"It's Free!" Yells the Town Crier

Today is Free Iced Coffee Day at Dunkin' Donuts. Even the location down the street from my south Bronx office is participating until 10 PM. I don't like iced coffee (too bad it isn't Free Donut Day), but the cheapie who resides deep within my soul is urging me to get some anyway because it's free, and Cheapy McCheapstein hates missing out on anything free. Even if I don't like whatever item is on offer. Plus, I already missed Free Cone Day at Ben & Jerry's, so it would be a shame to miss another national chain store promotion....

This has been a public service announcement. We now return to our regular programming.

Oh, Diarrhea on the Wall!

My friend's grandmother passed away on Sunday. In accordance with Jewish tradition, she was buried as soon as possible. The funeral was Monday, and then the family sat shiva, which is pronounced "shivva," not "sheeva" like the Hindu god, and is a lot like a Catholic wake, minus the body.

Yesterday afternoon I took the train to Connecticut to sit shiva with my friend. The nicest thing about sitting shiva is that people really do focus on helping the family through their grief, and so a shiva is usually very jolly. Lots of food and laughter are shared as people recall happier times. Thus it was only sort of completely inappropriate when my friend's brother told people a hilarious story about how he accidentally shit all over the wall of his parents' bathroom a few weeks ago during Passover. It seems that when his stomach rumbled, and he realized that an eruption of a geyser of crap was imminent. He ran for the toilet, but stopped to grab the newspaper on his way. This would have been fine had he just taken the whole paper, but instead paused for 15 seconds to find the business section. Unfortunately, those precious seconds cost him dearly. When he got to the bathroom, he barely pulled down his pants before a stream of liquid feces emanated from his angry ass, splattering all over the wall. "And that's how I got diarrhea all over the wall of my parents' bathroom," he concluded while beaming with pride.

After hearing this story, I decided that I must use the phrase, "Oh, diarrhea on the wall!" when something goes horribly awry. (This would also work in place of, "The shit hit the fan," I think.) Prior to attending the shiva, I experienced my own metaphorical diarrhea on the wall incident. After weeks of waiting, I learned that the grant that funds my 50% of my job was revoked by the issuing foundation. I am not surprised by this turn of events (and in fact had a first round job interview that morning which went very well, anyway), but I think I am entitled to say, "Oh, diarrhea on the wall!" in response to the news.

Barbie Lives!

Until yesterday, I never personally laid eyes on boobs that I absolutely, 100%, no doubt at all knew were fake. My innocence was shattered, though, in the locker room of a downtown branch of my gym. As I approached my locker, I noticed a topless woman stretching against the her locker. Without warning, she whipped around and I was confronted with two perfectly molded, symmetrical, round lumps soddered on to a lithe body. Anyone who ever saw a topless Barbie knows exactly what I mean, except that this woman had enormous erect knobs attached to the center of her flesh-covered half-spheres rather than smooth plastic.

I'm sort of proud of myself because I managed not to gasp. I was just so taken aback by the sight of her tits. And I feel bad being judgmental about it, but I really wanted to ask her why she did that to herself. It's her body and she needs to be happy with it, so it's not my business, yet I honestly could not help thinking that she looked totally fucking ridiculous. No matter how small her previous chest size might have been (and I include the possibility that she may have had a mastectomy), I suspect that she was gorgeous before her surgery. Now she just appeared so artificial and fake that it made me weirdly sad.

Now that I've met Barbie (this woman was also blond, with a pleasant face and trim figure), I have a slightly increased appreciation of my flab, and even my chin hairs (not that it stopped me from plucking away last night; maybe if I could grow a Van Dyke or something interesting versus sporadic bristles, I'd leave it alone). Perfection is way overrated.

It's in the Mail

On the Greyhound bus down to DC this weekend, I finished reviewing the proof for my book. From the bus stop, I ran over to Kinko's (a place that inevitably screws up any photocopying that I need done, and did not exceed my low expectations on Friday, either) and made a copy. Then I hit the post office and overnighted the manuscript. When the postal clerk asked me if the packaged contained anything fragile or hazardous, I replied, "Only my ego." She nodded and asked, "Do you need insurance for that?"

A Big Thanks to the Moms in My Life

(Part of this is included on my post at BlogHer.)

In my family, my mom (and dad) worked hard to do the best she could for her daughters. I learned that even if a job is tough, one sticks it out so that she can take care of her own. From my aunt, I learned that it is also important to work on behalf of others who were less privileged than our middle-class family. My aunt was a VISTA volunteer with Haitian refugees in Florida, and went on an educational mission to Cuba. She dedicated her career as a teacher to children with behavioral and learning disabilities in the lowest income communities around Chicago. That meant speaking up when she felt other professionals were not working in the best interests of a child, even if it earned her enemies and made her own life more difficult. My aunt also took my sister and I under her wings, and is a fantastic mother to her own daughter.

While I meet my mother-in-law until I began dating my future husband when I was 19, I immediately bonded with her over feminism. When she noticed that I wore a women's emblem (the symbol of Venus) on a necklace, and asked me if I was a feminist. When I enthusiastically said yes, she gave me her full approval. A few years later, she wistfully mentioned that she was interested in attending the March for Women's Lives to protest the Bush administration's attacks on reproductive rights, and I said that we needed to go together. Attending the march with Pat (and about 1,000,000 other men and women) was one of the most inspiring moments of my life.

Now that my friends are starting to have kids of their own, too, I'm happy and excited to see the fantastic work they are doing in raising strong children who are as committed to making the world a better place for women (and men).

Rock on, ladies. I love you.

I Remember Mama Voting

Today was a long day (wrote a post about the firing of the most powerful woman on Wall Street at BlogHer, and also one on public service and burnout at Just Cause; went to work and did my data entry tasks; edited the proof of my book; and joined Husband at a painful networking event for NYU's Young Alumni Leaders Circle, of which he is a member, not me), but I don't have it nearly as hard as millions of other women in this country who work at least one paid job, then go home to take care of their families. So while my eyes are still (barely) open, I want to take part in ACORN's I Remember Mama Voting event. The campaign asks people to think about your own mother or mother figure and how she may or may not have influenced your political views and your attitudes about voting and civic participation.

Where I grew up, it was assumed that everyone of legal age voted. (This was outside of Chicago, so generally our dead didn't also vote.) Our assigned polling station was at the Jesuit boys' high school down the street from our house. Part of the excitement I felt when I accompanied my mom as she went to vote was from entering what I considered a mysterious space. Incidentally, the actor Chris O'Donnell attended this high school, so he was probably there when I went with my mom to vote. (He also went to the same dentist as my family, but I digress.)

I think what makes this so interesting is that I associate my mom voting with Jesuit boys. My mom is not as involved in political causes as I am, but my family has always been Democrats surrounded by a Republican community. I just always knew that Republicans were not for us, although when I was older, I remember overhearing my father telling our neighbor a bizarre joke about my mom voting for Ronald Reagan because she thought Jimmy Carter had bad legs. I was utterly horrified at the thought. How could my mom vote for a Republican?!?! Fortunately, when I asked her about it, she had no idea what I was talking about, but it was my first exposure to the stereotypical notion that women don't vote on the issues, but rather on a candidate's attractiveness. I thought that was the dumbest thing any woman could do, and swore I would follow my mom's example and always vote for the candidate who would help "the people." Thanks, Mom!

To participate in I Remember Mama Voting, post your story on your blog and then link to it at ACORN's site.

The Sniff Test

"Where ya been?" I asked Husband when he walked in the door a few minutes before 12 last night. I knew he had a business dinner, but usually they don't last until midnight. (Although to be honest, I barely noticed what time it was because I was hustling to finish editing my book proof before Friday, and due to extremely poor time management, am mad behind schedule.)

"After the dinner, most of us went to a bar," he replied, leaning over to kiss me.

"A bar, huh? Was it in a strip club?" I inquired, joking. On the extremely rare occasion when he had to go to a strip club with colleagues, he left almost immediately. If they really went to a strip club, he'd have been home by 10:00. Plus, he wouldn't hide that he did. Instead, he'd discuss the club's profit margins. This is why I adore him.

"No! We did not go to a strip club!" Husband said indignantly as he headed to the bedroom to change. A few minutes later, he re-emerged in the dining room, where I was still sprawled out with the book and my laptop. "You coming to bed soon?"

I stopped what I was writing and looked him up and down. "Come here," I said and pulled him toward me. From my sitting position, my head was exactly at crotch level. Before he knew what was coming, I took a deep whiff. "Nope. Doesn't smell like a lap dance."

He swatted at my head. "Back off!" Then we laughed, and I packed my things up for the night.

Wanted: Opinions - What Would CUSS Readers Do?

As I'm editing the proofs for Off the Beaten (Subway) Track (now also sold at MTV's online store!), I discovered that the publisher set aside a page for a dedication in addition to the acknowledgments that I already submitted. I want to dedicate the book to Husband. What do you think of the following options:

1. To Husband. There's no one like you in the world.

or

2. To Husband, my favorite unusual attraction.

I think two is clever given that the book is about unusual attractions, but I fear that it could come across as sleazy, weird, or creepy. He sometimes is easily embarrassed, although after being with me for 13 years, his threshold has risen dramatically. The first one thus seems safer, but I hate playing it safe. At the same time, I don't want to do anything that will make him uncomfortable.

I'm not asking Husband which he prefers because I want it to be a surprise. (He never reads CUSS, so I'm not worried about him discovering my plans.) What do you think?

New Rule #1,284 (aka The "There is no crying in baseball" Rule)

After The Post-Birthday World by Lionel Shriver made me tear up on the subway yesterday afternoon while on my way to a (useless) meeting, I hereby institute the following rule for myself:

I will not read anything other than:

A) magazines;
B) thrillers (like Bangkok 8);
C) amusing capers (anything by Carl Hiaasen, although his last book reeked worse than a body decomposing on a 105 degree day in the Everglades);
D) satires; and/or
E) politically witty tomes (like Sarah Vowell or Beth Lisick) if:

1) I slept less than 6 hours the previous night;
2) I have not seen Husband in more than 24 hours; and/or
3) I am using some mode of public transportation, such as a subway or airplane.

This rule shall be invoked to prevent embarrassing episodes of me bawling (in public) because I am emotionally overwrought, and the book that I am reading (or the movie I am viewing) took a dramatic turn that breaks my over-feeling heart. Yes, yes. I am all about pretending to be stone cold, what with all my ranting "mothering this" or "cunt-face ass-eater that," but it is all a facade. The reality is that underneath my mean, mocking, hard exterior, I am the biggest fucking softie on the planet. These devastating books and movies (for example, the love story between Michelle Yeoh and Chow Yun Fat in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon) fucking impact me. I'm a wreck for hours after a book/movie gives me a truly earned sob (not like those manipulative pap movies - The Other Sisiter, anyone? - that Steph so dearly loves but bring "a fucking tear to my eye").

So this new rule is for the good of my mental state, as well as my public image. And don't you fucking forget it, motherfucker. Now I'm off to the Kleenex box and/or Husband's t-shirt to wipe my nose.

The Emotional Gamut

Today (thus far):

4:45 AM: Cell phone alarm plays "Ride of the Valkyries," waking me from a nightmare in which my childhood friend Julie's house is possessed and must be burned down to end the curse. Relieved.

6:45 AM: Can't find gate 20D after Dr. P drops me off at Miami airport. Panic.

6:55 AM: Realize that the "20D" on my boarding pass is my seat number, not gate. Sheepish.

7:00 AM - 2:40 PM: Read excellent book on plane, bus from airport, and at home. Joy.

3:15 PM: Depart for orientation meeting for organizations with student interns, although it is technically my day off from work. While on subway, cry at tragic turn book takes. Depressed.

4:15 PM: Introduce self at meeting, notice large question marks on faces of orientation organizers and ponder why our intern's project description on list of student projects is utterly unfamiliar. Confused.

5:15 PM: Learn that our intern decided not to work with us after all. Unsure (why head of our organization insisted that I attend this meeting).

5:16 PM: Leave meeting. Enraged (at waste of time attending session when I could have been home editing my book).

6:00 PM: Three women glad in bright yellow jackets that end at the midriff, neon green tank tops, and plastic sunglasses with slats across the lenses enter my subway car with bottles of alcoholic beverage and a little dog on a lease wearing a tee shirt. The dog's name is "Gucci," and when the women are not yelling about riding the subway drunk, the are attempting to physically force Gucci to sit. Irritated.

6:20 PM: Get home. Wonder what is in store for me for the remaining six or so hours left in the day. Nervous.