One of the many things that Husband is that we each have an eccentric uncle. Fortunately, mine is related through marriage, but Husband’s oddball uncle is his father’s older brother who I’ll call Uncle Harold. Uncle Harold is known for his hatred of Clinton (at one rare Passover in which he was invited to have dinner with us, he told me that the Clinton arranged for people to be castrated and others to be killed while he was governor of Arkansas), his love of the rag The New York Post (see: hatred of Clinton), and a strange obsession with the ethnicity and religion of sports players and actors (last Passover, his eyes nearly popped out of his head as he gushed about how Melanie Griffith is the best actress ever because she so realistically portrayed Jews in Shining Through and A Stranger Among Us even though she herself is Irish or whatever her ethnic background is.)
Uncle Harold used to insist that when he took early retirement, he would spend his days listening to sports radio, reading his beloved Rupert Murdoch publication, and watching old war movies that he recorded from TV over the last 20 years. Everyone was sure that he’d be bored out of his mind, but that is exactly what he is up to these days and loving every second of it. He is also building an impressive crumb collection in his handlebar mustache, as he no longer bothers bathing on a regular basis. Once in a while, Husband’s uncle sells things on eBay to bring in some extra income and also uses the internet for other entertainment and social interaction.
Thank goodness for the internet, because just as Uncle Harold was evicted from his boarding house in a sketchy neighborhood in a town on Long Island (the building was sold and will no longer be used for housing), he met a woman in a “large ladies” chat room who invited him to live with her in Connecticut. Not to worry, though; she happens to run a boarding house as well, and they agreed that if things don’t work out relationship wise (as they’ve yet to even meet in person), he may still remain as a tenant. Just like her ex-husband, who is also a tenant there.
Oh, the fun to be had!
Monday, October 16, 2006
Sunday, October 15, 2006
What an Ass I Am
As I drove Fred the Red (our PT Cruiser) home from the delightful baby-naming ceremony that I attended today in MA, I had an argument with someone over Dr. P's chosen profession. My friend claimed that Dr. P told him that she planned to be a proctologist. I said he was wrong, as I know that she is interviewing for colo-rectal fellowships now. This went back and forth for a bit until I very testily interjected, "Damn it, she's one of my best friends. I think I fucking know what she wants to do!" and my passenger backed off.
Four hours later, I arrived back in New York and headed over to Dr. P's to have dinner with her and Dr. H and watch the Mets game. At one point, I threw my hands up in the air in disgust and told Dr. P what my passenger said earlier that day.
"Um, I am going to be a proctologist," she said. "What the hell do you think a colo-rectal surgeon is?"
Yeah, I had kind of wondered why there would be a doctor whose job was to stick a finger up someone's ass and then refer that person to someone else to surgery. Ooops. Although, in my own defense, it did take 4.5 hours to drive back (it only took us three hours to get there) because traffic was so awful. I say that it effected my ability to think with the body part containing my facial cheeks.
Four hours later, I arrived back in New York and headed over to Dr. P's to have dinner with her and Dr. H and watch the Mets game. At one point, I threw my hands up in the air in disgust and told Dr. P what my passenger said earlier that day.
"Um, I am going to be a proctologist," she said. "What the hell do you think a colo-rectal surgeon is?"
Yeah, I had kind of wondered why there would be a doctor whose job was to stick a finger up someone's ass and then refer that person to someone else to surgery. Ooops. Although, in my own defense, it did take 4.5 hours to drive back (it only took us three hours to get there) because traffic was so awful. I say that it effected my ability to think with the body part containing my facial cheeks.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Puss-y Dispute
My mother and I are engaged in a healthy debate about Carvel. She insists that years ago, there was a Carvel on the corner of Crawford and Dempster in Skokie. I am certain that Carvel was a NYC tri-state area franchise (or I should say quad-state because I think it was only in NY, CT, NJ, and PA). According to The Encyclopedia of Bad Taste by Jane and Michael Stern, a book given to my by a friend which I treasure, there were 25 Carvel ice cream shops on the East Coast by the early 1950s. Great, but what about after that? The article only goes on to describe his horrible radio ads.
Because I really like being right, I went to the Carvel website to try and learn more about the history of Carvel. Thus I was confronted by an image of my nemesis Cookie Puss:
Damn, I don’t see how people do not find this thing scary as hell. Forget the vacant stare. He is just a giant face, and his arms are on the side of his face! I know he is from space and all, but that is some freaky shit!
Getting over my fear of Cookie Puss, I also learned that Carvel set the Guiness World Record™ for Largest Ice Cream Scoop Pyramid in 2002 and in honor of the company’s 70th birthday, set the Celebrates Guinness World Record for the Largest Ice Cream Cake in 2004. I did not find out when they expanded west, but it seems like it was not until the 1990s when they began selling ice cream cakes (not scary ones like Cookie Puss, but innocuous ones like Fudgie the Whale) in grocery stores.
I really believe that the Chicago area was safe from Cookie Puss until the past few years or so. If anyone knows otherwise, please let me know. I plan to call corporate HQ on Monday and find out for sure. Seriously, Fudgie the Whale is now my Moby Dick and I am Ahab out to prove my point.
Because I really like being right, I went to the Carvel website to try and learn more about the history of Carvel. Thus I was confronted by an image of my nemesis Cookie Puss:
Damn, I don’t see how people do not find this thing scary as hell. Forget the vacant stare. He is just a giant face, and his arms are on the side of his face! I know he is from space and all, but that is some freaky shit!
Getting over my fear of Cookie Puss, I also learned that Carvel set the Guiness World Record™ for Largest Ice Cream Scoop Pyramid in 2002 and in honor of the company’s 70th birthday, set the Celebrates Guinness World Record for the Largest Ice Cream Cake in 2004. I did not find out when they expanded west, but it seems like it was not until the 1990s when they began selling ice cream cakes (not scary ones like Cookie Puss, but innocuous ones like Fudgie the Whale) in grocery stores.
I really believe that the Chicago area was safe from Cookie Puss until the past few years or so. If anyone knows otherwise, please let me know. I plan to call corporate HQ on Monday and find out for sure. Seriously, Fudgie the Whale is now my Moby Dick and I am Ahab out to prove my point.
Perkiness in a Sports Bra
My fancy gym has a luxury shop which shows its overpriced wares in the window so that non-members might be lured in to purchase $60 sports bras and the like. One of those $60 sports bras is strapped on to a mannequin on a platform in the window. As I walked by, I nearly ducked to avoid getting my eye poked out by the mannequin’s super pointy nipples that jutted through the sports bra.
Damn, those suckers are impressive. Very few women can perk up to that standard, and even if we could, I’m not sure why we’d want people staring at our nippies while we work out. Isn’t the point of sports bras to smash boobs down so that they don’t bounce around during activities, both to avoid the pain of tits taking their own jog and of lechers staring at you?
On the other hand, I do feel like that mannequin demonstrates a truth in advertising that we don’t often see. Now I know that if I want to keep my chest business to myself, I should avoid that particular sports bra. Good information to have!
Damn, those suckers are impressive. Very few women can perk up to that standard, and even if we could, I’m not sure why we’d want people staring at our nippies while we work out. Isn’t the point of sports bras to smash boobs down so that they don’t bounce around during activities, both to avoid the pain of tits taking their own jog and of lechers staring at you?
On the other hand, I do feel like that mannequin demonstrates a truth in advertising that we don’t often see. Now I know that if I want to keep my chest business to myself, I should avoid that particular sports bra. Good information to have!
Friday, October 13, 2006
Adults Only
While the “average” woman annoys the crap out of me (as does the “average” man – it is all a part of my general hatred of people), we have a few things in common. In the past I mentioned my inappropriate obsession with whether I look fat or not, which bothers me because I know that this doesn’t matter at all and my weight has never stopped me from doing anything I wanted to. (When I was significantly overweight, I: earned a scholarship and attended college, began dating Husband, graduated magna cum laude, was offered a scholarship to attend Fordham Law School, and had several job offers.) The only thing that is fat is the waste of time thinking about it.
The other thing I fret about that the “average” woman (meaning: someone who actually reads Cosmo and other magazines for advice on life) also generates frown lines over is whether I look old. Scratch that – I don’t even want to look my actual age, which is not remotely old at all. I was spoiled by my excessively youthful appearance back in the day when I really was youthful, and it is weird to me to not be considered that way any more. Not that I do anything to prevent the aging process. I only use moisturizer when my skin is so dry that my face is literally cracking off. My hatred of beauty industry products far exceeds my desire to not look 40 when I am actually 40, although not my interest in not terrifying people with a detaching face.
This is the complicated part. While I was delighted yesterday when the salesguy at Bloomingdale’s called me “young lady” (as in, “Would you like to try those dresses on, young lady?” which makes me wonder what young lady has $400+ to blow on a fucking dress. Yeesh.), I also want to look my age once I’ve earned some wisdom. The dilemma, then, is not to wrinkle up before I hit official sagedom. In the meantime, it is OK with me if people think that I am somewhere between the ages of 14-16. (At work, I always enjoyed surprising people at meetings when I could see that they were thinking, “Who the fuck is this kid?” and then I’d say something particularly knowledgeable or insightful. The looks on their faces was priceless.)
The life stages between “guru” and “idiot youth” are tough ones in so many ways, no?
The other thing I fret about that the “average” woman (meaning: someone who actually reads Cosmo and other magazines for advice on life) also generates frown lines over is whether I look old. Scratch that – I don’t even want to look my actual age, which is not remotely old at all. I was spoiled by my excessively youthful appearance back in the day when I really was youthful, and it is weird to me to not be considered that way any more. Not that I do anything to prevent the aging process. I only use moisturizer when my skin is so dry that my face is literally cracking off. My hatred of beauty industry products far exceeds my desire to not look 40 when I am actually 40, although not my interest in not terrifying people with a detaching face.
This is the complicated part. While I was delighted yesterday when the salesguy at Bloomingdale’s called me “young lady” (as in, “Would you like to try those dresses on, young lady?” which makes me wonder what young lady has $400+ to blow on a fucking dress. Yeesh.), I also want to look my age once I’ve earned some wisdom. The dilemma, then, is not to wrinkle up before I hit official sagedom. In the meantime, it is OK with me if people think that I am somewhere between the ages of 14-16. (At work, I always enjoyed surprising people at meetings when I could see that they were thinking, “Who the fuck is this kid?” and then I’d say something particularly knowledgeable or insightful. The looks on their faces was priceless.)
The life stages between “guru” and “idiot youth” are tough ones in so many ways, no?
Update!
The space in the Ansonia condos formerly housing a swingers club that was hilariously written up in Time magazine (you must read the article by clicking on the link – priceless! The ‘70s sure were a unique era…) that was until recently a Super Gristedes grocery store (and before that a Food Emporium grocery store), has scaffolding in front of it during construction. The ad on the scaffolding says it is going to be a Loehman’s.
The evolution of the space over the past 30 years:
If that does not present a clear picture of how the Upper West Side has changed over the years, nothing will. I’ll take the gay bathhouse, please.
The evolution of the space over the past 30 years:
- Gay club notorious for performances by Bette Midler and Barry Manilow, as well as for dispensing lube from the soap dispensers for hot gay orgies
- Swingers club notorious for heterosexual orgies
- (I’m not sure what was there during the 1980s, but we can use our imaginations. Drug den offering an orgy of illegal substances, maybe?)
- Two different grocery stores providing a veritable orgy of food offerings
- Discount designer clothing store proving an orgy of semi-luxury goods
If that does not present a clear picture of how the Upper West Side has changed over the years, nothing will. I’ll take the gay bathhouse, please.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Why I Hate People: Case Studies 112,874, 112,875, and 112,876
Three situations today reminded me why I hate people. As I stepped on the subway this afternoon, I was pleased to notice that a bench that easily seat four average sized people only had three on it. There was a white woman sitting at one end, a black man sitting at the other, and another white woman sitting in the middle. I assumed that she would move over since she was sitting literally in the middle of two spaces. Never assume anything. As I wedged myself into the bigger of the spaces, which happened to be between the women, she refused to move towards the black man. Fucking bitch. Ironically, there was just enough space on her other side that an averaged size guy squeezed in there, so I think she was a little crushed.
After I did an interview with a new potentialHaven volunteer, I needed to pick up my coat, which I left at the tailor’s two weeks ago so that I could get the sleeve altered. (Hey, as long as you’ve dropped serious money on a coat, you might as well throw in a little more so that it looks less sloppy. The arms of the coat were designed for some sort of giantess, so having them shortened a bit was a huge improvement.) I wandered up there and stopped into Bloomingdale’s to use the bathroom. (OK, fine. And also to try on more Nanette Lepore items so that I could be absolutely certain of my size when I bid on things on eBay.)
Of course, there was a line for the toilets, and as I waited, a dog poked its head out from under one of the stalls. Look, people, I know that bitches tend to shop at Bloomie’s, but I didn’t think that was literally the case. What the fuck is wrong with people? I know that you love your doggie and think of it as a member of the family, but last time I checked, dogs are not people. What on earth would make anyone think it is OK to bring a fucking dog into a department store?!?! Or any other commercial establishment for that matter. I was sure to shoot lighting bolts out of my eyes when the young rich woman emerged from the stall with the dog (kissing it, natch). At least it was on a leash. Sigh.
Finally, while trying on decadent frocks, some whore kicked open the door to my little fitting room for no apparent reason as she walked by, scaring the crap out of me. “Sorry,” she muttered nastily. I wanted to jump on her back and pull her perfectly highlighted coif out by the roots.
Civilization is a myth.
After I did an interview with a new potentialHaven volunteer, I needed to pick up my coat, which I left at the tailor’s two weeks ago so that I could get the sleeve altered. (Hey, as long as you’ve dropped serious money on a coat, you might as well throw in a little more so that it looks less sloppy. The arms of the coat were designed for some sort of giantess, so having them shortened a bit was a huge improvement.) I wandered up there and stopped into Bloomingdale’s to use the bathroom. (OK, fine. And also to try on more Nanette Lepore items so that I could be absolutely certain of my size when I bid on things on eBay.)
Of course, there was a line for the toilets, and as I waited, a dog poked its head out from under one of the stalls. Look, people, I know that bitches tend to shop at Bloomie’s, but I didn’t think that was literally the case. What the fuck is wrong with people? I know that you love your doggie and think of it as a member of the family, but last time I checked, dogs are not people. What on earth would make anyone think it is OK to bring a fucking dog into a department store?!?! Or any other commercial establishment for that matter. I was sure to shoot lighting bolts out of my eyes when the young rich woman emerged from the stall with the dog (kissing it, natch). At least it was on a leash. Sigh.
Finally, while trying on decadent frocks, some whore kicked open the door to my little fitting room for no apparent reason as she walked by, scaring the crap out of me. “Sorry,” she muttered nastily. I wanted to jump on her back and pull her perfectly highlighted coif out by the roots.
Civilization is a myth.
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