting on the phone a lot. I was supposed to go to a movie with him, but I backed out the night before. At the time, I freaked out for what seemed like no reason, but wizened 33 year old Suzanne knows that I was totally not ready to go on a date at the age of 12 or 13.
The mylar balloon, though? Zero recollection, although I laugh like a hyena every time I read that. Did I give him a balloon and he sent it to me to avenge his broken heart? I vaguely recollect receiving an envelope with a chopped up balloon in it, but I think that is due to the power of suggestion. It is equally likely that Bob gave me a balloon and, in a fit of pique, I chopped it up and sent it to him. I was totally dramatic like that. Oh, the hilarity of adolescent angst!
Anyway, the rest of the message was the usual, how are you, let's chat, blah blah blah. I messaged him back, but haven't heard anything yet. My lame little storied past is so amusing to recount. Not so much to live through at the time, but worth a good smile these days.
Here's the message, typos included:
i couldn't help the thought of seeing if you remembered me and to see how your life has been.
i'll take you back in time and see if you can piece it together if the name hasn't struck your memory already ... was 1988/89-ish ...
Nope, still no clue as to who the hell this is. I read on:
Rachel, David, phone dating, bad breakup over the phone, a small mylar baloon broken into a bunch of pieces and sent back via envelope.
Oh my God! I totally know who this dude is. (If he hadn't referenced my friend Rachel and the other guy, though, I have to admit I would still not have the foggiest concept of who this person was.) This was when I was in 7th grade, and Bob and I were chatting on the phone a lot. I was supposed to go to a movie with him, but I backed out the night before. At the time, I freaked out for what seemed like no reason, but wizened 33 year old Suzanne knows that I was totally not ready to go on a date at the age of 12 or 13.
The mylar balloon, though? Zero recollection, although I laugh like a hyena every time I read that. Did I give him a balloon and he sent it to me to avenge his broken heart? I vaguely recollect receiving an envelope with a chopped up balloon in it, but I think that is due to the power of suggestion. It is equally likely that Bob gave me a balloon and, in a fit of pique, I chopped it up and sent it to him. I was totally dramatic like that. Oh, the hilarity of adolescent angst!
Anyway, the rest of the message was the usual, how are you, let's chat, blah blah blah. I messaged him back, but haven't heard anything yet. My lame little storied past is so amusing to recount. Not so much to live through at the time, but worth a good smile these days.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Beware of VD and Important "Marxist Feminist Dialectic" T-Shirt Info
As an early Valentine's Day gift, the landlord of the office building in which I work gave every employee a full size bar of Jacques Torres milk chocolate on Thursday. This is a South Beach Diet eye poke if there ever was one. Does anyone ever dole out free, expensive chocolate when I can eat it? Of course not. I wanted to cry while everyone savored their chocolate, but I insisted that my cottage cheese and cherry tomatoes were delicious. (They were, but not as delicious as I am sure the chocolate was.)
It's not just this year that I feel like Charlie Brown as Lucy pulled the football away as he lifted his foot to kick it. I've always hated Valentine's Day. Like the other types of VD, I find it's treacly ookiness just infects everything. My freshman year of high school I griped about it so much that when sweet but decidedly odd Mark Weinberg (not Mark Weingarten, for those of you who know either of them and get confused, as my friends did when I later had a crush on Weingarten and had to clarify that Mark Weinberg was "the Wrong One" and Weingarten was "Not the Wrong One," but I digress) gave me what was probably the kindest card anyone has ever given me on VD, saying that he knew that I hated the holiday but he hoped I would have a good day, that I missed that he was interested in me. I don't know if I would have been interested in him, but man, did I waste that opportunity to thank someone for doing something really nice for me. (Fast forward to next VD when I was grounded and Mr. X [name removed at his request, 11/17/09] showed up at my house while I was doing laundry to give me a rose and I basically slammed the door in his face because I was a stupid insensitive fucking bitch and I will forever feel guilty about that because even if I didn't like him, I should have been nicer. But I digress again.)
The point is, VD annoys me and causes me to grouse and be even crabbier and more crotchety than usual. However, I hope that you are all having a lovely day.
More important, for those of you who like the t-shirt I got earlier this week - "My Marxist Feminist Dialectic Brings All the Boys to the Yard," it is still possible to order one at T-Shirt Hell, but only until Monday, Feb. 16. I am thinking of ordering another one just in case the one I got shrinks, as it is stretched to the max as it is. (For the record, the ringer t-shirts are a size smaller than the chart says.) This has been a public service announcement.
It's not just this year that I feel like Charlie Brown as Lucy pulled the football away as he lifted his foot to kick it. I've always hated Valentine's Day. Like the other types of VD, I find it's treacly ookiness just infects everything. My freshman year of high school I griped about it so much that when sweet but decidedly odd Mark Weinberg (not Mark Weingarten, for those of you who know either of them and get confused, as my friends did when I later had a crush on Weingarten and had to clarify that Mark Weinberg was "the Wrong One" and Weingarten was "Not the Wrong One," but I digress) gave me what was probably the kindest card anyone has ever given me on VD, saying that he knew that I hated the holiday but he hoped I would have a good day, that I missed that he was interested in me. I don't know if I would have been interested in him, but man, did I waste that opportunity to thank someone for doing something really nice for me. (Fast forward to next VD when I was grounded and Mr. X [name removed at his request, 11/17/09] showed up at my house while I was doing laundry to give me a rose and I basically slammed the door in his face because I was a stupid insensitive fucking bitch and I will forever feel guilty about that because even if I didn't like him, I should have been nicer. But I digress again.)
The point is, VD annoys me and causes me to grouse and be even crabbier and more crotchety than usual. However, I hope that you are all having a lovely day.
More important, for those of you who like the t-shirt I got earlier this week - "My Marxist Feminist Dialectic Brings All the Boys to the Yard," it is still possible to order one at T-Shirt Hell, but only until Monday, Feb. 16. I am thinking of ordering another one just in case the one I got shrinks, as it is stretched to the max as it is. (For the record, the ringer t-shirts are a size smaller than the chart says.) This has been a public service announcement.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Turkey in the Pants
As per the heeelarious Shonda's request, here is evidence of my fear that I will be stopped at a grocery store for attempting to shoplift a turkey by stuffing it down the front of my pants:
Please keep in mind that I was even wearing a girdle when I snapped this fine self-portrait (yes, I resorted to Assets, a Spanx spin-off undergarment that I bought at Target for $10 hoping for miracles), so it generally looks a bit bulkier. Also, I do not think that I look like I am shoplifting a turkey in my pants when I wearing jeans. There is just something extra unflattering about "work" pants. Ugh.
Incidentally, the title of this post reminds me of a song that my sister and I listened to when we jumped on my bed pretending that we were gymnastics teachers, "Turkey in the Straw." The song was on the awesome Goin' Quackers album, featuring Donald Duck. It also had classics like "I'm in Love with the Big Blue Frog" and "Throw It Out the Window."
For the record (heh heh), we preferred "Disco Mickey Mouse" when we did bad things like jump on the bed. (The title track was excellently paced, as was "Watch Out for Goofy," a song warning women that he would dance on their feet.) I think "Sesame Street Fever" came in third. Damn, you gotta love the early '80s for bringing disco to kids.
Please keep in mind that I was even wearing a girdle when I snapped this fine self-portrait (yes, I resorted to Assets, a Spanx spin-off undergarment that I bought at Target for $10 hoping for miracles), so it generally looks a bit bulkier. Also, I do not think that I look like I am shoplifting a turkey in my pants when I wearing jeans. There is just something extra unflattering about "work" pants. Ugh.
Incidentally, the title of this post reminds me of a song that my sister and I listened to when we jumped on my bed pretending that we were gymnastics teachers, "Turkey in the Straw." The song was on the awesome Goin' Quackers album, featuring Donald Duck. It also had classics like "I'm in Love with the Big Blue Frog" and "Throw It Out the Window."
For the record (heh heh), we preferred "Disco Mickey Mouse" when we did bad things like jump on the bed. (The title track was excellently paced, as was "Watch Out for Goofy," a song warning women that he would dance on their feet.) I think "Sesame Street Fever" came in third. Damn, you gotta love the early '80s for bringing disco to kids.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
(Fictional) Police Dramas
During the snow storm that hit NYC this past weekend and prevented me from getting to Massachusetts to see the Alex Elliot family, Husband, cousin Rebecca (who is staying at our place while on winter break, which is very handy as she will take care of Tycho Bunnae while we are away), and I watched six episodes of season one of The Wire. Husband and I received the DVD set from my parents for Hanukkah. We love, love, love it so far. The plan is to watch the last seven episodes on Xmas Eve while eating corned beef, Chinese cuisine, or some other traditional Xmas Jew-y food.
Two years ago for Hanukkah and/or my birthday (memory fails me), my parents gave me the first two seasons of the mid-80s police show Hunter. This was, along with The Golden Girls, my favorite show back in the day. I'd babysit on Saturday nights, playing with the kids for the minimal time required, then watching the fine TV line up. During Hunter, I would call my friend/unrequited crush Jeremy, and we would watch the show together over the phone. Ah, those were the days!
Around this time last year, I blew many hours watching my Hunter DVDs, but did not get to see them all. Now that I have some time again, I popped in three episodes last night. While both shows have snappy dialogue and semi-rogue male cop leads partnered with impressive female detectives, compared to The Wire, Hunter seems a little ridiculous. Perhaps it is the 20 year time difference? The geographic disparities? The fact that almost every episode of Hunter ends with a car chase, Hunter shooting out the tires of the perp's car, and then the car blowing up? Whatever the reason, it is fun to watch.
Two years ago for Hanukkah and/or my birthday (memory fails me), my parents gave me the first two seasons of the mid-80s police show Hunter. This was, along with The Golden Girls, my favorite show back in the day. I'd babysit on Saturday nights, playing with the kids for the minimal time required, then watching the fine TV line up. During Hunter, I would call my friend/unrequited crush Jeremy, and we would watch the show together over the phone. Ah, those were the days!
Around this time last year, I blew many hours watching my Hunter DVDs, but did not get to see them all. Now that I have some time again, I popped in three episodes last night. While both shows have snappy dialogue and semi-rogue male cop leads partnered with impressive female detectives, compared to The Wire, Hunter seems a little ridiculous. Perhaps it is the 20 year time difference? The geographic disparities? The fact that almost every episode of Hunter ends with a car chase, Hunter shooting out the tires of the perp's car, and then the car blowing up? Whatever the reason, it is fun to watch.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Barbie Sex
It's interesting, although not surprising, that all the comments I received thus far in response to my confession about Barbie confirmed that a lot of girls had their Barbies and Kens engage in sexual activities. We live in a culture saturated by images of sex and sexuality. If Barbie wasn't supposed to be knocking boots, then why would she have fuck-me heels, mini skirts, and giant boobs? (Of course, it's more complicated than that, but that's the message we get.) I'm particularly impressed by Bryna's Barbie house uses - pancake house by day, whore house at night. Hilarious.
All of this reminds of me of a short story I ready by AM Homes when I was in high school. I was in my early stages of rabid feminism, and on a tear about Barbie and how bad she was for girls because of her unrealistic body and consumerist bent. A friend gave me an anthology of stories that we related to Barbie, and one of them was A Real Doll by Homes. Basically, this teenage guy has sex with his sister's Barbie and Ken dolls. (Separately, not as a threesome. To paraphrase George Michael, sex is better when it's one human on one doll.) It is a demented tale of sexual obsession with elements of unrelated torture and ideas of feminine sexuality and body image.
I was completely disturbed and utterly fascinated by Homes's take on how girls use their Barbies, and realized how normal I was in comparison. Now that I know that other people played Barbie whore house, I'm a little disappointed in myself. Despite my love of the Barbie Dream Store and all of the consumer-oriented Barbie products that I wanted, I guess I never had the capitalist instincts in me to think about how Barbie could profit by exploiting penisless Ken's lust. Nor did I have the technology to make a Barbie porno as these teen girls were clever enough to put together, complete with commercial:
All of this reminds of me of a short story I ready by AM Homes when I was in high school. I was in my early stages of rabid feminism, and on a tear about Barbie and how bad she was for girls because of her unrealistic body and consumerist bent. A friend gave me an anthology of stories that we related to Barbie, and one of them was A Real Doll by Homes. Basically, this teenage guy has sex with his sister's Barbie and Ken dolls. (Separately, not as a threesome. To paraphrase George Michael, sex is better when it's one human on one doll.) It is a demented tale of sexual obsession with elements of unrelated torture and ideas of feminine sexuality and body image.
I was completely disturbed and utterly fascinated by Homes's take on how girls use their Barbies, and realized how normal I was in comparison. Now that I know that other people played Barbie whore house, I'm a little disappointed in myself. Despite my love of the Barbie Dream Store and all of the consumer-oriented Barbie products that I wanted, I guess I never had the capitalist instincts in me to think about how Barbie could profit by exploiting penisless Ken's lust. Nor did I have the technology to make a Barbie porno as these teen girls were clever enough to put together, complete with commercial:
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Barbie Memories
Instead of going to bed when I got home from post-class hanging out (which I would do if I had better judgment), I farted around online for a while. "Why not check out the status of Off the Beaten (Subway) Track on amazon.com?" I thought to myself. "Sleep is overrated, anyway."
I was distracted from my fact finding mission when I opened the Amazon homepage and was greeted by this:
Gah! I swear that must be James Bond Villainess Barbie! It is so evilly insipid and scary, I can easily imagine it luring James Bond Ken into bed ("Hello, Mr. Bond," it says with a Russian accent as it removes its top. "Would you like to heat up this new cold war?") and then trying to bludgeon him with a frozen Chicken Kiev.
That said, I loved Barbies until I was nine or ten years old, which was several years beyond my peers' interest in playing dolls. In second grade, I received the Barbie Dream House and the Dream Store as gifts for Hanukkah, and I went to town setting up the store on the first floor of the house. I liked combing Barbies' hair, dressing her in glamorous dresses and stiletto shoes that inevitable fell off her feet and got lost in my bedroom carpet until I found one by stepping on it barefoot and driving a mini hole in my sole, and, in the later years, assisting Ken in scoring. It is almost sad how much interest my penis-less Ken had in humping my ultra smooth Barbies.
Somehow I don't think Amazon wants me to share my memories of the sound of hard plastic hitting hard plastic as Ken and Barbie went at it.
I was distracted from my fact finding mission when I opened the Amazon homepage and was greeted by this:
What's Your Favorite Barbie Memory?
Over the past 50 years, Barbie has filled homes with memories and inspired millions of children to dream--to see themselves as astronauts, rock stars, doctors, fashion designers, professional athletes, and even female Presidents. Shop the Barbie Store for great deals just in time for the holidays.
Gah! I swear that must be James Bond Villainess Barbie! It is so evilly insipid and scary, I can easily imagine it luring James Bond Ken into bed ("Hello, Mr. Bond," it says with a Russian accent as it removes its top. "Would you like to heat up this new cold war?") and then trying to bludgeon him with a frozen Chicken Kiev.
That said, I loved Barbies until I was nine or ten years old, which was several years beyond my peers' interest in playing dolls. In second grade, I received the Barbie Dream House and the Dream Store as gifts for Hanukkah, and I went to town setting up the store on the first floor of the house. I liked combing Barbies' hair, dressing her in glamorous dresses and stiletto shoes that inevitable fell off her feet and got lost in my bedroom carpet until I found one by stepping on it barefoot and driving a mini hole in my sole, and, in the later years, assisting Ken in scoring. It is almost sad how much interest my penis-less Ken had in humping my ultra smooth Barbies.
Somehow I don't think Amazon wants me to share my memories of the sound of hard plastic hitting hard plastic as Ken and Barbie went at it.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Flashback: January 30, 2007
From the CUSS archives. I swear I was way funnier in the past.
When I arrived home this afternoon from my first meeting as a magazine intern (!), I rushed to the kitchen for a snack. An apple with cheese is on my approved low-carb, anti-diabetes diet, and I grabbed an apple up greedily and smeared low fat spreadable cheese on it. Really, it was not the apple but the cheese that excited me so. I realized at that moment that if someone offered me shit with cheese on it, I might actually consider eating it, depending on the type of cheese. That is how much I love cheese. (Or a sign of how disturbed I am.)
Reflecting on shit-covered cheese reminded me of my last shower at my parents’ house. The water in Chicago is ridiculously hard, although it is not well water. (It’s fresh from Lake Michigan, although until modern plumbing solved some serious pollution issues, the water pumped from the lake was actually full of shit and disgusting.) Thus I always need conditioner for my hair when I am at my folks’, whereas I never use it in New York. I noticed that they had a bottle of Herbal Essences conditioner, so I dumped some on my head without really smelling it first. Herbal Essences is supposed to be so good that commercials portray sexy women having orgasmic experiences in the shower, hence I figured it would smell good.
I don’t know what was wrong with their Herbal Essences, but it had the essence of an animal with a flower-based diet that shit on my head. I was not pleased, although perhaps if it had cheese in it, I may have nibbled at it.
When I arrived home this afternoon from my first meeting as a magazine intern (!), I rushed to the kitchen for a snack. An apple with cheese is on my approved low-carb, anti-diabetes diet, and I grabbed an apple up greedily and smeared low fat spreadable cheese on it. Really, it was not the apple but the cheese that excited me so. I realized at that moment that if someone offered me shit with cheese on it, I might actually consider eating it, depending on the type of cheese. That is how much I love cheese. (Or a sign of how disturbed I am.)
Reflecting on shit-covered cheese reminded me of my last shower at my parents’ house. The water in Chicago is ridiculously hard, although it is not well water. (It’s fresh from Lake Michigan, although until modern plumbing solved some serious pollution issues, the water pumped from the lake was actually full of shit and disgusting.) Thus I always need conditioner for my hair when I am at my folks’, whereas I never use it in New York. I noticed that they had a bottle of Herbal Essences conditioner, so I dumped some on my head without really smelling it first. Herbal Essences is supposed to be so good that commercials portray sexy women having orgasmic experiences in the shower, hence I figured it would smell good.
I don’t know what was wrong with their Herbal Essences, but it had the essence of an animal with a flower-based diet that shit on my head. I was not pleased, although perhaps if it had cheese in it, I may have nibbled at it.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Good Old Fashioned Fun
Tavern Night at the Queens County Farm Museum was fantastic! Husband and I were seated in the part of the farmhouse built in the 1770s. We shared a table with three other people. Two of them have attended the event for the past 14 years. The other woman was also a tyro. We talked about international affairs, travel, things to do in New York (I think they should have written Off the Beaten (Subway) Track instead of me!), and the newbie's family.
More important, the food was great. It was cooked in the fireplace/hearth in the room in cauldrons, iron spits, and copper pots. The fire kept the room toasty, and along with candles, served as the only source of lighting. I was fearful that there would be no bathroom in order to maintain authenticity, but fortunately no chamber pots or outhouses were required.
At the bar, I ordered a whipped syllabus. The drink is concocted with cream, egg whites, white wine, sugar, lemon juice, and lemon zest, then topped with meringue, nutmeg, and cinnamon. It was fabulous! Husband and I shared a hot buttered rum, which literally consisted of hot rum and a huge wad of butter that the bartender threw in. Husband also imbibed something called an orange shrub, which was insanely potent. One of the volunteers at the event (dressed in colonial garb, of course) told us that a cherry shrub is made by fermenting cherries in whiskey for three weeks, so I think that the orange shrub must be similar.
As for the fare, the menu consisted of:
- Fresh bread with freshly churned butter
- Pickled artichokes and cucumbers
- Black olives
- Cream of peanut soup (tasted like melted peanut butter - yum!)
- Roast beef with a brown sugar glaze
- Chicken fricassee
- King's Arms sweet potatoes (amazing)
- Maced green beans (pretty yummy)
- Cinnamon flop (a fantastic gooey cinnamon cake)
- Apricot fool (some sort of flavored whipped cream - delish)
Next year, we want to bring our in-laws. Husband and I think that Mother-in-Law, a former history teacher whose favorite musical is 1776, will love it.
More important, the food was great. It was cooked in the fireplace/hearth in the room in cauldrons, iron spits, and copper pots. The fire kept the room toasty, and along with candles, served as the only source of lighting. I was fearful that there would be no bathroom in order to maintain authenticity, but fortunately no chamber pots or outhouses were required.
At the bar, I ordered a whipped syllabus. The drink is concocted with cream, egg whites, white wine, sugar, lemon juice, and lemon zest, then topped with meringue, nutmeg, and cinnamon. It was fabulous! Husband and I shared a hot buttered rum, which literally consisted of hot rum and a huge wad of butter that the bartender threw in. Husband also imbibed something called an orange shrub, which was insanely potent. One of the volunteers at the event (dressed in colonial garb, of course) told us that a cherry shrub is made by fermenting cherries in whiskey for three weeks, so I think that the orange shrub must be similar.
As for the fare, the menu consisted of:
- Fresh bread with freshly churned butter
- Pickled artichokes and cucumbers
- Black olives
- Cream of peanut soup (tasted like melted peanut butter - yum!)
- Roast beef with a brown sugar glaze
- Chicken fricassee
- King's Arms sweet potatoes (amazing)
- Maced green beans (pretty yummy)
- Cinnamon flop (a fantastic gooey cinnamon cake)
- Apricot fool (some sort of flavored whipped cream - delish)
Next year, we want to bring our in-laws. Husband and I think that Mother-in-Law, a former history teacher whose favorite musical is 1776, will love it.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Then
A friend posted this picture on Facebook. I think it is from the spring of 1994, but it could be fall (or even the early summer) of '93 . The two guys with me are John (red hair) and Jim (dark hair). We went to a photo booth. If the picture is from Spring 1994, I had a crush on Jim at the time. As usual, it was unrequited.
I have my hard copy of this picture in one of my photo albums. It's always been one of my favorites. I just love how it conveys the fun I had sometimes, back in the day. Plus, I look adorable (I usually hate how I photograph), and I can't get over how much damn hair I had.
Looking at this picture reminds me that while it was a pain in the ass to deal with all that hair, it was kind of fun to have, too. I'm seriously considering growing my hair out again. I just got another cut, and it is way too short. It's easy to care for, but honestly, I'm sick of falsely projecting that I am a dyke, and I never had that problem before I cut all my hair off.
Anyway, I just love this picture.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Wow, 2 Years Later, I Am Still Grossed Out
From November 7, 2006, although I can't believe that I didn't comment on how prepubescent the model looks, not only lacking pubic hair, but also hips:
From completely bare, a dementedly popular torture chamber - er, I mean waxing salon - that seems to believe that people are not mammals:
Like all fashion trends, beauty treatments come and go, one day they're hot, they next day they're not. The need for hair removal doesn't change, but how you get to be bare down there and the style you choose, like fashion, changes from season to season. The experts at completely bare know that the Brazilian bikini is out. Now it's time to go completely bare with a flair. Accessorize your own jewels…with crystals.
Whether your choice of hair removal is completely bare's core treatment - EpiLight™ permanent hair reduction - or a French wax, - you can be sure that your bikini area will sparkle.
Accessorizing your privates is the hottest rage. From crystal flowers to customized favorites, you too can now decorate your own jewels. Whether it's a special occasion or you just want to sparkle everywhere, you can choose from an assortment of real swarovski crystal designs so you can shimmer and shine.
There are several points at which I refuse to believe that the proprietors of completely bare are not falling on the floor as they shriek with laughter. "Can you believe that women pay for this shit?" I imagine them asking themselves, wiping the tears from the corners of their cosmetically enhanced eye sockets and high-fiving each other. I mean really, who on earth can, in one paragraph, admit that beauty trends come and go, but that they have the secret to the one trend that will stay cool forever?
Another response: is there not something frighteningly childish about tearing out all your pubes and gluing sparkly things on in their place? If I were a guy (or woman) about to engage in some hot action with someone and I saw that, I would run away screaming. As fast as I could. Because this is something that 8 year olds think is cool. And this is coming from a woman who really likes sparkling things and bows and ribbons. It's not like I am the most mature and age-relevant person out there.
(Incidentally, when I showed this picture to Husband, he thought that it was a tatoo of a zipper. I admit that would be kind of cool, as it demonstrates some bitchin' humor.)
Ladies: crystals on the cootie are creepy. Show some fucking respect for yourselves and your adult "jewels."
From completely bare, a dementedly popular torture chamber - er, I mean waxing salon - that seems to believe that people are not mammals:
Like all fashion trends, beauty treatments come and go, one day they're hot, they next day they're not. The need for hair removal doesn't change, but how you get to be bare down there and the style you choose, like fashion, changes from season to season. The experts at completely bare know that the Brazilian bikini is out. Now it's time to go completely bare with a flair. Accessorize your own jewels…with crystals.Whether your choice of hair removal is completely bare's core treatment - EpiLight™ permanent hair reduction - or a French wax, - you can be sure that your bikini area will sparkle.
Accessorizing your privates is the hottest rage. From crystal flowers to customized favorites, you too can now decorate your own jewels. Whether it's a special occasion or you just want to sparkle everywhere, you can choose from an assortment of real swarovski crystal designs so you can shimmer and shine.
There are several points at which I refuse to believe that the proprietors of completely bare are not falling on the floor as they shriek with laughter. "Can you believe that women pay for this shit?" I imagine them asking themselves, wiping the tears from the corners of their cosmetically enhanced eye sockets and high-fiving each other. I mean really, who on earth can, in one paragraph, admit that beauty trends come and go, but that they have the secret to the one trend that will stay cool forever?
Another response: is there not something frighteningly childish about tearing out all your pubes and gluing sparkly things on in their place? If I were a guy (or woman) about to engage in some hot action with someone and I saw that, I would run away screaming. As fast as I could. Because this is something that 8 year olds think is cool. And this is coming from a woman who really likes sparkling things and bows and ribbons. It's not like I am the most mature and age-relevant person out there.
(Incidentally, when I showed this picture to Husband, he thought that it was a tatoo of a zipper. I admit that would be kind of cool, as it demonstrates some bitchin' humor.)
Ladies: crystals on the cootie are creepy. Show some fucking respect for yourselves and your adult "jewels."
Monday, November 3, 2008
The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow
It doesn't feel possible, but tomorrow is finally election day! I am so excited and nervous. With a modicum of luck, the 2008 election season will end tomorrow, and with even more luck, the next president of the United States will be Barack Obama. My fingers are crossed.
At the same time, once the election is over, what will I spend too much time obsessing over? I'm going to need something with which to fill my free time. It's a good thing that I had a job interview last week...
So let's sing it:
Tomorrow, tomorrow
I love you, tomorrow
You're only a day away!
At the same time, once the election is over, what will I spend too much time obsessing over? I'm going to need something with which to fill my free time. It's a good thing that I had a job interview last week...
So let's sing it:
Tomorrow, tomorrow
I love you, tomorrow
You're only a day away!
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