Conversations with My Mom

While watching the Cubs lose to the White Sox on Saturday:
"I think I'm constipated," I said.

"So are the Cubs," my mom replied.

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"They don't have any runs!" she beamed.

I went to ask my mom something while she was sitting in the kitchen, staring at her calendar:
"I think you have a milk mustache," I said, noticing a thin white line above her lips.

"No, that Mylanta," she laughed.

Little snippets of conversation with my mom seem to be a good way to begin July's blogging (and fill up what is my 1,600th post). I'm hoping that July will be full of fun and excitement. I'm at my parent's house for the first week, then the BlogHer conference is in the middle of the month, and I'm spending the last week with Husband and 8 gazillion friends at a house we rented in upstate New York. See? Fun. What I am not going to do is obsess over grad school. (No, I didn't hear anything.) Right? Right.

I'm all up for hanging out in San Francisco with bloggers and friends and friends who are bloggers. Not only will I be hosting the Feminism & Gender meet up room, but also the Travel blogging one. Yay! And I'm hoping that things work out and Off the Beaten (Subway) Track debuts at the conference. Then it comes out for everyone. (I really hope people like it.) Yes, lots of fun, little anxiety.

Being a Tease

If women who lead men on are known as cock teases, are women who falsely set off the gaydar of others then twat teases? If so, that would be me. I don't mean to do this, but it seems that my style of dress, hair cut, and manners put me on the positive register.

Yesterday I went with my aunt and her two friends, a hetero couple in their mid- to late 50s, to the Chicago Gay Pride Parade. Despite rain and other parade interruptions, it was a lot of fun. (As an aside, it boggles my mind how fucking political these things are in Chicago. The Chicago Metropolitan Water Reclaimation District had a float in the parade, for fuck's sake.) During one of the long delays, my aunt chatted up the people sitting around us.

"My niece lives in New York," she said and pointed to me.

The man missing a tooth turned to me. "Oh, are you from Long Island?"

I made a sour face. "No!"

"Oh, I'm sorry why are you so offended?" he asked.

"Well, when you think of Long Island, what do you think of?"

"Snobs!" he said cheerfully.

"Yeah, so youo can see why I am offended!"

"Oh, honey! You're gay, so it's different!"

I started to tell him that I was actually not gay, but then stopped myself. What did I care if he thought I was a dyke? Plus, I would way rather be a dyke than a snob from Long Island. He then introduced me to all his friends, who were very fine people and we started talking about New York and that I wrote a book. If they look at my website, though, they will be very surprised to see that I live in NYC with my husband. Oh well.

Why Am I Wearing My Bathing Suit?

Is it because I am going to the Chicago Pride Parade with my aunt and her friends? No, although that is my plan for today. Is it because I like looking ridiculous? No, although that is true, too. What could it be? Find out at BlogHer and put on your swim gear, too. (Cheesy come-on, I know.)

Just Say No

"Hey, you Jewish?" a homeless man with approximately four teeth asked Husband as we waited with Dr. H at the bust stop last night. He blew cigarette smoke in Husband's direction for emphasis.

"Why yes I am," Husband answered, to my surprise. It wasn't that I was surprised that he admitted he was Jewish; it was that he didn't realize that by answering in the affirmative, he invited a life story saga from the guy that would eventually end in a request for money. Dr. H and I looked at each other the man went on to ask Husband if he's ever been to Atlantic City ("Yes," Husband nodded) and then said something about being the homeless Jewish comedian of the Boardwalk.

"Um, I don't like the cigarette smoke, so I am going to move," Husband finally choked out. The man frowned and tried to dissuade him, promising to stop blowing smoke in his face, but we were already walking away.

"Why did you tell him you are Jewish?" I asked Husband when we got farther away.

"He was wearing a weird little Yarmulke thing," he replied.

And that, folks, is why I love Husband. Wednesday is our eight year wedding anniversary. I'll be in Chicago, visiting my family, and Husband will be in New York, working, so that is a bit of a bummer. But he'll meet me in Chicago on Thursday, so we can celebrate then. Lots of exciting things coming up this week, plus guaranteed Reisman wackiness.

Whenever the Phone Rings, I Have a Mini Stroke

It's down to the wire with the New School's wait list. The letter I received about the wait list noted that they "expect to keep our wait list active until June 30." Every time the phone rings, I feel like the blood stopped running to my brain (although some might argue that happened a while ago, anyway).

So the constant calls of solicitors is not good for me. Almost every day, I get at least two calls requesting donations for this worthy cause or that excellent organization. Actually, I do not get the calls. I just answer the phone. The caller almost always requests Mr. Husband Last-Name-Pronounced-Like-an-Ethnic-Slur-Against-People-from-An-Eastern-European-Country-With-A-Long-History-of-Anti-Semitism. It's like if I called some named Ms. Count, but asked for Ms. Cunt, then expected her to give me money. Yeesh.

Plus, I discovered that the MFA admissions game is not over even when it technically ends. A few weeks ago, I met a woman who got into the nonfiction MFA program at New School off the wait list. "It was at the very last minute," she told me. Yesterday I emailed her and asked how last minute. "I didn't get in until the first week of September when school had already started, and I guess someone dropped out or didn't show up for first classes," she wrote. Ugh. Now I can be a nervous wreck at intermittent points over the entire summer.

It's the Coolest Invitation Ever Made

Click on the picture for a larger version. It's chock full of little details, like the reflection of the CUSS sticker in the subway door window!

Is my brother-in-law not supremely talented?!?!

Mars, A Frozen Block of Chocolate, Caramel, and Nugut

As I tossed and turned in the wee hours of the morning, I felt the powerful gravitational pull of Mars. Mars being the British chocolate bar that has been sitting in my freezer since April or so. I was saving it as a reward for whenever I had a final answer regarding my two MFA applications, but I have my period, insomnia, and a low level of self-control at this moment. Plus, (in theory, anyway)I am so damn close to the end at this point, why bother resisting? When Mars softly called my name from the freezer, I heeded its cry.

The problem with a candy bar that resided in a freezer for two months is that it is essentially a concrete block. Sure, it is a delicious concrete slab, but I nearly broke my front teeth when I bit into it. (A word of advice: let frozen candy bars melt down a wee bit before attempting to eat them.) The caramel was particularly challenging to consume, as it somehow managed to be both hard and chewy at the same time. I sort of slobbered all over the bar and wrapper as I ate it, partly thinking that my hot saliva would melt its tundra-crust, and partly because it took so long to slice off a piece with my choppers that saliva gushed out during the process. (A second word of advice: do not share a frozen candy bar unless you are really close with that person.)

It was good. I still didn't fall into a peaceful sleep after eating it, but it did quell some sort of deep hunger. When I woke up, I didn't remember my late night snack until I opened the freezer to grab the chicken-apple breakfast sausage and noticed an empty space where Mars lived for so long. Then I thought that by eating it, maybe instead of making Mohammed come to the mountain, I'd make the mountain come to Mohammed. I doubt it, but it would be nice if my year-long MFA process (I decided to apply last year around this time) would come to some conclusion. To be continued...