Gnus (Not News)

I still have no news on the MFA thing, so I thought I'd post a picture of gnus instead. Until I searched for a photo of gnus, I didn't realize what strange-looking beasts they are. Supposedly, all decisions at New School will be made by April 15, so perhaps I shall soon have some news to go along with the gnus. I better get in, as I have some great ideas for my candy bra picture, and the deal is that I only eat a candy bra if I get into a creative writing program.

Is that a Teledildronic Device in Your Pocket, or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

(Diagram from Gizmodo.)

The more I learn about people, the more I want to become a hermit. At BlogHer, I wrote about a guy who invented his own robot girlfriend. While "Alice" can consent to having sex with "Zoltan," it seems that dancing the horizontal tango with a robot involves something called a teledildronic device. Sigh. At least Alice doesn't have to wipe up Zoltan's jizz afterward.

Stay Away from the Pole, Old Lady

"I'm thinking of having my book party at New York City Fire Museum," I told my mom on the phone tonight.

"Really? Will there be one of those calendar firemen there?" she inquired.

"The space does come with a retired firefighter to show people around."

"Can we ask him if we can slide the fire pole?" she asked innocently.

"Why don't you ask him in a sleazy way?" I laughed. "I'm sure he'd love that."

My mom laughed so hard she could barely talk. "No, I'll have Grandma ask that in a sleazy way."

Since we both know that she would do that, we nearly laughed ourselves into asthma attacks.

Even My Sentences are Running!

There's a Mars bar waiting for me on my kitchen counter. It's been waiting patiently for me since I brought it back with me from London on March 23. I decided that I would eat it when I know whether or not I will be attending an MFA program in the fall. The Mars bar is getting lonely.

I'd like to know what is going on for the fall, and to eat this delicious, chocolatey, caramel treat. (British Mars bars kick the asses of the American version. They are more like a super extra smooth and tasty 3 Musketeers, which is my favorite American mass market candy bra. Mars bars are even better than 3 Musketeers.) However, somehow between my eating trip to London, my non-stop snacking thanks to anxiety, and my lax attendance at the gym (coupled with lazy workouts when I did manage to roll myself there), I am not fitting into my clothes very well. As in, pants are mad tight, and shirts clearly highlight my pot belly.

This all brings me to The Biggest Loser, which is an oddly compelling reality show about extremely overweight people trying to lose weight. Last week, the first time I tuned in this entire season (although there were only 3 left - better late than never!), people were sobbing their eyes out when they had to vote someone out for merely gaining a pound. (He lost over 100!) It was touching and weirdly inspiring. Not as inspiring as when Alex came to visit me recently, got me to run outside for the first time in forever, and then invited me to take part in a team triathlon with her (I'll run, she'll swim, and her friend will bike - playing on all our strengths), but uplifting enough for me to write a run-on sentence.

Best.Gynegology.Practice.Ever.

Steph is visiting her grad school stomping grounds in Chapel Hill, NC these days, and called me with some urgent news.

"Hey!" she yelled into the phone when I picked it up. "While I was eating at Mama Dipps, I saw the greatest t-shirt."

"Yeah? What's that?" I inquired, turning away from a rerun of Law & Order.

"It said 'Cooter's Garage,'" she chortled.

"Hmmm... next time I need my engine repaired, that sounds like a good place to go," I replied.

And that's when I realized that if I were an OB-GYN (like my friend Dr. H), I would so name my practice Cooter's Garage. Services offered on all models.

Proper Storage of the Juices Extracted from Grapes

At the wine tasting birthday party I attended last Saturday, the sommelier was very clear about the proper way to store wine: away from heat. Of course, this is logical, but Husband and I have kept our collection of extremely inexpensive wine (no bottle under $12!), underneath a excellent turquoise leather chair that we obtained at a street sale for $25. This chair is right next to the radiator that pumps out large quantities of steamy, hot air from approximately October to May. One day we may get around to installing the $10 wall wine rack we bought at Ikea in January, so I wanted to preserve the moment.

What is important to me about our current system for storing the juice extracted from grapes is that it is almost identical to that implemented by my parents when I was growing up. We always bought gallon cans of generic grape juice (white label with black stencils reading "GRAPE JUICE"). These cans were then carefully lined up against the kitchen wall, underneath the table. Inevitably, several cans were stacked next to the heating vent. My sister and I swear that those batches of juice were extra-pungent.

Continuing family tradition is important. Just as I am sad that my parents no longer buy large cans of generic grape juice and store them next to the heat, I will miss our heated wine cellar in New York. As for visitors to my home, until we break with tradition, I suggest carefully inquiring as to the storage status of the bottle if I offer you a glass of wine.

Enter the Time Machine with Me!

Husband's flight back from Nice was not due until late last night, so I decided to wander around the damp, but pleasantly warmish, city in the evening. Driven by cravings for chocolate covered caramel popcorn, I violated my principals and wandered into Times Square. (Ever since luxurification hit my neighborhood, the fancy popcorn store lost its lease - along with the vegetarian restaurant and the wacky dish shop - so that some ginormous fancier eatery could take over four store fronts, and the only remaining popcorn shop is on Broadway and 48th Street.)

Times Square is an area to be avoided at all costs. Not because it is criminally dangerous (at the popcorn store, I discovered that I had been wandering around with my backpack open and my wallet in view of everyone, and no one touched it, which I think would not have been the case even 10 years ago), but rather because it is packed with tourists. Now, there is nothing wrong with tourists. I love that they come to New York in droves and stay in hotels with very high occupancy taxes, go to shows, eat at restaurants, and buy things, thus helping to fill our dwindling city coffers. However, I hate that they don't know how to walk. It's not their fault. People from other parts of the country drive everywhere, so are not used to it. Since Times Square really belongs to the tourists, and I hate mowing them down while I try to get where I need to be, I do my best to avoid Times Square.

Still, the craving was overpowering, so after walking in the street to avoid the throngs of people casually standing in the middle of the sidewalk, I get to the popcorn shop. A woman is ordering at the counter. Three other women are standing in the middle of the store, not quite in line, but not clearly not in line either. I get behind them.

"Ew, it smells like popcorn in here!," shrieks Woman #1 as she covers her face with her coat.

"What's that buzzing noise?" Woman #2 yells as a batch of popcorn signals that it is ready to be removed from the giant popping vat.

I decide that they are not, in fact, in line, and move around them to stand behind the woman paying for her package of deliciousness. She leaves, and I move up to the counter.

"Wow, she means business!" Woman #3 casually reports to her friends behind me. "She just walked right up to the counter and ordered!"

"Yes, because that is what you do in store," I wanted to inform her, but instead purchase a single serving of chocolate covered caramel popcorn. (This is a new product, which I get to avoid overeating, but unfortunately it is pre-packaged and not quite as good, so the craving is only 3/4 as satisfied.) I leave to walk home and catch the Mets game.

The game is slated to start at 7:30, and I flick on the TV at 8:15. Mets are tied to San Francisco, 2-2. I don't notice what inning it is until Billy Wagner, the Mets reliever, comes on in the 9th when the score is tied 3-3. This is odd because it is only 8:54. How the hell did the game move so fast?

I keep watching, screaming at the TV when bad shit goes down and clapping when Wagner strikes out the side. Then the Mets are up, and Paul LoDuca hits a double. Now I am really confused. Paul LoDuca is no longer with the Mets. What the fuck is going on here? I check out the Mets home page. It says that due to heavy rain, the game against the Braves in Atlanta was canceled.

Yes, I'd been watching a re-run from last summer all along. I'm not sure how the "UltiMets Classics" logo that flashed every time there was a commercial break did not tip me off to this, but my cluelessness strikes again. Lesson learned: Times Square can lead to time warps. I must remain alert.