Since the book is done for now, I am turning my attention to my applications for graduate creative writing programs. Yes, I am psyched that I wrote a guidebook/travelogue, but next I want to write something with a plot and characters and all that jazz. To do that, I gotta learn more about writing and shit.
One of the schools I am applying to requires the GRE, which I never took. (When I hustled off to policy school, the places I applied to took my LSAT score, sparing me the agony of learning GRE math.) The admissions decisions are not really based on test scores, but I still need to do well enough that the university at large agrees to let me enroll in the case that I am admitted to a writing program. I bought a study book from Kaplan and took my diagnostic exam this morning. For the 12 math questions, I basically guessed on every one. I managed to get half correct. The verbal portion went much better, although not the results were not sterling at 75% correct. I did unusually poorly in reading comprehension, so I'll chalk that up to a fluke. More studying to come.
I also learned this morning that Nov. 29 is officially recognized by the United Nations as the International Day of Solidarity With the Palestinian People. Fuck that. The same New York Times article mentions that "711,000 left Israel-controlled territory in 1948 and 1949" and in 1948, "856,000 Jewish residents left Arab countries." The World Jewish Congress submitted a memo to the United Nations Economic and Security Council in 1948about the danger facing Jews in the Middle East in response to a 1947 draft law composed by the Arab League "that called for measures to be taken against Jews living in Arab countries" including "imprisonment, confiscation of assets and forced induction into Arab armies" as well as beatings, officially incited violence, and programs. However, the memo was buried by the Lebanese ambassador and president of the council.
I don't need a good GRE score to understand how unfair and biased the world is.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Sunday, November 4, 2007
I'm Bugged
Sometimes I suspect that I am under electronic surveillance, but when I say that I am bugged, usually I mean that something is annoying the shit out of me. This is not infrequent, especially when I read or hear the news. However, this morning as I was reading the op-ed section of the New York Times at my dining room table, I was bugged in a far less typical manner.
A tickling sensation spread over the outer part of my left foot. "What the fuck?" I thought as I looked down and shook my leg a little. For a second, it seemed as though the pink satin ribbon near the edge of my pajama pants was brushing against me and causing the feeling. Then the roach ran out from under the cuff.
"AAAAAHHHHHHHH!" I screamed.
Husband remained in his chair, frozen, while I ran into the kitchen for the roach spray. "Want a newspaper?" he yelled?
"I'm looking for the spray!" I barked back. Fuck it. I grabbed a big paper towel and dashed back into the dining room. Husband was standing over our invader holding a section of the paper. (Usually he runs away screaming, so I was very proud of him for aiding me by monitoring its movements.) I pounced and nailed the fucker (the roach, not husband), but I didn't kill it. I sprang at it again. It ran towards Husband. He lifted his slipper and stomped it. This was most impressive for him.
I scooped up the smooshed, gooey, juicy roach with the paper towel and took it to its watery grave. After flushing it down the toilet, I mopped its guts off the dining room floor. Then I shuddered, thinking about how a roach was on my bare foot. Nasty!
Weirdly, yesterday I had composed an essay about women and the fear of bugs to post on BlogHer today. (Cue the spooky music.) Next time, I think I will write about how much women love it when money randomly comes out of their shower heads instead of water.
A tickling sensation spread over the outer part of my left foot. "What the fuck?" I thought as I looked down and shook my leg a little. For a second, it seemed as though the pink satin ribbon near the edge of my pajama pants was brushing against me and causing the feeling. Then the roach ran out from under the cuff.
"AAAAAHHHHHHHH!" I screamed.
Husband remained in his chair, frozen, while I ran into the kitchen for the roach spray. "Want a newspaper?" he yelled?
"I'm looking for the spray!" I barked back. Fuck it. I grabbed a big paper towel and dashed back into the dining room. Husband was standing over our invader holding a section of the paper. (Usually he runs away screaming, so I was very proud of him for aiding me by monitoring its movements.) I pounced and nailed the fucker (the roach, not husband), but I didn't kill it. I sprang at it again. It ran towards Husband. He lifted his slipper and stomped it. This was most impressive for him.
I scooped up the smooshed, gooey, juicy roach with the paper towel and took it to its watery grave. After flushing it down the toilet, I mopped its guts off the dining room floor. Then I shuddered, thinking about how a roach was on my bare foot. Nasty!
Weirdly, yesterday I had composed an essay about women and the fear of bugs to post on BlogHer today. (Cue the spooky music.) Next time, I think I will write about how much women love it when money randomly comes out of their shower heads instead of water.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Arghhhh! *Slurp* (Part II)
As we chuckled over Husband's hilarious email about a possible air pirate eating soup in the Admirals Club lounge at Heathrow airport yesterday, Husband pointed out that "Arghhhh! *Slurp*" is also the sound that a pirate makes when giving a blow job.
Clearly, when we met as college freshman, Husband had to be somewhat demented or he would not have wanted to date me. At the same time, I wonder (at times with pride) how much I have dragged him down into the gutter with me. Regardless of my influence, the man makes me laugh.
Clearly, when we met as college freshman, Husband had to be somewhat demented or he would not have wanted to date me. At the same time, I wonder (at times with pride) how much I have dragged him down into the gutter with me. Regardless of my influence, the man makes me laugh.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Come Ride the Roller Coaster with Me!
This afternoon I spoke to the publisher about some changes that need to be made to the book's description on Amazon.com, including the fact that my name is incorrect. It'll all be fixed, he assures me then asks what I think of the book's cover.
"Um, I haven't seen it," I point out.
"Oh! I'll send it to you then. I think you'll like it," he cheerfully responds.
A few hours later, I find a very cool .jpg in my email in-box. My name is correct! The cover rocks hard! I rejoice. Steph comes over for dinner and I show it to her. She agrees that it is bitchin.' I print a copy to gloat over for when I get home.
More hours later, Husband arrives back from his business trip. I show him the picture on the computer. He also agrees that it kicks ass. I pick up the print out of the picture. Suddenly, I am speechless. The fucking title is wrong. Sighing, I email the publisher about the mistake. In my in-box is a comment from some sharp-eyed anonymous person left on CUSS. This person notes that the Amazon.com blurb is riddled with typos that I didn't previously notice.
Grrrr.....
"Um, I haven't seen it," I point out.
"Oh! I'll send it to you then. I think you'll like it," he cheerfully responds.
A few hours later, I find a very cool .jpg in my email in-box. My name is correct! The cover rocks hard! I rejoice. Steph comes over for dinner and I show it to her. She agrees that it is bitchin.' I print a copy to gloat over for when I get home.
More hours later, Husband arrives back from his business trip. I show him the picture on the computer. He also agrees that it kicks ass. I pick up the print out of the picture. Suddenly, I am speechless. The fucking title is wrong. Sighing, I email the publisher about the mistake. In my in-box is a comment from some sharp-eyed anonymous person left on CUSS. This person notes that the Amazon.com blurb is riddled with typos that I didn't previously notice.
Grrrr.....
Arghhhh! *Slurp*
Actual email I received from Husband a few minutes ago, who today is returning from a business trip in Europe:
Damn, I missed him this week.
In the Admirals Club a guy with an eye patch was eating soup. I hate to occularly profile, but I have a feeling he was an air pirate. If I return home without me gold, you'll know why.
Damn, I missed him this week.
The Boob Tube
Back in my house that my parents requested that I no longer refer to as "Jewish white trash," we used to have a small B&W TV in the kitchen. It sat on the china hutch behind my dad's chair at our cramped kitchen table until I was about 7 or 8. (The generic canned grape juice and fruit punch was stored under the table next to my dad's feet and the heating vent.) I nearly late for the bus every morning because I sat, my eyes glazed over at the "woody Woodpecker" cartoons that blared at me while cereal dripped out of my mouth due to the trance induced by toy commercials. This was not acceptable, according to my mom. Further, my mom decided that watching quality programs like "Tic Tac Dough" and "Joker's Wild" were not better than family discussions. The TV was whisked away. (She was wrong, of course. Much dinner table talk revolved around whether there were boogers in the Kool Aid, as my sister maintained, or not.)
Sources (i.e. - my mom) also claim that in my youth, I used to watch an enormous amount of cartoons on Saturday morning and ask for every damn toy that was advertised. The answer was always, "No." Eventually I stopped being a brat, but I didn't stop watching the cartoon lineup. While I could barely get my little ass out of bed for school during the week, every Sat. morning I woke up at 6:30 like clockwork so that I could begin my day of leisure with the craptastic show known as "Zoobilee Zoo." (Sometimes I even got up earlier and stared at the colored bars that dominated the screen before the station went back on the air. Man, that was a long time ago when stations didn't have 24/7 programming.) To be fair, I acknowledged that this show was shit. However, I did not want to miss risking "Gummy Bears," which I think was on at 7:00, followed by "Snorks," "Smurfs" (totally the best, although the presence of only one girl Smurf puzzled my burgeoning feminist mind), "Foofur," and god only knows what else. Whatever live action shows came on interested me not a whit.
Through the November Blog Exchange, my friends Alex and Amy Jo are having a civil debate about whether or not kids should watch TV. While I turned out fine (sort of, anyway), I think I embody the downsides of both of their arguments. I am so proud.
Sources (i.e. - my mom) also claim that in my youth, I used to watch an enormous amount of cartoons on Saturday morning and ask for every damn toy that was advertised. The answer was always, "No." Eventually I stopped being a brat, but I didn't stop watching the cartoon lineup. While I could barely get my little ass out of bed for school during the week, every Sat. morning I woke up at 6:30 like clockwork so that I could begin my day of leisure with the craptastic show known as "Zoobilee Zoo." (Sometimes I even got up earlier and stared at the colored bars that dominated the screen before the station went back on the air. Man, that was a long time ago when stations didn't have 24/7 programming.) To be fair, I acknowledged that this show was shit. However, I did not want to miss risking "Gummy Bears," which I think was on at 7:00, followed by "Snorks," "Smurfs" (totally the best, although the presence of only one girl Smurf puzzled my burgeoning feminist mind), "Foofur," and god only knows what else. Whatever live action shows came on interested me not a whit.
Through the November Blog Exchange, my friends Alex and Amy Jo are having a civil debate about whether or not kids should watch TV. While I turned out fine (sort of, anyway), I think I embody the downsides of both of their arguments. I am so proud.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
My Eyes are Still Stinging
Based on anecdotal evidence, adults seize upon Halloween as an opportunity to display their "wild" sides. Nationwide, the availability of "sexy" costumes in stores seems to be higher each year, sometimes making it impossible to find anything remotely covering unless you make it yourself. In New York City, however, this unfortunately provides a convenient and unacceptable excuse for individuals to not wear pants/skirts. Or underwear.
I knew I was in for a night when, on my way to a community Halloween party in the East Village, I observed several women whose costumes consisted of shirts. How men's dress shirts with sparkly purses as accessories are costumes is beyond me. I dodged several of these mysteries along with countless "sexy" pirates until I met my friends (one was Mighty Mouse and the other a vampire disco guy) and we went to a gay dive bar where no one really wore costumes. My cronies loved that I was going to a gay bar dressed as a bride.
After I drank a stiff Diet Coke (it was flat), we headed to the party. It was an all day event at a community theater center. Scott and Mark had already been there for a little while before they left for stronger drinks at the bar, and they warned me that a naked man was wandering around the party. I spotted him as soon we entered the lobby. "Oh, shit!" I told my friends upon seeing his extremely furry naked torso. "I know this guy!" He was the naked guy contestant in the Mr. Lower East Side pageant that I attended in October 2005.
The whole night I marveled at the weirdness of recognizing that guy. Many other men were wearing minimal amounts of clothing, but I thought that Naked Guy had the biggest balls to go full monty. After I downed a watery glass of apple juice at the bar, it was time for the costume contest. Who could beat the Naked Guy?
Unfortunately, Naked Guy with Elephantitis of the Scrotum could. When he walked across the stage with his softball-sized nut sac, I realized that I needed to wash my eyes out with soap when I got home to rid myself of the vision. Further, I had a bad feeling I knew him, too. At the same Mr. Lower East Side pageant, the previous years' winner of the title "Best Nut Sac" was a man spoken wonderously of as "Tommy Nut Sac." I suspect that was who I set my eyes on during the costume parade.
Now there's inherently nothing wrong with men who have sacs that are 15 times larger than normal ones, I just don't want to see them live and in person for the most part. (That's what medical history museums are for!) I was fairly repulsed when the guy won for "Best Erotic Costume." A naked man with a giant sac does not equal erotic in my not-especially-selective book. The stiff Diet Coke and weak apple juice just weren't enough to make me lower my not-so-high standards.
I knew I was in for a night when, on my way to a community Halloween party in the East Village, I observed several women whose costumes consisted of shirts. How men's dress shirts with sparkly purses as accessories are costumes is beyond me. I dodged several of these mysteries along with countless "sexy" pirates until I met my friends (one was Mighty Mouse and the other a vampire disco guy) and we went to a gay dive bar where no one really wore costumes. My cronies loved that I was going to a gay bar dressed as a bride.
After I drank a stiff Diet Coke (it was flat), we headed to the party. It was an all day event at a community theater center. Scott and Mark had already been there for a little while before they left for stronger drinks at the bar, and they warned me that a naked man was wandering around the party. I spotted him as soon we entered the lobby. "Oh, shit!" I told my friends upon seeing his extremely furry naked torso. "I know this guy!" He was the naked guy contestant in the Mr. Lower East Side pageant that I attended in October 2005.
The whole night I marveled at the weirdness of recognizing that guy. Many other men were wearing minimal amounts of clothing, but I thought that Naked Guy had the biggest balls to go full monty. After I downed a watery glass of apple juice at the bar, it was time for the costume contest. Who could beat the Naked Guy?
Unfortunately, Naked Guy with Elephantitis of the Scrotum could. When he walked across the stage with his softball-sized nut sac, I realized that I needed to wash my eyes out with soap when I got home to rid myself of the vision. Further, I had a bad feeling I knew him, too. At the same Mr. Lower East Side pageant, the previous years' winner of the title "Best Nut Sac" was a man spoken wonderously of as "Tommy Nut Sac." I suspect that was who I set my eyes on during the costume parade.
Now there's inherently nothing wrong with men who have sacs that are 15 times larger than normal ones, I just don't want to see them live and in person for the most part. (That's what medical history museums are for!) I was fairly repulsed when the guy won for "Best Erotic Costume." A naked man with a giant sac does not equal erotic in my not-especially-selective book. The stiff Diet Coke and weak apple juice just weren't enough to make me lower my not-so-high standards.
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