I Am the Blog Master of CUSS

There's a spam comment on my last post request the "blog master" of this blog to post more relative information before it goes on to plug some sort of site. The idea of being the blog master of CUSS is almost as hilarious as all of your brilliant comments about the horror of roaches on a plane. I wish I had thought of that spoof. Thank goodness I have such witty friends. Instead, the blog master thing reminds me of Ghost Busters. If I am the Blog Master, who is the Gate Keeper?

As blog master, my recent neglect of CUSS is due to the outrageous prices the hotel I stayed at this past week charged for internet access. It would have been $36 for 24 hours of wi fi. Now, I love blogging, but I can't justify $36 for internet access. When I was out and about, I meant to stop into an internet cafe and give a shout out and check my email, but I was having so mch fun with my sister and her hubby that I forgot to look for a place.

I'm coming home tomorrow, which will be grand, as I have not seen Husband for more than 3 hours in the past two weeks. I miss the bugger very much. While I was gone, he ate at lots of nice restaurants with his brother and sister-in-law. (This is a very fine juxtaposition to the places that I ate at with my sister and brother-in-law, which generally involved some sort of fast food. Sometimes, however, it was Lebanese fast food and in my mind, probably rivaled Husband's gourmet lunch at Jean Georges.) I'm still having a great time out here, as I am with Mara and my cousin, but it is fucking cold, I'm running out of clean clothes, and I am ready to stop paying 2x the marked price of anything I buy thanks to a crap American dollar.

Hopefully, there will be no motherfuckin' roaches on the motherfuckin' plane on the way back, as I think the flight is full. My roach hunting skills (which I will gladly pass on to Alex when she visits, although I hope that there are no targets in my apartment on which to demonstrate) are not as honed for varment killing with lots of innocent bystanders around. Smacking people with newspapers or stomping their toes while attempting to create a filthy insect-free environment may not be appreciated, although everyone hates roaches.*

*Warrior: My friend and I once saw some cute little mice in the bathroom of one of our favorite restaurants. Sadly, I never saw them again, either.

Cheers!

I think this might be the longest I have gone without blogging since I began CUSS two years ago. (Although possibly I went longer when I visited my friend in the middle of nowhere in the Dominican Republic in Dec. 2005, but in that case, there was no technology at all. This time, the internet access cost way too much.) Time has flown, and I barely noticed that I haven't touched a computer since Monday evening. Life can go on without blogging! Craziness!

Adventures began on Saturday evening when I was forced to put my New York skills into practice and kill a roach on the plane. The bastard popped up on the empty seat in front of me just as I settled in for the evening meal. Somehow, no flight attendant noticed as I chased it around with a folded newspaper, smashing and smacking up and down the row. It evaded me at first, but about two hours later, I took my victory by crushing it. I could finally sleep.

After that, things were calm. It was great hanging out with my sister and brother-in-law, whose 29th birthday was yesterday. As I mentioned, the week just happened so quickly. I've got lots of good pics to come, including one of a shop called the Bung Hole.

Hope all is well with everyone. I'll be back to my usual Chatty McChatterson state of being upon my return on Sunday. (I'm sure you are waiting with baited breath. Ha.)

Beware the Words of Shakespeare

Double double boil and trouble, the Ides of March are upon us. Friends, romans, countrymen, lend me your years, for I have a tale of woe. If brevity is the soul of wit, then unsex me now so I may accomplish my goal. (OK, that sort of made no sense, but run with me here.)

"If music be the food of love, play on," I thought to myself when I woke up with a hungry look this morning. I headed into the kitchen and while microwaving a mug of water for tea, I thought I should do some dishes and put the dry ones away. "Out damned, spot," I mumbled as I took a gander at a tea-stained mug.

As it is important to rotate the stock so that the same dishes don't always go on the top of the stack and be reused over and over again while the ones at the bottom never see the light of day, I lifted a stack of plates and shoved the clean ones under them. Alas, poor Yorick, this caused 10 little plates to fall.

Hath not a Jew eyes? Yes, and that is why I nearly wept at the broken dishes and shards that covered the kitchen floor. Two plates, gone. Parting is such sweet sorrow. Out with the vacuum while the tea sits getting cold.

(Wherefore art thy Romeo? I didn't want him to come into the kitchen barefoot, lest I missed some sharp pieces. Oh, yeah. He's in Europe for work, not coming back until tomorrow. By then, I'll be away with my sister and brother-in-law, so get thee to a nunnery! At least until we are reunited on Sunday the 23rd.)

When the hurleyburley's done, I finally settled down to eat a chocolate Vitamuffin, a dish fit for the gods. Can one desire too much of a good thing? As I greedily ate the muffin, I managed to smear chocolate everywhere - on the table, the newspaper I was reading, and on myself. As good luck would have it, this mess looked repulsive, but was easy to clean. I went on my merry wives of Windsor way, and so the day goes.

Et tu, Brute? May you have an excellent Ides.

This Just In: Nothing to Report

I thought I'd wait before I blogged today to see if I had any school news. Two of my friends were admitted into the nonfiction writing program (one got a call from the program director waaaaaay back on Feb. 25, the other got a big welcome packet in the mail this past Wednesday), but I have heard bupkes. I've been assuming I'm not in anywhere (I also applied to Hunter College, which called people on Feb. 25), but hoped to find out fer shure, dude, before I took a week to gallivant with my sister and brother-in-law.

My rule of thumb is not to call admissions offices and pester people, as they have a zillion things to do, but since it would suck for poor Husband if he had to call me and tell me about rejections while I am gone, I decided to be proactive. I rang the New School, where the very nice woman told me no decision had been made on my application yet. She said that everything will be finished up next week. Oh well.

Other things that are on my mind:

Good: Girl Scout Cookies. I just picked up a box each of Samoas and Tag Alongs (as they are known in Chicago; in NYC, they call 'em "Caramel deLites" and Peanut Butter Patties). Yum.
Bad: Caramel de"Lites" my ass. Two cookies have 7 grams of fat and 140 calories. Of course I ate three of them, and topped my indulgence off with two of the chocolate peanut butter ones (8 grams of fat, 150 calories). Pants are tight....

Good: Barack Obama's mom, Stanley Ann Dunham Soetoro. I read an article in today's New York TImes about her that made me cry. She sounded like an utterly amazing, fantastic, wonderful, cool person.
Bad: She's not running for president. (In fact, she sadly died of ovarian cancer when she was only 53.)

Just thought I'd share.

The Hardest Work in the World?

If I thought getting through 21 hours of my new job was challenging, I can't imagine what it would be like to work as a prostitute. Generally, even the fanciest ones face severe danger. If a client robs, beats, or rapes you, who are you going to turn to for help? Certainly not the police, as you'd then be arrested for breaking the law yourself. The law makes prostitutes even more vulnerable.

I think prostitution should be legal, and I wrote all about it at BlogHer. Hop over there and take a gander. Think I'm brilliant? Full of shit? (Well, that's sadly literally true, as my digestive system decided to melt down today, but that's another story.) Leave a comment over there and start the discussion: How do you think we can best protect sex workers?

Come for the Reservation, Stay for the Food

Although Husband and I are fortunate to have a very nice life thanks to Husband's chosen profession (which he adores), it's the little things that remind me that I will never truly "make it." While I was eating my microwave breakfast burrito, I noticed a blurb on the front of yesterday's New York Times Dining Out section. It read, "The selling of reservations irks restaurants."

For a second, I stared blankly. What the hell did that mean? Then I realized that it meant that people who scored reservations at choice, top rated restaurants actually find others willing to pay good money to buy their reservation and go eat an expensive, albeit probably excellent, meal.

Shit. I barely ever go to places that require reservations, and only call in advance if I am going out with a large group of family and/or friends. I've never wanted to go somewhere that requires me to call, months in advance, a phone number that will be busy all day. I like good food fine enough, but hand me a plate of mac and cheese, and I'm just as happy. People are weird.

Again?

Wow, it just struck me that I have to go to the same job again today and tomorrow. The best thing about consulting was the variety of settings in which I worked and the different types of work. I'll miss that. The best thing about my former employer (possibly the only good thing) were my co-workers. Until they all quit, and then pretty much everything sucked for 8 months until I finally also left. Then the best thing was the location. The South Bronx is not such a fabulous location, although I do find it interesting. I don't know my co-workers enough yet to look forward to seeing anyone.

OK, so I just gotta get through the next nine hours, then tomorrow, then Friday I get to work for myself on the book. Not to mention sleep for another 40 minutes.

Hope everyone has a joyous day full of happiness, good news, and fun.