Suss Says

Vintage Suss II

2008-08-03T18:36:00.005-04:00

I know. I don't write enough. All of my six fans keep telling me so. Honestly I don't have anything much going on and I'm not the type to blog about my daily activities (getting coffee, harassing my landlord to fix my toilet, watching Rick Steve's Europe). What can I say...I've been fairly boring lately. Unless I do something ridiculous or illegal, I probably won't be writing about it: this is my pledge to you. Recently I greatly disappointed one of my fans when I confessed to her that I'm pretty lame and uninteresting. She was shocked, as I am sure you are too. She, between sobs and wailing, suggested I repost a few of my other stories that I wrote before I had a blog. At least I think that's what she said. She was so inconsolable at the thought of my retiring from the blog community that it was hard to decipher her words.

I obliged. Far be it from me to deny my clamoring public a piece of my humiliation. My only problem is that I don't have a lot of these stories as I am not nearly narcissistic or organized enough to keep them all. And most of them were pretty stupid anyway, like the time I debated on whether or not I should eat a Mike N' Ike that had rolled under my keyboard and I thought I needed to email my friends about it. She happily sent me one that she had carefully saved in an email file under "Suss's Stories." I was touched. I have my own file! Watch your back, David Sedaris.

Here is one of her favorites. It dates way back to 2004, right around the time I was almost fired from a job where I was labeled "not a team player." This discussion came the day after I had emptied out a huge moving truck in the pouring rain with my boss. I stayed until 1am helping the guy, who had not checked the height requirements of a local bridge before he drove under it and promptly ripped the entire roof off of his rental truck. I only mention this story because I am still really pissed about it.

So now without further adieu, we look back at the Life of Suss.

This past weekend, I visited the lovely Abaco Islands, located in the heart of the Bahamas...where the mosquitoes seem to outnumber the natives and my subsequent mosquito bites seem to have outnumbered my freckles. I went with my grandfather, who will heretofore be referred to as "Pa,” as it seems when I was 3, I naturally thought my grandfather was Michael Landon, star of “Little House on the Prairie.” I suppose it was because they both had long hair but I was confused for more time than I would like to admit. I also suspected that my grandmother was Flo from “Mel’s Diner” because at that time she was the only person who had ever made me grits. They also both had red hair. Clearly I watched too much television as a child because there was also a time that I thought I was really friends with Punky Brewster.

Anyway, me, Pa, and his ladyfriend headed down to the Abacos on Saturday
morning. To get to Abaco, one must take a small plane which I imagine was a leftover prototype from the Wright brothers. Before you get on, the flight crew weighs your bag and, without mercy, asks your weight in front of everyone. I haven't weighted myself in ages, ever since the Great Nutrisystem Debacle of '01, so I really had no idea how much I weigh. Before they had a chance to roll out one of those huge carnival scales, I took a reasonable guess of "160," assuring the flight crew that this was mostly holiday weight; this probably sounded odd, seeing as how it is August.

Immediately upon my arrival the skies opened up and it began to rain. And it continued to rain, on and off, for the entire time that I was there, and yet I still
managed to get a wicked sunburn. I also managed to get stung by a fierce gang of jellyfish.

As I snorkeled along side my Pa, we came across a huge wall of jellyfish. I wanted to turn around, but my Pa insisted that we swim around them. I called upon my vast knowledge of marine biology learned from watching countless hours of important aquatic documentaries such as Finding Nemo. I decided that, as the young Nemo did on his adventure, I could brush the jellyfish aside by touching only their tops.

Yeah, that was a really stupid idea. These jellyfish were bad ass. The only way they could have been more menacing is if they were wearing teeny black leather jackets and rocked tattoos that said "Born to Sting."

My wrist swollen to the size of my head, I decided to shut it down and get back on the boat. The ladder was broken so I had to hoist myself up using my newly acquired New York Sports Club muscles and pure, old fashioned chutzpah. Also, my Pa pushed my butt up from the water, and I landed with a hearty thud on the boat's floor. Few things in life are as humbling as your grandfather having to push your ass up and onto a boat.

As much as I would love to go into detail about the rest of the trip, I feel I need to rush ahead to when I actually tried to go home, which is where the action really begins.

To get home, I had to take two ferries, two taxis, and three planes. On the second ferry, I met two adorable Caribbean boys named Zeke, who was 7 years old, and Elijah, who was pushing 4. The boys sidled up to me as I sat on the bow listening to my CD player, so I took off my headphones and started chatting with them. Little boys are always talking to me, especially on vacations. It’s really weird. Zeke sat right next to me and Elijah made himself at home by sitting on my lap. These two were absolutely adorable and entertaining...they regaled me with tales about life in the Bahamas. Should you never cross paths with Zeke and Elijah, I feel I must share with you the riveting story that they shared with me. It is as follows:

This one time, they saw a crab on the beach. The crab buried itself in the sand. The End.

That story literally took 45 minutes for them to tell, mostly because they both kept interrupting each other with important plot points, such as, there was a crab, and sand was involved.

After the ferry docked, I parted ways with my new friends and entered the Abaco International Airport. There, I waited for 3 hours for my first of three flights. When my pilot arrived, he threw my luggage into the compartment located in the nose of the plane, otherwise known as where Orville Wright sat. He proclaimed that he “was in a hurry,” he “was burnt out from the whole flying thing," and he “needed a day off because he was exhausted.” Because these are things you like to hear from a pilot immediately before take-off. He then asked me to sit up in the copilot's
seat with him so that I could help weigh the nose down. Embarrassed, my face turned as crimson as the red plush seats that also doubled as floatation devices as I made my way to the front of the plane, passing people who surely weighted more than I did, even with my swollen wrist. But, you know, it was my duty to use my fat ass to help guide us safely home. It’s not quite as honorable as, say, joining the Air Force, but I do what I can.

Sitting in the copilot's seat was actually very interesting and I passed the time by imagining how I would look with a white scarf and goggles. I tried not to look worried as the pilot continued to pull out several maps. And lucky me, for this flight doubled as a tour: before we landed on Marsh Harbor, the pilot was happy to point out the wreckage of several small planes that had crashed in the damp weeds below.

As I walked into the Marsh Harbor airport, who do I see throwing open the doors and running to greet me? None other than my main men, Zeke and Elijah. They were traveling to see their father in Florida and they hoped to hit a few Chuck E. Cheese's along the way. Apparently Mr. Chuck E. Cheese has developed quite a cult following in the Abacos and the kids wanted to meet the legend himself. They asked me several times if I had ever met him, and were amazed to find out that not only had I met the animatronic mouse, but I had partied with the dude several times (having thrown my birthday parties ages 4-8 at his establishment).

A fierce storm began brewing in Ft. Lauderdale, which is where I was supposed to catch a flight from at 5:40pm. At 4:30pm, it became very clear that I was going to miss my flight. I asked an airport employee if they could check on getting me on another flight, and she immediately began checking on the flight status using the ever professional AOL instant messenger. There was a 10:20pm flight to JFK from Lauderdale which she reserved via AIM. We finally boarded the 7-seater plane again, and I bid adieu to Zeke and Elijah, who told me the crab story a few more times for good measure. I was on my way.

Turns out, I was on my way to Ft. Pierce, not Ft. Lauderdale. Who knew Florida had that many Ft.s? No one was able to fly in or out of Lauderdale except, of course, my 5:40 flight, which ironically had left a few minutes early. We arrived in Ft.Pierce weary and ready to figure out how to tackle the next leg of the trip. It was me and the McCarthy family...Susan McCarthy, and her three kids, Leslie, Shane, and Debbie. Soon we learned that we were going to have to get a rental car together because there was only one left. I surveyed the family and quickly assessed that the chances were slim that they would cut me up and bury my in the Atlantic, so I agreed. The time was 5:45.

At 7pm, the rental car was still not there. It was then that the helpful staff of three at Ft. Pierce began turning off the lights and locking up for the evening. Seriously. Not that the rest of this story isn't serious, but I mean, SERIOUSLY, the lights were going off. I stopped them to ask them what we should be doing...could they, perhaps, call another car company? I mean, I didn't want to trouble them, but I also did not want to set up camp in Ft. Pierce Terminal B for the evening.

Finally, they got a hold of the good people at AVIS, to whom I am very grateful. It seems that Ralph, a trusty AVIS employee, had forwarded his calls to his cell phone and, by fate, had forgotten to resend them back to the office. He was heading down to West Palm Beach to see his girlfriend (Ralph and I became tight during our long phone conversation as I pleaded with him to turn around, go back to the office, and wait for 5 strangers to pick up some sort of vehicle). Thankfully, he obliged (AVIS is getting a big thank you letter from me...Ft. Pierce Airport, not so much). The airport staff and pilot took pity on us and decided to drive us to AVIS. I rode with Darlene and Brandee through the heart of Ft. Pierce as country music blared on the radio. The two girls managed to talk on their cell phones and while also carrying on a conversation between them. It was rather impressive. Through innocent eavesdropping (I was only in the backseat, after all) I learned the details of the local scandal that has rocked Ft. Pierce: "Brandon's mama finally told him that Ricky was his daddy and not that dark skinned Italian man." It's about time that truth came out, I say.

Darleen and Brandee dropped me off with the pilot hauling the McCarthy family in his Trans Am behind us. My man Ralph was already there waiting with the keys (AVIS Car Rental, I salute you!). I loaded up the van...me and the McCarthy family of Claremont, Florida. We breezed through a Burger King drive-thru, as naturally the kids were starving. Held up again for a few minutes because of a chicken tender problem, we set off south on 95. The time was 8:00pm.

Through rain, hail, and lightning, I sped through the state of Florida...the 10:20pm flight on my mind. To pass the time, I chatted it up with Susan, the matriarch of my new family. I learned that Susan ran her own successful roofing company, she almost always wears long pants and shirts, and she can roof in the rain "with the best of them." Not to jump to conclusions, but I do believe that Susan was sweet on me. Unfortunately, Susan lives in Claremont, and I am not a big believer in long distance relationships. Nor am I a lesbian.

We arrived at Ft. Lauderdale International Airport at 9:30pm. I tossed the keys to Susan, probably breaking her heart in the process. I yelled goodbye to the McCarthy kids and hauled ass to the Jet Blue counter where I learned I was not on the 10:20pm flight, I was on standby for the 1:15am flight. Shocking, seeing as how the lady had booked it via Instant Messenger. Because of this, I didn't have a confirmation number...I suppose if I had printed out the IM conversation, it probably said, "CU L8R :) LOL" or some other AIM notation that drives my insane. Anyway, Jet Blue assured me that they would tell me 10 minutes before departure if I could snag a seat. I tried to tell them about my vast piloting experience having acted as a copilot in the Bahamas, but they were not amused. And now I was doubly sad because had I known I was on the 1:15 flight, I could have taken my time with the drive and given the blossoming relationship between myself and Susan a real go. Ah, the Fates are cruel.

As the sight of the thunderclouds passing overhead raised my hopes, so too did the sight of the doors of The Lauderdale Sundries Shop, opening wide to the jet lagged public. There I purchased some peanut M&M’s (which I love and are my go-to purchase when times are tough) and rifled through old People magazines. I decided to go try and sweet talk my way onto the coveted stand- by list for the earlier flight, which they assured me was already full. I pleaded with them to add me to the list, seeing as how I did not see how it would make any difference...If I was called, great, and if not, then hopefully at some point in time, I will eventually go home or, logically, move to Ft. Pierce and work at the Lauderdale Sundries Shop, where I will hopefully get a discount on peanut M & M’s. It's a no risk situation! No dice. They assured me that the fake vacancies that may or may not be available have already been filled up or were never open in the first place. At 11:00pm, this all made sense. I was defeated.

At 2am (the 1:15am delayed because lighting literally hit the plane) I boarded, requisite screaming toddler to my right. In my delirium, I actually thanked Jet Blue for helping me get the seat that I had paid for three months ago. Always helpful, they threw a pair of broken headphones for my journey home.

I wanna be sedated...

2008-04-22T22:57:00.004-04:00

Hey readers. Sorry I haven't written in a while. And sadly, I have nothing much new to report, except:

1.) I moved. It's awesome. Except that I suspect a couch will not fit through the door so right now, I'm reporting to you from the floor.

2.) I am taking my mom to see The Rachel Ray Show. You best believe I will be blogging about that. If she has any good recipes for Diablo Chicken, I'll be sure to pass them along.

3.) I got a very expensive, very bad haircut. People, it's BAD. I look like one of the Ramones. Like the guy third from the left, seen below:

Except that, no joke, his bangs look better than mine. I don't understand quite what happened, but I should have thought twice about getting the Brazillian Keratin Treatment on my hair when I heard that I couldn't wash it for 4 days. We're on Day 3 now on Ramone Watch 2008, and there is no end in sight.

Hope all is well with everyone...when things calm down and I am able to return to public without my mane frightening small children, I'll be sure to write again.

The Buse is Loose!

2008-03-03T20:29:00.003-05:00

For those of you that saw this year’s Oscars, certainly you were riveted. No, I’m not talking about Oscar’s salute to periscopes, I’m speaking of course about E!’s 9 hour red carpet coverage featuring Ryan Seacrest. Ryan’s main job was to stand behind a shrub and ask the star couples such probing questions as, “When are you two getting married?” like he was their grandmother. His interview with Jennifer Garner was running smoothly until someone let The Buse Loose. I am speaking, of course, about Mr. Gary Busey. Gary burst onto the screen, yelling at Seacrest and stunning Garner by getting to first base with her on live television. By now, I’ll assume you have seen the now infamous clip, but if you haven’t, I urge you to do yourself a favor and check it out on youtube. You won’t be disappointed.

Now, I’ll be honest. I’m not that familiar with Mr. Busey’s body of work. Lucking, IMDB has extensive biographical information on all things Busey, so I was able to go there for all of my Gary Busey needs. I read up on The Buse (as I like to call him). I learned a lot. For example, I had no idea he was once nominated for an Oscar. Way to go, Buse! And did you know he once played Donovan Riggs on a very special episode of “Walker, Texas Ranger”? Chances are you are like me, and your knowledge of Mr. Busey comes from watching his work as Chet ‘Rocketman’ Steadman in the 1993 sleeper hit, “Rookie of the Year.” Or perhaps you caught his star-making turn on VH1’s Celebrity Fit Club. Even if your experience with The Buse only extends to the incident with Ryan on the red carpet, or Busey’s completely rational explanation the next day on Ryan’s radio show where he stated that Seacrest “is innocent champion of honesty,” one thing’s for certain: Someone needs to get Gary Busey his own television show.

This is what I have worked up so far (and I am hereby retaining royalty rights to this goldmine when it gets greenlit). We call it, “The Buse is Loose!” It’s part game show, part talk show, with The Buse, of course, as our gracious host. What he has to do is this: He needs to go on camera and say words. That’s it! The game element will come into play when his guests (which could be anyone from your average citizen to a celebrity starlet) try to paraphrase what Busey says in a way that makes total sense. Points could be awarded based on several key categories such as “accuracy,” or, “logic,” or “degree of offensiveness.” We don’t even need a set; The Buse can be set loose anywhere and his charm will still remain. There will be no prizes. The prize is simply the story you will be able to tell about once having a conversation with Gary Busey.

I’m still working on the details, but what I know for certain is this: Kim Kardashian has her own show. I know this even without having knowledge of who she is or what she does. From what I can tell, she has met E!’s only pre-requisite for having a reality show, which is, “Being a person who exists.” Even Ian Ziering has his own show called “Your Momma Can’t Dance!” Are you telling me that you’d rather watch someone else’s mother do The Foxtrot instead The Buse philosophizing with a pigeon? I didn’t think so. By the way, I’ve got money on that pigeon conversation happening by episode three.

The fact that Gary Busey does not have his own television show is a disgrace. People, the man played FBI Agent Angelo Pappas in “Point Break.” Show some respect! This injustice will not stand! America, it’s time we let The Buse loose! Who’s with me?

One of these things is not like the other...

2008-02-05T21:51:00.000-05:00

Without “The Office” or “30 Rock” to get me through these cold Thursday nights, I’ve had to turn to VHI to fill my TV watching needs (because god forbid I actually, you know, pick up a book or something). Thankfully they have put the kibosh on “I Love the 80’s.” reruns. I like that show just ask much as the next person, but how many times can I see Lea Thompson wax nostalgic about Hyper Color t-shirts? (Answer: 11). Now, instead of filling the air waves with Rick Springfield comically riffing on Mrs. Pac Man, we get celebrities in rehab! Except they aren’t exactly celebrities, so why I am watching this? Some chick who did not win American Idol is on it, as is some girl who was on “Family Matters.” Brigitte Nielson, while oddly delightful, is only famous of late for being in other VHI shows. Daniel Baldwin seems to be the most famous cast member, despite the fact that I have no recollection of him ever being in anything except “Striking Distance,” and yet a quick trip over to IMDB shows that he wasn’t even in that. Despite the lack of bona fide celebrities, the show is oddly compelling…I’m not sure what it says about me when I can’t seem to turn away from a detoxing, surly Kenickie doing yoga. And how about that Dr. Drew in a black t-shirt, am I right, ladies?

What I find most interesting is the presence of Joanie Laurer, otherwise known as Chyna Doll. What is really interesting about her is that apparently she is not addicted to anything. Not booze and not drugs. While this was news to anyone who saw her on VHI’s “Surreal Life,” where she often stayed up until 4 o’clock in the morning having intense conversations with a basketball, this was really news to Dr. Drew, who promptly staged an intervention to figure out what in the hell she was doing there. As it turns out, Chyna is addicted to being on VH1’s reality shows. Ah, the mystery has been solved! I look forward to future sessions with Dr. Drew, where he dramatically tries to get Chyna to fend off her demons…offers from “Celebrity Apprentice” and “Dancing with the Stars.”

Blog Reader Spotlight: Genghis Khannie

2008-01-17T19:49:00.000-05:00

After my first blog reader spotlight (shout out to Joan!), I thought I would take some time to acknowledge some of my other loyal readers. So join me, won't you, for the second in a series of Blog Reader Spotlights.

Before I begin, let me first explain the need for nicknames on this here blog. In this, the digital age, when Google has become both a noun and a verb, I am absolutely terrified that if I use real names, someone, somewhere, will find this blog and I will be judged because of it. This whole information age has become a huge pain in the ass, if you ask me. If you were to Google my real first and last name, for example, you might find out that I abuse pets. Shocking, right? Well, I was shocked. Apparently there is an Other Me running around, who has my exact name and is also exactly my age, and my Other Me has been arrested several times for abusing dogs. The exact quote on www.pet-abuse.com was that the Other Me "was held for hoarding 40 Great Pyranes in the basement of her home." I have long suspected that the Other Me was nothing but trouble, after she almost got me held in the New York DMV for her outstanding warrant (and I mean "outstanding" as in, she should be in jail...not , "Outstanding, you hoard Great Pyrenees! How fantastic for you!)"

My only hope is that those that know the real me know that I do not hoard animals in my basement but that I am, as other Google hits will attest to, "a mad kool teacher" and on the Board of Trustees for a Shakespearean theatre company.

At any rate, I use nicknames to protect my anonymity because I am one Google hit away from making a bad first impression. The only threat of this happening would be from potential employers (likely) and potential suitors (doubtful). And no, I don't do anything too scandalous or embarrassing, but do I really need some principal of a future school I may work at knowing that I DVR "The Bachelor?" Or do I need some future bachelor to know that I sometimes eat three cheeseballs? No. So let's just keep this blog between us, shall we?

I also just like nicknames. I'm bad at remembering people's real names, so I like to look for easily identifiable features and work from there. I find nicknames to be delightful, what can I say? I once dated an Irish guy and, even though I had gone out with him a few times, I wasn't quite sure of his name. My ignorance wasn't entirely my fault because his accent was really thick. After I had already gone out with him twice, I thought it would be rude to ask him his name. I was pretty sure it was Mark, but I wasn't positive. So I nicknamed him Question Mark, which was the perfect nickname because it worked on so many levels. Then he got mad at me for wearing sweatpants and our love affair ended. Anyway, my aunt is incredibly good at nicknaming people, and my own grandfather has dubbed me Tuna for reasons I will discuss some other time. In other words, nicknames are in my blood. It's what we do.

So, it is now that I come to the Blog Reader Spotlight: Genghis Khannie, so named because her real name is Connie, which sounds like Khan. At least I think that's where the nickname's origin lies. I did not nickname Genghis, my good friend D.B. Sweeney did. D.B. Sweeney is also a nickname. I am not, sadly, friends with D.B. Sweeney of "The Cutting Edge" (though he can come over and show me The Pamchenko whenever he wants, if you know what I mean*). Anyway, my friend Genghis is not the founder and emperor of the Mongol Empire. She is an awesome chick that lives in Chicago and visits us not often enough.

Interestingly, when doing some research on the Old Genghis, I did find some similarities to My Genghis. Old Genghis, it seems, was born with a blot clot on his hand which, according to traditional Mongolian folklore, meant that he was destined to become a great leader. So is my friend Genghis! I mean, I don't think she was born with a blood clot on her hand, but she can lead us into the most crowded of New Year's Eve parties with nary a battle scar. Old Genghis (the Mongolian leader, not the girl who calls me to borrow knee socks) was apparently good at forging alliances. His mother taught him that alliances were important in the grim political climate of Mongolia. Well, my Genghis, too, is amazing at forging alliances. She's never met a stranger. She once told me a story about how she ran into an old friend 300 feet below the ground in some darkened cavern. Old Genghis was also credited for bringing the Silk Road to Mongolia, which were trade routes through the regions of Asia vital for cultural and economic expansion. One might say this paved the way for My Genghis, some eight hundred years later, to order 5 dresses from Sak's for only one wedding.

In all seriousness, My Genghis is the coolest of chicks. While she shops at Sak's, I had to Google the word because I wasn't sure if it was spelled with a C. Connie is lecturing at some fancy pants college this semester, while I am lecturing to 7th graders about the importance of not throwing rocks at pedestrians. She once bought a friend of hers rain boots for her birthday. Do you understand how cool that is? It would never occur to me to buy someone boots as a gift. She is a brilliant writer, whereas I cannot even manage to complete the one assignment she has ever given me, which was to expound upon the phenomenon of The Butter Face. (Nanny, a Butterface is code for a woman who has an awesome body but not an awesome face...as in, "she is really hot...but her face." I know, Nanny, it's terrible. I didn't coin the phrase, but it's sweeping the nation).

So I am blessed to have this new friend of mine in my life. She's a great combination of girlie girl meets genius. In five years we will all be working for her, or dead by her hand. No, not dead. Probably just working for her.

*Maybe 6 people in the world know what I mean. Ever.

One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest (and disrupted class for 10 minutes)

2008-01-09T13:54:00.000-05:00

I'm playing hooky today. I never play hooky. I come from a long line of non-hooky players. You go to school when you are feeling sick. As I've said before, Ginger Ale and Robitussen were my parents' drugs of choice to get me over a myriad of common childhood illnesses. In 6th grade, I was certain that I broke my wrist rollerskating one Friday afternoon. My father, who I should mention was a medic in Vietnam, was convinced that I was exaggerating. So that Monday, he sent me on my merry way to school, ignoring the fact that my wrist was swollen to the size of my neck. It took a call from beloved School Nurse Ms. Murphy (who always asked her ten year old students if they were pregnant, and didn't fail to deliver that morning) to convince my dad that I had indeed broken a bone.

My point is this. Everyone in my family has an insane work ethic, which is why I feel incredibly guilt-ridden whenever I have to miss work. My dad has had the same job for 37 years. The man went to work feeling ill one morning, failing to realize that he was literally having a heart attack. My mom? Forget about it. My mom is always running around. And don't you even think about mentioning the word "nap" around her. She goes ballistic. "I called so-and-so today and, can you believe it, she was taking a NAP! Who does she think she is?" We have this conversation a lot. A few years ago, I got my eyes dilated at the opthamologist's office. By the time I arrived home, I could barely see 3 feet in front of my face. I laid down on my bed because what else is there to do when one can't see? Because I was bored and blind, I drifted off to sleep. Mom came in 20 minutes later. "Are you taking a NAP? I can't believe it. What, are you tired?" I had committed the first sin in our household (the second sin is leaving the door open so that flies can get in).

But this morning, I woke up, and I just couldn't bring myself to actually get out of bed. The coffee was already brewing, I wasn't sleepy, I wasn't sick. I just completely lost my motivation to go to school today. Yesterday might have been my breaking point, when a small bird had the audacity to chirp outside of my classroom window.

Because they are redoing the stage floor (using the very practical stage floor option of incredibly slippery black tile), I have to move my classes to various rooms all over the school. This small act can create mass confusion, despite my best efforts to make the change as easily as possible. Yesterday I had to move a class, so I called their homeroom teacher. "Please tell class 705 that we will meet in room 227 next period." I remember this very clearly, because it made me think of the awesomeness that was the show "227." And then I started wondering whatever happened to Jackee. To make sure the kids knew where to go, I put a sign on the auditorium door directing them to the room. The kids still couldn't figure out where to go, and somehow arrived to room 220, which happens to be the Assistant Principal's office. I tell them that I vividly remember saying "227" because of the show "227," and then I do my Jackee impression ("Oohhhm, Marrrrry! I'm gonna get my nails done!). Blank stares back at me. I forget that they were fetuses when the show came out.

We get down to business. I get into an argument with a student who always gives me trouble. She does absolutely NO WORK. Ever. She is constantly chewing gum and will not spit it out when I ask her to do so. It's as if she is daring me to go crawling into her mouth in order to fish out the gum. The thing is, personally I could care less about gum. I understand that with these kids, you have to pick your battles. But, if the principal sees her chewing gum, he will think that I don't have control over my classroom. Which I guess technically at that moment, I don't, so she wins. Anyway, we have moved past the gum debate and onto another hotly contested battle. She is insisting to keep her bookbag on her back at her desk. I don't know why this drives me crazy, but it does. Absolutely, positively, cannot continue with the class, blood boiling rage consumes me. It's not so much the refusal to remove the bookbag. It's the fact that she is not even acknowledging my existence. It's not like I started barking at her to take her bookbag off. I asked her nicely, twice, before I flew into a rage. After we got into a yelling match in the hallway, she came back in and just put her head down on the desk, refusing to do any work for the rest of the class (or, another way to put this is, acting exactly as she does every day). She's not the least bit embarrassed that she is failing Drama. DRAMA. A class where you get points by breathing deeply.

As I am lecturing the class on their general apathy, lack of respect for authority, and just about anything else I can think of, a student pulls out a newspaper and starts to read it. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

We begin my lesson, 20 minutes after the bell had rung. I had prepared a very basic creative writing assignment involving poetry. My thought was that we would write a poem, then they would put several together and, in groups, present them in some sort of dramatic fashion. And, I know what you are thinking. Poetry? Who wants to write poetry? I thought about that too. That's why I was 3 steps ahead of them. I brought in a sample poem written by one of my kids last year (I did the same unit last year and it was a hit). I also provided them with a template of what I wanted them to include, which was basically just some blanks that they needed to fill in, and indicated below the blank was what they were supposed to write. Kind of like Mad Libs. And then, knowing that I can't just hand them something to fill in, (I made that mistake last year), I went step-by-step, or blank-by-blank, as it were, with them.

Together we read the poem aloud and talked about its meaning. Even though the poem was clearly written about someone looking back on their childhood, several were convinced that the narrator was talking about his present day. Apparently the context clues of "long ago," "way back when," "gravestones," and "memories cherished" didn't clue them in.

When we finally understand the poem's intent, we get down to the task of filling in our own blanks, the words "I am from," already written in by yours truly. "What items or toys do you remember seeing or using as a child? I give several personal examples...my grandmommy's orange and maroon blanket, my pink jelly shoes, my collection of My Little Ponies, my Snoppy stuffed animal...I look at my students' faces. They are lost. "What if we didn't have pink shoes? Can I say 'the hood'? Do you have a pen? I can't remember anything! This is boring! Can I go get water? Miss, how do you spell 'bricks'? I don't get this! I'm from the hood, so how can I be from a pair of Jordans?"

We look over the sample poem again, but the student still argues his point that he is from the hood, and therefore he cannot be from an actual item. I actually kind of understand where he got confused. At least he was attempting to complete the assignment as opposed to, say, Bruce, who was busy drawing a Latin Kings symbol on his worksheet. So I ask of them, beg of them, to just go with me and trust that it is going to make sense in just a minute. Skeptically, they continue. "Name two members of your family." I give the examples of my mom and my dad, but offer that they can name any two people from their family that they choose. "Can I name my cousin Ray Ray? What if I can't think of 2 people? What about a pencil, can I borrow a pencil? Can I name 9 people? Can I write myself in? Can I put my dog on there?" I'm all for creative expression, but I urged Anthony to not write down his dog, which made him pitch a fit, crumpling up his paper in defeat. I had lost another one.

We soldiered on. Finally we were getting into some sort of rhythm and making process, though they momentarily got tripped up when I asked them to name their favorite plant or flower. Just as we were maybe going to finish, a bird chirped twice outside the window.

"What was THAT? Where is that bird? Miss, look! There's a bird outside!" Several of them raced to the window to look for the source of the chirping. I wish I had some awesome ending to this story...like it was a mother bird feeding her baby birds and we had just witnessed their first chirps or something like that. Maybe it was a beautiful blue bird with lovely feathers and one of the kids would say, "Hey! This is so weird! I wrote about a bird just like that in my poem!" Or maybe it was a rare bird and one of the students got a picture of it on their cellphones that they aren't supposed to have in school but they have anyway, and then we all got our pictures in the paper after discovering the bird. Maybe the students would feel inspired and return to their poems, their creative juices flowing.

No. This was just a damn ordinary bird that chirped twice, and for some reason this disrupted class for 10 minutes. They were gone. It was like they have never heard a bird chirp before or something. It took 5 minutes for them to return to their seats, and another 5 minutes to get them to stop talking about it. I was stunned.

The bell rang, and the 6 students out of 18 that almost finished the poems turned them in.

I went to my next class, which was basically more of the same nonsense. I tried to tweak what I said from one class to the next, thinking maybe the problem was with me...something that I am not explaining clearly. I'll admit that has happened, to me and every other teacher. But when Stephanie literally started crying because, as she put it, she's "got nothin' in her head," I was done. I was defeated.

So as yesterday replayed in my head, I hit the snooze button. I called in and said that I had a migraine, so I would not be coming in today. Technically, it's true. My head hurt so bad with the thought of going to work that I just couldn't bare it. Then I had a cup of coffee, read the paper, and I was in heaven.

I think everyone might need a day like this. Yes, I feel slightly guilty because I know the kids are going to be running around looking for the right room to be in (though I made them a schedule yesterday). Yes, I could work somewhere else where these issues probably wouldn't arise, at least not as often as they seem to do at my present job. And yes, I come from a long line of non-hooky players who might look down on my behavior today. But right now, still in my pajamas at 3pm, I am going to watch a movie and not think about all of that.

Blog Reader Spotlight: Joan!

2008-01-02T19:57:00.000-05:00

I went home for the Christmas break. Three consumed cheeseballs later, I'm back home, ready to start the new year off right and, fingers crossed, cheeseball-free.

Nothing much new to report from the homefront, except that I learned my mom's new trick for slicing onions: she wears swimming goggles during the slicing procedure so that her eyes don't water. It's totally awesome. She also tried to convince me to get into a bathing suit for a Christmas card picture. And then she got mad that I wouldn't do it. Now, I would wear a ski suit on the beach if I could so chances were slim that I wanted to be immortalized in a bathing suit and then have the picture sent around the country. I won't be able to describe the Christmas card to you because apparently it's top secret (Mom's orders) until she sends them out. But I will tell you this. Every time you open your mailbox, you should thank your lucky stars that I'm not in there, half naked, wearing a Happy New Year tiara. You're welcome.

I did learn one startling new fact. While I was lamenting my lack of regularly posting to my blog (because I'm busy, I'm lazy, and frankly a tad boring), my grandmother piped in to say that, while she enjoys my blog, she wishes I would watch my language so as not to offend any of my readers. I understand where she is coming from, but I was also a little surprised because I thought she was my only reader. And, because I thought she was my only reader, I thought I had been watching my language, because who wants to piss off your grandma/only reader? She and my Papa then informed me that their friend, Joan, reads my blog all of the time.

I've never met Joan, but Joan, if you are reading this, you are aces! My mom chimed in to say that she doesn't read it and doesn't even know the web address. Which is totally cool, I'm not mad, I just think it's funny.

So Joan, thanks again for your loyal readership. Don't be a stranger!

Suss' Favorite Things, 2007 edition

2007-12-17T17:13:00.000-05:00

There have been quite a few inventions this year that have impacted my life for the better. So as 2007 winds down, I thought I would take a moment to review some of my Favorite Things, Oprah-style. Now, don't get all excited. John Travolta will not be making a special appearance on my blog. You will not find Vermont Maple Scones if you look under your seat. And no, I will not have assistants doling out pallets of cashmere pajamas. You can go get most of this stuff yourself because my tastes are fairly cheap. Rest assured, if I could deliver to my readers really awesome products, like swavorski-covered omelet forks, I would.

It should be noted that I was not in any way paid by the following companies to endorse their products. That being said, a little greasing of the palms never hurt anyone, am I right? I'm looking at you, Nabisco...

And now, I give you Suss's Favorite Things of 2007, in order of how awesome they are with the first item being the most awesome.

1.)The Mr. Clean Magic Eraser

Holy crap, Mr. Clean has done it again! Fresh off the heels of his other invention, the Shower Swifer, he gives us the Mother of all Cleaning Products: The Mr. Clean Magical Eraser! Forget what you knew about previous magic erasers, because this bad boy will change your life. I don't know how it works, and I don't care. All I know is that you wet it, you rub it against some sort of stain, and the stain goes away. The damn thing doesn't get sudsy! It's like some sort of enchanted sponge. I have Mr. Clean Erasers all over my apartment...I have one on mildew standby in the shower, one for KP duty, and one whose sole function in life is to clean my oven. At two per box, I urge you to purchase at least 4 boxes. That will give you 8 erasers to do with what you will. Don't be silly and just buy one box, because you will get home and realize the erasing possibilities are endless.

Last week as I was rushing to work, I opened the fridge to grab some water and out came pouring my newly purchased box of cherry tomatoes. As my apartment is slightly sloped, the tomatoes went everywhere. Cursing the faulty Key Food plastic box, I scooped up the tomatoes, threw them in the trash, and headed out for the day. When I arrived back home, I opened the door to what appeared to be a crime scene. Red stains everywhere. Apparently in my tomato scooping fury, I stepped on a few with my new boots, causing tomatoes to squirt all over the floor. In another situation, I might have just moved. But, remembering my stash of erasers in my cabinet, I grabbed one and went to town. Within seconds, the tomato stain was gone. Magical. My only concern is that I will get a little too heavy handed with the Mr. Clean Magical Eraser and erase myself like the old Daffy Duck cartoons. Because it's just that good.

2.) Zip Lock Zip N' Steam Bags

I first saw these bags of awesome on a commercial. The idea of steaming asparagus in just a few easy steps appealed to me. Once upon a time I owned my own steamer, but I accidentally broke it when I tried to steam some carrots. I forgot one small but apparently necessary step, which is to put water in the bottom of it. What ensued was not pretty. I thought about purchasing another steaming machine but then I remembered that you can go to restaurants and people will steam things for you, so that's what I did instead. Until, that is, the good people down at the Zip Lock company came up with Zip Lock Zip N' Steam Bags.

I searched high and low for Zip Lock Zip N' Steam Bags. Nothing irritates me more than seeing a commerical for something and then not being able to find it in the store (like Splenda's new flavored sugar substitutes for coffee...I've given up hope that they actually exist). Then, NBC's "The Biggest Loser," (my third favorite thing on this list, so see below) highlighted the many uses of the steam bags on their show. They actually steamed salmon, people. SALMON. As in the fish. I was going to be happy just being able to steam my snap peas, but the bags have fish steaming abilities? I'm in!

As you can imagine, after their appearance on "The Biggest Loser," demand for Zip Lock Zip N' Steam Bags went into high gear. Suddenly, they were everywhere, like Ugg boots. I picked up a box and, armed with my salmon recipe from "The Biggest Loser" website, I attempted to steam salmon for three minutes in my microwave. And damn if it wasn't delicious!

Now, you need to know that the outside of the bag is ridiculously hot. I imagine it's what lava feels like when it first comes out of a volcano. You should wait at least a minute before you attempt to obtain the fish from the microwave. But if you open the bag up and keep it about an arm's length from your face, well then you've got yourself a nice free facial! It's done wonders for my pores.

3.) NBC's "The Biggest Loser"

The Biggest Loser is quite possibly the most perfect reality show. It's got all of the elements that I love...competition, hot trainers, people who I can feel superior to, moments of inspiration, and the harsh reality of what will happen if I for that extra slice of pizza. Plus, it's no secret that I love big, teddy bear type guys and this show has them aplenty. Of course they aren't so hot when they get there, but after a few weeks...hello!

I desperately want to go on this show, but I can't for three reasons (and you best believe I actually checked). One, I don't weigh enough. According to the guidelines, I don't have enough body fat. I know, I am just as surprised as you are. Two, you cannot be on the show without donning the spandex shorts and jogging bra. Just the thought of wearing spandex shorts on national television is enough to make me break out into hives. Three, you cannot be on the show unless you agree to weigh yourself on a giant scale. Weigh myself in public? I can't even do it at the doctor's office. The last time I was there, I begged him to leave the room and let me record it myself. I admire the women at the gym that get on the scale completely naked. Not me. I wear a haz mat suit and just subtract a few pounds.

I love this show so much, for several reasons. One, when a contestant is voted off, they turn off the light in their refrigerator. And it's the kind of refrigerator you see in the front of a diner, the one with the three day old rotating cheesecake in it. I love that. Also, when the contestants are confessing who they are thinking about voting off, they do it in a pantry filled with food. It's the little touches like that which make this show classy. I also love watching the different challenges that the contestants have to face each week. It's normally something like, hold up your body weight's worth of dumbbells over your head while the host dangles jelly doughnuts in your face. Genius.

In all seriousness, I love watching the very end of each show, where they show the eliminated contestant's amazing transformation. Every Tuesday night I say that I am going to bed early and that I'll DVR the ending. But no, I get sucked in and I have to watch until the end, where the contestant holds up his old pair of huge pants and drops them to reveal his new svelte figure. And then his wife tells us how excited she is to be able to hug her husband and have her arms actually wrap around his body. Then they always cut to the contestant running around the yard with his kids, and normally this involves him going down some sort of slide with them. It's awesome television. I cry every single week when I watch "The Biggest Loser," which begs the question, does that make me the biggest loser?

4.) M.A.C. Fix It Hydrating Water

This is the best $16 water your money can buy. When my local M.A.C. salesman first insisted that I buy Fix It hydrating water, I passed. "Do you have trouble with your powder looking too powdery?" was his sales pitch. At the time, I thought, "No, of course not. Who buys water spray for your face, to eliminate the look of powder that they just put on their face three seconds ago?" Then I got home and damn if my powder didn't look too powdery. Unfortunately for me, I left for Spain the next day, and for a week I fretted that my powdered face looked like I had put powder on it. DB and I ended up searching high and low for M.A.C. Fix It Hydrating Water, and our quest ended at El Corte de Ingles (where F.Y.I., travelers, you can also get your eyebrows waxed). DB has far superior Spanish speaking skills than I do, but together we were unable to articulate what product I needed (mostly because I forgot the name of the product). That's where my expensive theatre degrees came in handy, for I was able to pantomime putting on powder with a giant, imaginary powder puff, then spray myself with imaginary water. 20 well spent euros later, I had my Fix It water. This was in July, and I still have at least 2/3 of the bottle left, so you really get a good bang for your buck/euro.

5.) Snapfish.com

Gone are the days when you had to leave your house to get your pictures developed. You upload them onto the website, order what sizes you want, and then they send them to your house. The prices are ridiculously reasonable, and I would pay extra for the added benefit of not having to deal with Duane Reade employees. You can also make adorable presents for people. My mom made me this really great poster of our recent trip to Italy, and I hung it proudly in my bedroom. Every morning I wake up to a giant suntanned version of myself eating a big bowl of gnocchi. It may be the best present ever.

So there you have it. My top 5 favorite things of 2007. Happy shopping!

Suss is dating.

2007-11-13T18:19:00.000-05:00

As I speed towards turning 30 at a seemingly lightning speed, I realize that I need to get myself out there when it comes to dating. I've been trying to do more things outside of my comfort zone, because Lord knows my dream man ain't gonna fall into my lap while I watch reruns of "Laguna Beach."

Very rarely do I date more than one person at a time. This isn't a moral issue, just a logistical one. I don't have a lot of time to date. Shaving my legs, cleaning my apartment in case the date comes over, going out enough to have fun but not enough to be too tired to face my students the next day...it's just a lot for a girl like me to handle. So I can only handle one boy at a time. Recently, the tide has turned, and I seem to be on fire with the fellas. I don't know what happened. Maybe it's those extra hours I've been logging in the gym. Maybe it's my new hair straightening balm (everyone loves a good balm). Maybe it's just my time. I don't know, and I don't care. I'm riding this train.

So Bachelor #1 is a cop. I've known him for quite some time, meeting him first at one of my old haunts, Mary Maguire's. He and I had a long text messaging courtship and, on my last birthday, things went to the next level (proving that I can turn another year older without necessarily turning another year wiser). He's a great guy, just not exactly for me. We've gone out a few more times in the last few weeks, but I'm just not feeling his flow. First of all, he talks a lot. I mean, A LOT. And we all know I love to talk...but this guy puts me to shame. And he never exactly has a point to his stories. He'll wax nostalgic about some dude he met in the bodega for hours. It drives me insane. Also, and I know I am being incredibly petty, but the man wears a pinkie ring with a lucky horseshoe on it. I can't deal with a man who rocks a PR. It's too much.

Also too much? Asking me to go on a cruise with him on the second date. Going away wasn't the problem, so much as the destination was. His recommendation of a cruise proves that he doesn't know me at all. I'm not really a bingo playing on the deck, conga line around the midnight buffet kind of gal. I'm more of a put on a backpack and go to Barcelona without a prearranged place to stay person. That's just me.

So I will not be choosing Bachelor #1.

Bachelor #2 started out strong. On Halloween, I was walking down the street when this guy behind me called out, "Excuse me, excuse me..." Thinking I had dropped something, I turned around to see a very cute guy standing there. He asked me if I was single, to which I replied, "Yes." We talked for a little bit, then he gave me his card and said if I ever wanted to go out for coffee or something, I should give him a call. I left, my mind still reeling from this exchange. I mean, what was this guy's game? He actually approached me and said what he was thinking? What's his angle? What's his deal? Who does that? My relationships normally take a different path. I'm used to the more passive, "Hey, you wanna hang out sometime?" email, followed by unintelligible text messages, an awkward phone conversation or two, and then it reaches its inevitable conclusion without actually having gone out.

At the time I didn't think I would do anything about Bachelor #2, but then I thought that it took some guts to approach someone like that on the street, and that kind of guts should be recognized and rewarded. I hoped that doing something about this will restore the karmic balance of dating that I somehow unbalanced in my early twenties. Now, I am such a jaded weirdo about dating that I didn't want to call this guy, because I somehow got it in my head that he would think I was being too forward. Me, too forward...not him, the person on the street who came up to a stranger and asked her out on a date. I decided to send him a text with my phone number. There. I sent it and waited to see what would happen.

He called that very same night. Granted, I didn't answer the phone because I was too nervous, but he left me a pleasant voicemail that I was able to listen to several times, looking for any early signs of Crazy.

After a few phone calls and texts, we decided to meet up for coffee. I put on my new cute boots and hit the road. We talked for a bit over coffee, and I soon realized that we might not have that much in common. He's studying to be a nurse and he sells watches (I never wear watches and my knowledge of nursing comes from "Grey's Anatomy"). Our differences did not bode well for a future together. Also, he's a going-to-a-club-in-Manhattan guy, and I would put serious consideration into sticking something in my eye in order to get out of going to a club. I love to travel, and he said, "Really? Hmm...I hate to travel." Well, okay then. Um....hmmm..."That scone you are eating looks good." Proof I had officially run out of things to say.

So he walked me to his car, and I'm thinking that he may be thinking what I am thinking, which was, "How fast can I get home?" Apparently I am not a mind reader because he proceeded to plant the worst kiss ever on me in the history of kisses. It was BAD. He pulled back and I thought, "Ok, maybe that was just a bad apple. A fluke." I'm not that lucky. He kissed me again, and somehow his technique had gotten worse. I'll save you the gruesome details but I will tell you this: I think at one point the man licked my teeth.

Initially I had written off Bachelor #2 before he had even dropped me off, considering I basically jumped out of the car while it was still rolling. After thinking about this encounter for a few days, I thought that I should maybe give him another chance. As a friend of mine said, "Maybe you can tell him what to do [be a little more gentle], rather than what not to do [lick my teeth]. Guys think that's hot." So, when he called on Thursday to ask me out for sometime that weekend, I agreed.

Silly me.

He sent me a text on Saturday night (9:30pm-ish) asking me what I was up to. After a few texts back and forth (I'm trying to give you important/unboring details here) he said he is going out to a club with friends and did I want to hang out before or after?

Before or after? I didn't understand. Apparently he thought that he could come over for an hour or so right at that very moment, or, better yet, meet up at 3 or 4am.

3 or 4am. Now you and I know that there's only one thing a boy wants from you at that hour. When I questioned him about his intentions in regards to this late night rendezvous, he said that he just wanted to see me. Please. Mama's heard it all before. This dope does not know who he is dealing with. Suss deserves better.

So I will not be choosing Bachelor #2.

I think I will go back to my original plan, which is dying alone. It has a quiet dignity to it.

Little Fella II: He's Back, and He's Mad as Hell

2007-11-07T20:31:00.000-05:00

I'll start by saying that I live in a rather quaint, rather crooked apartment. My mom fondly refers to it as "The Willy Wonka" apartment because everything is slightly slanted...about 7 degrees I would say. Just enough to drive you crazy.

The first two years I loved this place, and dismissed those who called it "small," or "old," or "glorified kindling." A little IKEA here, a new bedspread there, and I was home. I loved it. I recently hit my two year anniversary in my swingin' bachelorette pad, which is a record for me (I have commitment issues when it comes to domestication). I don't know what happened, but all of the sudden I have to get the hell out of here. I think my need to hit the bricks may be the Return of Little Fella.

Little Fella is a mouse which decided to go for a swim in my sink, about two years ago to the date if I remember correctly. Since then, my apartment has been thankfully mouse free. I didn't do anything special to make my apartment mouseless...no traps or glues or sprays...I just said a silent prayer everyday to the God of Rental Properties that I would not see a mouse. This technique seemed to work brilliantly up until yesterday afternoon when, as I sat on my couch doing a whole lotta nothing, a mouse had the balls to run across my floor.

This is what concerns me: if the mouse has the chutzpa to run across my floor in broad daylight, what in the hell is he doing when I'm not home? Or, a worse thought, what's he up to when I turn off my lights to go to sleep? Well, YOU WIN, MOUSE. I fold. I'm moving.

One might argue that it is unreasonable to move because I saw a mouse. But when you factor in the threat of my fridge falling over and trapping me underneath it, or the potential for my doorknob to fall off and actually lock me INSIDE my apartment (which has totally happened, more than once), or that the wall in my bedroom looks like it's melting (that will have to be a whole other post)...you gotta figure that my mom has a point.

As I was relating the horror of seeing Little Fella II to a friend today, she begged me to repost the initial Little Fella story. Because this travesty happened way before I had a blog, I sent an email to a few friends who I knew would have a good laugh at my misery. So here is the original story below. It's scary to realize what little has changed in two years...

It’s times like these, and only times like these, that I wish I lived with someone.

I heard it before I saw it. A slight, "tap…tap…tappy- tap…screech." I looked up. It stopped. I went back to watching ice skating, my ears now ready to react to the slightest oddity.

It happened again, this time a bit more frantic. "Tap. TAP. TAPPP. Tappity-tap tap!!!" My heart began to beat a little faster.

I got up and turned on the light, trying to figure out the source of this strange tapping. I was hoping that it was just my leaky faucet that needs to be fixed. Incidentally, my landlord has been trying to get me to contact her plumber, but after the last time he came over to fix my shower, I have been a little less enthused to use his services. This is due in part because, after hearing that I teach in Astoria, he said, "Never trust your Muslim students because they are all liars and they are plotting to kill you." After hearing that I have Italian heritage, he reasoned that I must be "nothing but a money hungry liar…a wannabe mobster." He informed me that the next time he comes over, he'll tell me all about "the cheap, lying Greek bastards." All his exact words. True story. The man hates liars, apparently. Ironically, he's Greek.

So. Back to tonight, also now known as, "The Night Christina Realized She Needs a Man in Her Life." Because up until now, I think I have been kidding myself.

I turned on the light and searched. It didn’t take long (the one advantage of a teeny apartment) to figure out the source. There was a mouse in my sink.

Allow me to reiterate the severity of the situation. There was a MOUSE. In. My. SINK.

What do you do in situations such as these? I was freaking out. The mouse, which will heretofore be referred to as, "Little Fella," was freaking out. I call him Little Fella because that’s what I called him from the beginning of this fiasco, and far be it from me to break with tradition. He was brown and slightly petite, and boasted the longest tail I have ever seen on such a small animal. The name suits him. He would be kind of cute, had he not been IN MY SINK.

Little Fella was cleverly perched on the only thing in my sink, a Kermit the Frog coffee cup (I only use the finest of china). He was trying to claw his way out of my sink, desperately grasping in vain for my new purple sponge. After several attempts, he fell backwards and started frantically running around my sink in circles. I stood there watching him in horror.

Now, I am not your typical girlie-girl, nor am I am sitcom star. I’m not one to comically stand on a chair and scream whenever I see a mouse. My horror stemmed from the fact that I had a mouse in my sink, and I did not know what to do in order to NOT have a mouse in my sink. The desired outcome was simple. The plan…not so much.

My first tactic? Plan A: Reasoning. "Calm down, Little Fella, calm down," I said, in my most soothing voice. "Stop running, Little Fella! Calm down. Shhh…."

I seriously said all of this. I "shushed" a mouse.

Plan A, the worst plan ever, did not pan out. It turns out Little Fella was too upset for reasoning. I needed a harebrained scheme, and I needed one fast.

This is when I wished I had a boy around. Boys seem to be better at pest control. It’s one of the few things I have no problem admitting. I proudly consider myself a feminist until I have to get rodents out of my kitchen appliances.

Onto Plan B: Operation Colander. I grabbed my colander, a huge salad bowl, and, for no real reason, a spatula. The spatula made me feel protected, like I was packin’ heat. I placed the salad bowl next to the sink and I ever so gently scooped Little Fella into the bowl with the colander. Now, I will say one thing for Little Fella. I think he knew that we were in this mess together, so he put up very little fuss.

Now I had a mouse in a salad bowl. I never thought this would be considered a good thing, but given the situation, it was a step up from the sink.

"What to do, what to do?" I thought. "I know, I’ll release him into the wild!" I literally had this exact thought in my head…"the wild." Who do I think I am? I live on 30th Avenue next to the Thai Pavilion for Pete’s sake. I decided to put on my slippers and take him downstairs.

What I have neglected to tell you is that I have had an avocado face mask on this entire time (this healthy glow of mine is no accident). Another decision had to be made. Do I walk downstairs with the face mask on, or do I wash it off first? See, if I lived with someone, they could get rid of the mouse whilst I tended to my pores. Since I live by myself, I have to be a Renaissance Man. For those who don’t know, a Renaissance Man is defined as, "A person who excels in many fields and disciplines," the fields here being rodent extermination and facials.

Time was of the essence, so I decided to trek downstairs with my avocado face mask on and a mouse in my salad bowl. On a side note, that's the most awesome sentence I have ever written. I got down to the bottom step and opened the door, where no less than 6 people were walking by at that very moment, on their way to the overpriced Grand Café. To their credit, they barely gave me a second glance. I bent down, lifted up the colander, and tilted the salad bowl towards the ground. I thought I would have to use my spatula, which I had tucked into the top of my pajama pants, to coax him out. Little Fella scampered out and ran towards the corner. He turned to catch one last glimpse of his avocado mask-wearing heroine, and then he took off down the street. I imagine he went to the Glen Oaks Pub for a pint of Guinness.

Oh, the (E)rony.

2007-09-26T17:15:00.000-04:00

So most of you know that I am trying to save the world, one pimple-faced middle schooler at a time, by teaching drama in a New York City Public School. And I'm failing miserably. It's not exactly the awesome academic picture you see here, compliments of a Google Image search. Look at that teacher! The differences between us are staggering, starting with the fact that I don't have a kick ass mustache. His students seem to be awake, aware of their surroundings, and actually appreciating what their teacher has to say. One kid even whipped out his laptop, ready to take down the seemingly endless knowledge that the teacher stands ready to dole out. Another kid has a PENCIL in his hand. An actual pencil, and I'll you bet he did not ask his teacher for it or throw it at the girl next to him. These are the kids you want to teach. I imagine that the kids are saying, "Teacher, please, even though the bell has already rung, grab that globe over there and let's get down with some geography!" And the teacher is all, "Well, I was going to go home and trim my awesome mustache, but what the heck? Billy, go grab an encyclopedia from the incredibly well stocked shelves behind us and let's get to work." Or something like that.

My schedule this year seems particularly grueling. I won't go into it because griping about it isn't going to change the fact that I might have made a horrible career decision. I'll just say that recently I have become aware of other jobs that pay more, are easier, and don't make me sick to my stomach from stress and the smell of onion rings wafting up from the cafeteria.

One trick that I have learned is that if you call a lesson a game or include some element of competition, the kids are more likely to complete the task. This is relatively easy for me, as I teach drama, where theatre games are aplenty. But the trick even works on tests, though you have to be careful how many times you play that card. Last semester I handed out an essay question, I think it was, "What do the locked doors signify in 'The Miracle Worker?'" The kids freaked out, until I called it a game and the person with the highest score gets an award called the Sussman Star. The kids sprung into action to win this highly coveted honor, a blank certificate purchased from the Staples bargain bin.

The latest game I have been exploiting is Alphabet Charades, my attempt to trick my students into learning about pantomime. The rules are simple. A member from your team comes up (today's match up was a classic...The Shish-Ka-Bobs versus The Ballers) and in one minute, they silently act out as many words as they can that start with one letter (for example, the letter A). I even go through, aloud with the class, a bunch of words that start with the letter A. Apple, Alligator, Ant, whathaveyou.

You can't even begin to imagine how poor their spelling is. I am talking about 8th graders here. I mean, I know that we are living in an age of spell check and text messages, but they can't even getting the first letter of a word right? What I thought was going to be a fun game turned into 40 minute blocks of hell as, one by one, Shish-Ka-Bobs and Ballers alike, failed miserably at the task of what amounted to just moving your arms around. The actor would get the word wrong, throwing off his team. Or the team would shout out words that started with the wrong letter. Then the actor and the team would get into a shouting match, the minute would be over, and then the entire team, now united, would argue with me about their score. "Miss, we only have 3?" "Well," I would go on to explain, "Cow starts with C, so that last one doesn't count, because we are on the letter H. Plus, you made a moo sound, and you can't make sounds in the game. Also, you called your teammate an asshole, so I deducted one point." Seems like very reasonable score keeping to me.

One girl got up and, for the letter F, stood completely still for her entire turn. She could not think of one word that started with the letter F. Apparently she missed that Sesame Street episode. At about the 30 second mark, I tried to help her out by pantomiming my own words in the back to jog her memory...fire, first, fat, fall...Nothing helped. One of her teammates then decided to start yelling out words that started with the letter F. At this point, I was going to allow this egregious rule breakage, as the Shish-Ka-Bobs only had 4 points on the board. But the girl, even when GIVEN the words, remained still. The secondhand mercifully crept past the minute point, and, as she retired back to her seat, she had an epiphany. "Oh, I'm so stupid, I could have said Phone!" Phone. For the letter F. 8th grade, my readers, 8th grade.

The next class came in and didn't get on much better. When one student was up acting out for the letter E, his teammate yelled with confidence, "Idiot!" The irony of the answer was enough to make my head spin.

Vintage Suss

2007-09-15T14:18:00.000-04:00

Halloween, 1982.

What do I say about this ensemble? From the Playboy bunny ears and the fake eyelashes, to the garter belt and my fancy sequined bow tie...someone clearly had a field day at Party City's annual Halloween costume sale.

I'm surprised that I wasn't rocking some baby stiletos, but apparently I was thinking about the long night of trick or treating ahead of me and went with the Keds. It's nice to see that some things haven't changed in 25 years...I still dress kind of slutty, but always with sensible footwear.

I'm alive

2007-08-02T09:57:00.000-04:00

So I left the Canaries, spent three drunken days in Barcelona, sobered up and met my mom over in Rome. I haven't had much time to spend on the internet, but now after my tour of the Vatican, I decided that I needed to do my laundry. And lucky for me, this place is a laundry/internet joint. Hooray for me.

Barca was great. We saw plenty of beautiful sights, my favorite being Sagrada Familia, an amazing Gaudi cathedral. I can't do it justice on this here blog. It was awesome. We went down to the Harbor, walked down Las Ramblas, checked out a lot of Gaudi architeture...had it not been 150 degrees outside, I think it would have been the perfect weekend.

DB and I left Barcelona in shambles. We went out for three nights in a row, well past last call each time. On Friday night, after going to several bars, we landed on one with a bachelor party of 18 from London. I can't remember all of their names. There was Big Nige, Tim, at least 5 Marks, a few Mikes, one Rio, and a guy named Shakes. Needless to say, these boys were trouble. We had a lot of fun.

That night, I got back home (home being a hostel that made the Bates Motel seem like the Ritz) at around 4am and, thinking DB would be right behind me, went to sleep. Well, I woke up at 5am and rolled over to look at the other bed. No DB. The last time I saw her, we were outside of the bar on a street with more hookers than I have ever seen in my life. I knew she was in the company of a particular person from the bachelor party, but I grew worried that I had left a friend behind and we were going to have a bad situation on our hands. The last time I left DB at a bar, I demanded to see the guy's ID with whom she was hanging out with, so it is not like me to leave her or any other girlfriend with a stranger.

My worrying increased as I began to imagine myself getting a stern lashing by Stone Phillips on Dateline NBC. I was all set to call the cops when she rolled in at 7:30am with stories to tell. Later on that day, we tried to take a nap in order to adequately prepare for that evening's shenanigans. Unfortuntately, as soon as we closed our eyes, live Cuban music from the courtyard outside of our hostel came blasting through our window. It sounded as if Ricki Ricardo himself was recording an album at the foot of my bed. The music was beautiful and all, but a girl needs her beauty sleep. Lucky for us, the songs were rather catchy, and I was able to learn the lyrics quickly in order to seranade DB from the shower.

We headed out for a Spanish dinner before our evening of drinking commenced and, let me tell you, my girl DB was a hit in Barcelona! Everywhere we went, men were begging to marry her. I felt very proud to have such a hot friend. Apparently her hotness did not rub off on me. I would go to the bathroom and, seizing the opportunity to have DB at the table alone, the waiter would come over and tell her she had a beautiful face and the host would come over and ask her out on a date. On the flip side, when DB would go to the bathroom, the waiter came over to the table to give me the bill.

Anyway, that night it was my turn to come home at 7:30am. We ran into the bachelor party again and, at last call, somehow I was talked into taking a cab ride with them to another bar. I suspect Shakes or one of the Marks talked me into it, but I can't remember. It seemed like a good idea at the time. We went down to the harbor where I paid 18 euros to get into a club which, had we been at home, you could have not paid ME 18 euros to go into. It was fun, I will say that, but the hangover we suffered the next day made me curse the previous night's debauchery. We had significant trouble getting out of bed and then there was the matter of getting some food. When I suggested that we venture out for a ham and cheese sandwich, DB said the funniest thing she had said all vacation which was, "We can't go outside, the sun is out there." This statement rang true as we opened the door to the hostel and the bright sunlight flooded our faces as we shrieked like vampires and shielded ourselves from the light. We stumbled to the nearest cafe and drank the best 7 dollar coke that has ever passed this blogger's lips. We vowed right then and there that we would not be drinking that evening, Sunday night, because I had a very early flight the next day and she was leaving just a few hours after me for home. Later on that afternoon, this sanity was trumped by the ever popular "You only live once!" arguement, and we headed out yet again. We stayed out until last call, again. We went to another after hours club, again. We met a couple of Joses, who now lovingly refer to as Jose Uno and Jose Dos. And some other dude named Alex. Anyway, we had a grand ol' time, and we got back at 4am. Just enough time for me to shower, change, and head out to the airport and off to Rome.

More on Rome later. My launtry is almost done.

Area Woman´s Quest for Paella Ends in Disaster

2007-07-18T10:13:00.000-04:00

Since I´ve been here, I´ve had a serious hankerin´for some paella. The thing is, no matter where I go, I can´t seem to seal the deal. One restaurant was out of rice, one only served paella in the mornings (both excuses I am certain are vicious lies) and everywhere else requires that at least one other person at your table orders paella. Since I have been dining alone, this has been a problem. I think if I ever wanted to retire here, I could open up a paella joint that only serves singles. I could make a killing.

Last night was no exception, so I chose a chicken dish. You really can´t go wrong with chicken. I was sitting outside at a lovely restaurant with a great view of the Palacio de Madrid, drinking sangria, and just generally enjoying my own company. I´m my own delightful date.

Five minutes after I ordered, an accordian player who had been playing in the square approached the restaurant. ¨Well isn´t this lovely,¨I thought as I ate the bread which I found out later was 2 euros extra. He wandered over to my table and played a little ditty, ¨Lady and the Tramp¨style. For a minute or two, it was enjoyable. Two minutes stretched into five, and before you know it, this guy was still playing right by my table well after I had finished my meal and was paying the check. Literally, right next to my table, trying to woo me with his mad accordian skills. Nothing was getting this guy to leave. Not my nervous laughter, not avoiding eye contact, not ignoring him as I enjoyed my not-paella. I did feel a little guilty because this guy was jamming on the accordian with such gusto that I thought he may keel over from exhaustion. Fellow patrons kept looking over at me with sympathy and we shared a laugh at how ridiculous I must have looked. I thought perhaps I was on a hidden camera show, it was that crazy of a situation.

Today I took a trip to Cercevilla, about an hour and a half outside of Madrid. I looked at some mountains. It was pretty great.

Tomorrow I head to Girona to meet my girl Donna. We head to the Canary Islands to mix it up a bit for a week. Hopefully she will be my paella eating partner in crime.

¡Hola!

2007-07-17T12:22:00.000-04:00

Suss here, coming atcha from Madrid, Spain.

I arrived on Monday after a long journey. I hopped in a cab driven by the good Freddy, who insisted that I sit in the front with him so that he could be my first official tour guide. He pointed out such touristy hot spots as the hospital in which he was born and the Minister of Agriculture´s summer home. Though I was tired from the flight, I enjoyed his company. I was also shocked at how much Spanish I have retained since high school. It seems I have tucked away a lot of Spanish vocabulary in the same area of my brain that I use to store other rarely used things such as trigonometry or the lyrics to ¨Blame it on the Rain.¨ Apparently he took my interest in the conversation as indication that I would accompany him to the local discoteque that evening. Did I mention Freddy was 67? I politely turned down his request, but I tell you, I have received no less that 4 invitations to discoteques in the one day that I have been here. 4! I like those numbers. True, said invites came from men old enough to be my grandfather, but hey, it´s flattering nonetheless. Freddy informed me that he would take me to the door of the hostel, even though he said that no cars are allowed on that street. I thought maybe I had misinterpreted him, but when I saw all of the pedestrians frantically diving out of his way, I realized that I had understood.

My hostel is fine. It´s located right near a Starbucks, one of several in Madrid. I shook my head in condescention of their global takeover. Then I remembered that I had a Starbucks gift card, so I momentarily climbed off my high horse to enjoy an iced latte.

Yesterday was spent navigating the streets and the metro. Today I went to the Prado Museum, the Cathedral, and shopping. I found these gloves that I saw last year in Scotland and regretted not buying. And they were 3 euros cheaper though no doubt already out of style. Tonight, I´m not sure what I´ll do. Venture out for a drink, I suppose.

Other facts of interest before I skeedaddle

1.These people love their ham. It´s everywhere.

2.Apparently I am considered very attractive here, which is making me rethink my current living situation.

3.This will be my last summer in a hostel. I´m getting too old. As I write this, I am grasping for my reading glasses because the hallway is what I and other fogies would consider dimmly lit. The guy next to me, who is basically a fetus, is playing itunes, downloading pictures from his camera, instant messaging, paying bills and checking his email, yet it took me 45 minutes to locate the exclamation point on the keyboard.

4.It seems that Spain´s National Anthem is Nelly Furtado´s ¨Say it Right.¨I can´t go anywhere without hearing it.

Sweet lips.

2007-06-16T22:04:00.000-04:00

"When can I get a kiss, sweet lips?"

I'll back up.

Tonight I went out on a real adult date. Like, the guy made reservations at a restaurant. And opened doors. And got up to pull out my chair for me. And paid. All of this is relatively new territory for me. It shouldn't be; this I know. But seeing as how the last date I went on ended up with me making out with someone at the ESPN Zone until last call, this was a step up.

I've sort of known this guy for a few years now, though not well. He was a friend of a guy that I used to date who was a whole other bizarre chapter in my life. I remember when I first met this guy because I remember him saying something vaguely racist. I can't remember exactly what it was, but I remember thinking, "Wow. You, sir, are possibly very racist." Cut to three years later, and me for some reason agreeing to go on a date with him.

Now I have to say, in all honesty, that the guy I went out with tonight said nothing racist at all. I mean, that should be a given with anyone I date...it's not like he gets extra points for being something he should already be, which is tolerant. It's not a bonus to not be racist. His serious teacher fetish, now that is something that raised the ol' dating alarm.

I learned about his teacher fetish at about 6 minutes into the date. We ordered drinks, I took a sip, and he said, "Did you read that book I told you about? Looking for Mr. Goodbar?" A simple google search prior to this dinner would have alerted me of what I was getting myself into. According to Wikipedia, this book is about, "A woman named Theresa, who is a successful teacher of deaf children during the day but after a short unhappy affair starts to spend her nights cruising bars. Her craving first for sex but later also for drugs leads into increasingly demeaning and dangerous situations completely at odds with her daytime commitment to her children." I just learned this crucial information as you are right now, dear reader, unless you have already read this book. But armed with this new information, I am even more creeped out than when I was over appetizers just a few hours ago.

"Did I ever tell you about my English teacher in high school?" Now, because I am a teacher, I'm thinking that he is going to tell me that she was a big influence on his life, how she got him to read more, etc...You know, Mr. Holland's Opus style stuff. Oh, no. Apparently she was his first love. They literally had an affair. He: 15. She: 38.

Now at that time I was trying to rationalize this. I thought it was a lot of information to take in, especially since I was three sips into my drink, but at the same time, I thought..."Okay, he was young and impressionable. This was a long time ago. Nothing to be concerned about." After about twenty references to his teacher fetish throughout the night, I grew worried. And considering the date only lasted about 2 hours, the ratio of teacher fetish references to normal, healthy conversation was needless to say alarming.

There were other reasons why I knew that this was going nowhere. First of all, he asked me out on a second date before I had even gotten to the restaurant. I'm really scared of dating to begin with, so to me that's just added pressure that I don't need. And there was a moment where he played footsie with me, which really was awful. Cringe inducing. My female students complain to me when the boys play footsie with them in class, and I always tell them that it's because the boys have a crush on them. And then the boys get all embarrassed and they stop. Well, this boy who took me to dinner was 40 years old. Ladies, I was under the impression that this behavior ended earlier in life, but I am here to tell you that footsie is sadly here to stay.

He walked me home, which again was a change from my last date which ended with me drunkenly climbing into a cab in front of The Zone (as we locals call it). Obviously, I was not feeling at all romantic, and it wasn't because of the eight bags of trash are right by my front door, which is covered in graffiti courtesy of the Latin Kings. He didn't get a kiss goodnight. But I have to share the text I got ten minutes later. "Thanks for the great time! You looked really sexy in your dress. When can I get a kiss, sweet lips?"

Sweet lips. Sheesh.

Honestly I don't know how I get myself into these situations. It's clear that I need a better screening process, or, at the very least, be a bit more selective when choosing who to go out with. Because dating a possible racist is really no way to begin an evening.

R.I.P Mary Maguire's

2007-06-12T20:28:00.000-04:00

There's a bar that I used to frequent when I first moved to New York called Mary Maguire's. It had all of the necessary requirements for a local watering hole...cheap drinks, interesting local color, and within stumbling distance home. Often times I would belly up to the bar and chat it up with the pub royalty...Johnny Baba, Fredo, Ray, the other Ray...it was good times. The bar had a distinct odor...an unpleasant mixture of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and urinal cakes. Upstairs there was an OTB where Donna and I ventured up to, and let me tell you, that's a mistake you only make once. I vaguely remember an old man named Gus trying to teach me how to bet on horses.

I outgrew Mary Maguire's as I became more comfortable in my home and began to explore my other options. And then I moved 3 blocks away and I never looked back. So you can imagine my surprise when I passed by my old stomping ground the other day and saw that Mary Maguire's was gone, replaced by a pub called Blackstone.

I stood there as the memories of that bar came flooding back to me, and one in particular made me laugh very, very hard. And, even though this happened 5 years ago, I thought I would revisit this ridiculous moment in my life. The Mother of all Douchebag stories.

So there was this bartender named Vinnie. And keep in mind that I was maybe 23 at this time, meaning I was young and stupid. Looking back on Vinnie now, I realize that this might be the most ridiculous crush I have ever had, and this is coming from a person who has had serious crushes on Artie Lange and Jack Klugman. Needless to say, my taste in men is questionable at best. Anyway, Vinnie would rock his gold chains and hair gel, and God helped me, I loved it. He told me that he was 31 and I believed him because I am from Virginia, where we believe people. Vinnie would always flirt with me and not in a "give me a bigger tip" way. I mean, I am sure that was part of it, but I can safely say that he had the hots for me. As I did for him. Vinnie would hang out at the bar as well and, on his off time when I saw him there, he would always send me many drinks. And that's what I look for in my mate...someone who not only works in a dingy bar but hangs out there in his free time.

One evening I went with a girlfriend over to Mary Maguire's. I remember that it was snowing very heavily. As we sat down, I was delighted to see my crush sitting in the corner. He looked handsome in a nice black sweater. His gold necklaces shone in the light from the worst jukebox in the history of music. He came over and we chatted for quite a bit. I had asked him how his day was, and he replied that it was fine. I asked him if he had to work that day at his other job where he drives a truck. He said he did not. He bought me a drink. He walked away to talk to his friends and then sent me another drink. I remember thinking, "Oh, it's ON. This is perfect! He's off. It's snowing out. I'm making my move."

As soon as I thought this, he came over and gave me a hug goodbye, saying that he had to take off because of the snow. I was crushed. I had the whole evening planned out in my head and it was going to be good. When Vinnie left, I decided to do a little reconnaissance mission and see what his deal was. I saddled up to one of his friends at the bar to see what the deal was with Vinnie...you know, did he have a girlfriend or anything.

"Who, Vinnie?" the friend said. "He had a baby today!"

I blinked. Surely I misunderstood. I had to be clearer...this is Queens. Everyone here is named Vinnie.

I clarified: "No, Vinnie, the one that just left. He works here, too. What's his deal? Is he married?"

"Yes," the friend answered. "He's married. He and his wife just had a baby today."

I still was not convinced. This guy, I had decided, was drunk. Or he was kidding. Surely Vinnie did not have a baby today. It just couldn't be. Who has a baby and then goes to a bar and buys a girl, a girl who is not his wife who had just spent a lovely afternoon pushing a human being out of her vagina, several drinks? Luckily, his brother works there, so I decided to ask him what the situation was.

"Yeah," the brother confirmed proudly. "A boy...8 pounds, 4 ounces! I'm so proud! It's his second one. He has another son who is 4."

I sat, defeated, on my bar stool. I didn't understand. I had just talked to this person for quite a while. I asked him how his day was. I tried to recall the conversation in my head to look for clues...let's see, we talked about the weather, my job, school, the holidays...nope, just as I had thought, this man said nothing about a new baby that he had just had that day.

The brother kept talking...he said that he was getting pressure from his mom to have a baby of his own. "Well, you're only 29," I answered, trying to make him feel better.

"29! I'm 34."

"Wait, I thought you are two years younger than Vinnie..."

"I am. Vinnie's 36!"

So he lied about his age. Okay. People do that. Lying about your age is way less egregious than lying about the day's events, especially when that day's events include the birth of a child. And make no mistake about it. Vinnie was not all, "Hey everybody! I just had a baby today! Here's a cigar, and drinks are on me!" He was more, "Hey, gorgeous. You look great. Have another Amstel light on me while I go talk to Ray, Fredo, and the other Ray." And some could argue that he did not technically lie to me. I did not think to ask him right out if he happened to have a baby that day. Nor did he say, "What did I do today? Well, I can tell you what I did not do, which is have a baby." But still. I'm not going to get caught up in semantics.

This guy has gone down in infamy among me and my friends. He is referenced often and I hang my head in shame whenever he is brought up. Sadly, as I reflect upon this, I am noticing an alarming trend of secretive men in my life. I can't tell you how many times people act interested in dating me without letting me know that they are dating someone else. Or live with someone. Or married. Or have secret babies. I think my last boyfriend is a spy for the CIA and I'm not even kidding you when I say that.

I am going to say that the closing of Mary Maguire's is going to also signify the closing of the dating douchebags portion of my life. R.I.P, Maguire's.

I'm at a place called vertigo

2007-06-09T18:39:00.000-04:00

U2 said it best. "I'm at a place called vertigo."

Last week, I was feeling a bit unsteady. Dizzy. Lightheaded. Queasy, if you will. I brushed it off, thinking that I was feeling this way for a variety of reasons...it's hot out, I don't eat a lot of sugar, and I'm around very loud, rather smelly children all day. I laid low for a couple of days, thinking that it had passed. I watched a few movies. I ordered in. For a moment in time, I thought I was back to normal. Then I woke up on Friday, otherwise known as "The Day I Thought I Was Dying."

I woke up, and immediately I strated feeling really dizzy again, about one hundred times worse than I had been feeling previously. For reasons I still can't comprehend, I thought that I should still go to work. I got in the shower, and I almost keeled over as I reached for the shaving cream. Now, this should have been my red light warning, because those of you that know me well know that my one and only fear in life is falling down in the shower and knocking myself unconscious, slowly drowning because my god damned drain is always slightly clogged. Fear of this has literally kept me awake at night. It's not so much the dying part, it's the fact that I would be found naked by someone, presumably my downstairs bodega man, Tony, because the water would drip down and ruin his 20 year old bag of Goya beans and he would have to come investigate.

Back to my dizzy shower. Somehow I managed to shave one leg, but I could not muster the energy to shave the other one. Everything was spinning around me in a frightening fashion. I hauled ass out of the shower and laid back down on my bed trying to figure out what was wrong with me. I didn't think I had the flu. I wasn't drunk or hungover. I wasn't on a boat. So what was the deal?

I pried myself up and, god bless me, got ready for work. I threw on a dress and flip flops. This simple act took an hour because I had to keep sitting down to rest. My hair was still sopping wet and now it was plastered to my pale cheeks due to my constant detours back to my pillow. I attempted putting on some makeup but couldn't hold my hand steady enough to make anything happen. One leg was still hairy, while the other one was clean shaven and ghostly white. Needless to say, mama was looking rough.

I left Chez Suss and meandered down the road. Lucky for me, it was already a balmy 90 degress degrees out at 7:00am. I was walking unsteadily, concentrating on every step. Because I live in Queens, people walking unsteadily home is not an uncommon sight, so I blended right in with the people heading out of the pub and OTB.

I remembered that there was a doctor's office right near work. In my dizzy haze, I thought I would go during homeroom. People, homeroom lasts 16 minutes. Now, it takes 16 minutes just to get Kaheem to take off his do rag, yet I thought that I would have enough time to get a thorough check up and diagnosis before my first class. It was at this moment when my savior, a fellow coworker, rolled up next to me in her car. "Are you okay? You don't look so good." She got me in her car and took me back, driving in five minutes what had taken me 45 minutes to walk.

Back at home, I thought I just needed to rest. I laid back down on my bed and tried to go back to sleep. Nothing doing. The room was spinning and I thought that I was literally dying. I did what I thought I should do as a self-sufficient adult. I called Mom. I called her because I know my father would go into panic mode and tell me to call an ambulance. I could have heartburn and my father will go into hysterics. My mom is much more reasonable. When I was a kid, if I was ever sick, mom's cure was ginger ale and saltine crackers. That was my medicine. The flu, broken arm, chicken pox...there was not an ailment that Canada Dry and Nabisco could not cure. I called Mom and told her my symptoms, namely that it felt like I was on the teacup ride at Disney World. She told me I should go to the hospital and when Mom says that, you go. But first I had to make a pit stop downstairs at the ATM to get cash for the taxi. Using the hostess cupcake stand as a crutch, I got my money and hopped into the first car that I saw, which thankfully ended up being a cab. "To the emergency room, and step on it!" I yelled. I always wanted to say that.

I was a bit worried about going to the hospital in my neighborhood, Astoria being known more for its prowess in the souvlaki industry then for its advances in the medical field. And I was all prepared to recount how horribly unprofessional they were, but you know what? They rocked. They took me right away and the only ridiculous thing that they asked me was, "Do you think you are having a stroke?" Not knowing the symptoms of a stroke, and taking into account that I am a 28 year old woman, I assumed correctly that we could rule out a stroke. The doctor diagnosed the problem as Vertigo, and they promptly got to work. She gave me some pills to take and the nurse didn't bat an eye when I threw them up on her. "It happens all of the time," she assured me. They cut off the lights for me and even made the guy one curtain over turn down The Maury Povich Show so I could get some rest. I stayed there for a few hours as the spinning died down from "Teacups at Disney" level to a "docked boat" phase, which is basically the phase I have remained at for the better part of a week now.

There is a very clinical explanation that the doctor gave me for how I have Vertigo. It's bad luck. Apparently I had some inner ear virus that went away, but it triggered something in my equilibrium that is throwing me off balance. And apparently it doesn't really go away. It comes and goes when it damn well pleases, thankyouverymuch. The worse part about Vertigo, other than the whole thinking that I was dying, is that U2's "Vertigo" keeps playing in my head. I love U2 and all, but enough already.

An open letter to Match.com

2007-02-10T22:45:00.000-05:00

To: Match.com
From: Suss
Cc: Dr. Phil

Dear Match.Com,

It’s over.

Match.com, you and I are parting ways, and not a moment too soon.

Of sure, you and Dr. Phil talk a good game. Your catchy ads are all over the damn place, instilling hope in thousands of singletons that the love of your life is just one mouse click away. I can’t turn on the TV without seeing Dr. Phil, posed inquisitively with his hand under his chin, silently judging me as I scoop peanut butter out of a jar with a celery stalk. It was with a wary mind that I first joined up, and now I am kicking myself for wasting $39.95 plus tax. Damn you and your stringent stance on prorating membership fees. I’ll be taking my business elsewhere, thank you very much.

Dr. Phil, I’m really pointing the finger of blame for my disastrous love life at you. I needed a hand to guide me though the dating process. I was excited when you and match promised to deliver “folksy dating advice.” I’ve yet to receive said advice, unless you count, "If you want to be a winner in love, you want to be a winner in relationships, then do what it takes" as advice. It isn’t. What in the hell does that quote even mean? I’ve seriously read it ten times and I can’t figure it out. Oh, I’m supposed to pay an extra $8.99 a month for you to go into detail about what you mean? Are you kidding me, Dr. Phil? You must really think I am a sucker.

The nail in the coffin had to be your match.com episode, where you brought on real customers of match.com and set them up with dates. Well, imagine my surprise when you brought on a handsome, husky teacher who loves college football and traveling, and has an English bulldog. In other words, my dream man. Not only did you fail to invite me to appear on your show, you set up my soul mate with some ditsy blonde right in front of me and your studio audience! Not cool, Dr. Phil, not cool.

And to the suits over there in the match.com headquarters, don’t think you are getting off easy with me. I’ve got a bone to pick with you, too. I’m not sure what kind of mathematical equation you use to come up with your numbers, but when you send me daily emails of people with whom you think I would have a “perfect connection,” could you maybe send me people with which I would have more than a 65% match with? Seriously? 65%? Is that the best you can do? You claim to have over 15 million members. Can we find someone with whom I might have, oh, I don’t know, an 80% chance of tolerating? And while you are at it, stop asking me if I am looking for “The One.” I’m not. I’m looking for someone to grab a cup of coffee with me. Maybe, if things get serious, we’ll go to Home Depot.

I also don’t need up-to-the-minute reminders of who has emailed me. Knowing someone contacted me 18 hours ago doesn’t make me suddenly want to email them back. I didn’t like them 18 hours ago, so what makes you think I’ll like them now?

Match, I know that Dr. Phil and your employees have their hands full with editing profiles, taking my hard earned money, etc…so I have kindly included a list of things that I strongly feel your male clients should avoid doing and/or writing if they want to actually make out with a woman. Men, these are the reasons that I did not return your emails, your “winks,” or your second email asking me if I got the first email:

1.) You wrote all in caps. Don’t do that. IT MAKES YOU SEEM LIKE A LUNATIC. See? It’s off-putting.

2.) You wore an exorbitant amount of gold chains or you used an exorbitant amount of hair gel. In extreme cases, you did both.

3.) You failed to use a spell check and proper punctuation. This is the first contact with someone else. You really want to go with “im a kinde man whose lookin for lvoe.” Really? That’s what you are going with?

4.) Maybe you spelled and punctuated things correctly, but you didn’t carefully proofread. One email I received said that you were “looking for a woman with a good shoulder on her head.” I knew what you meant, but it still annoyed me.

5.) You told me that you wanted to “caress my buns and unfold my musk.” Ew. I don’t know what my musk is, but methinks I’ll be keeping it folded, thanks.

6.) You emailed my friend and repeatedly referred to her as “My lady.” This didn’t even happen to me and it’s still bothersome. Calling someone “my lady” is only appropriate at Renaissance fairs.

7.) Think long and hard before you come up with a screen name. You really don’t want to call yourself Mr.LoverLips. What if we hit it off and get married? And then we have babies and have to tell them how we met? Will our grandchildren call you Grandpa Loverlips? It’s too much to handle. Use a more sensible screen name, please.

8.) Do not use R, U, 4, or any other abbreviations that my twelve year old
students write when passing notes in my class. You are trying to date someone, right? Well, go that extra mile and write out the whole word.

9.) Please, I beg of you. Do not write LOL. Once, I can overlook. Twice is
pushing it but perhaps you want to be clear that you are kidding. When used after every sentence, it scares me. Why are you laughing out loud continually? Are you high? Do you have tourette's? I don’t understand.

10.) You used emoticons. :) :( ;) It just seems kind of girly. Sorry.

11.) When you email someone, have a purpose. This is the latest email
I have received from a man named Jerry, cut and pasted lest you think I am making this up.

“I do not work Mondays but it is so late my brain is melting : ) I noticed your profile and I felt it had a cute vibe so I decided to say "hello", lol. We do seem to have a few things in common which help things along.”

Jerry, with all due respect, what in the hell am I supposed to do with that? It’s as if you started your email in the middle of an imaginary conversation. It would make sense if I had asked you if you worked on Mondays, or if I had inquired about your brain melting. But this was out of nowhere.

Match, I know that some of these complaints make me seem like a picky snob. I assure you, I’m not. Please see my unrequited crushes on Artie Lange, Philip Seymour Hoffman and Jack Black for proof. And I know that many people have had wonderful experiences on Match, and perhaps I am in the minority. However, I’ve already emailed you once to cancel my subscription, yet you continue to contact me with empty promises of free months to lure me back into your grasp. I swear, you people are harder to get out of than the mob.

Sincerely,
Suss

Serial Massagist

2007-01-07T20:36:00.000-05:00

Last night I was walking to a bar when I decided to take off my coat, it being a balmy 95 degrees here in the city. I noticed this man in front of me who had looked back at me a few times, but thought nothing much about it. By the next block, I began to take a cautioned note when his pace seemed to echo mine. I sped up, he sped up. I slowed down, he slowed down. Then he turned to me.

“Can you believe this weather? Crazy, huh? I’m about to take off my coat, too!”

Oh. Okay. He’s a nice man who likes to talk about the weather. No cause for alarm.

“Yeah, I know, I can’t believe it,” I replied. “We’re supposed to get flurries this week though.”

He made small talk as we walked down the street. I was not interested in conversing with this man, but I made polite conversation nonetheless. Somewhere around the time when he mentioned that women don’t wear underwear when it gets this warm out, the conversation took a turn for the worse.

“You know, this is the perfect night to curl up with someone and get a good foot massage…”

I saw now where this was going.

“Would you be interested in a foot massage from me? I give amazing foot massages. I would love to give you one right now and I live close by.”

For a split second, and I mean the teeny tiniest of time increments, I thought, “You know, my feet do hurt.” The thought was fleeting, replaced with the more reasonable thought of being chopped up and thrown into the Hudson, my picture on the cover of the Post with quotes from my friends saying, “I told her not to wear those heels! The last time she wore them she had to walk home barefoot because her feet hurt so bad. Good riddance.”

I politely (too politely, probably) turned down his offer. “Oh, I don’t think so. Thanks, though!”

He surprised me by not giving up his quest to rub my feet. Surprised me and startled me, I should say, because he got down on his knees, right there on 33rd and 2nd Avenue, and said, “Please, please! Just one foot massage. I promise you’ll love it.”

What I would have loved was some mace. But I went with Plan B, the old fake boyfriend bit. “I’m meeting my boyfriend on the corner, so, no.”

Thankfully we were at the end of the block, away from the bushes and dark corners where I could have met my doom on 33rd Street. And as quickly as he came into my life, my massagist was gone. He hopped up from the ground and hoofed it, clearly intimidated from my imaginary boyfriend.

I took a cab home.

Rocky? Really?

2007-01-06T17:47:00.000-05:00

Confession. I have never seen Rocky I through V. Never even once. Not even on "TBS: Guys Who Like Movies" night. So it surprises me to tell you that I not only did I go see Rocky VI last night, but that I found it delightful. This reviewer thought that, while the years may not have been kind to Sly, his character was kind of...dare I say...adorable? At one point during the movie, I actually let out an "Awww!" when he changes a lightbulb for his girlfriend. Though now that I think about it, that's a bit disconcerting. Maybe my reaction is an indication of how low my standards are for a boyfriend. I mean, really, changing a lightbulb? That's what impresses me nowadays.

So there you have it. Rocky VI? Very enjoyable.

The First

2007-01-02T19:26:00.000-05:00

I've been saying for a while now that I might start a blog. Literally tens of people have been clamoring for me to write something and I've been all, "No, no, I'm way too busy to write on a semi-regular basis." Well, this new year has forced me to look at myself and say, "Christina, what is it, exactly, that you do?" I promptly wrote up an exhaustive and meticulous list on how I spend my days. According to myself, I watch Beverly Hills, 90210 and I shop at The Gap. Now, sometimes if I'm feeling particularly saucy, I mix it up and go to Pottery Barn. Those activities pretty much equal a perfect afternoon in my book. But seeing them in writing, on the back of an unopened student loan bill, was a little jarring. I stared at my sad excuse for a list for quite a while.

Because The Peach Pit has been closed for years now and I own most of The Gap's Fall Line, I thought I might try to keep a blog. A few warnings before we embark. I can't promise that I will write every day. I can't promise I will be topical. I will probably be neither grammatically nor politically correct. I might not talk about anything but myself and, if I do talk about something else besides my inability to balance my checkbook or how some drunk idiot at some bar insulted me, the topic might be about something frivolous and US Weekly-esque. In other words, I'm not solving any wars here, people.

I also can't promise what I write will be at all interesting. You see, I started writing a few years ago when I took an unfortunate spill on the 6 train after stepping into a pile of discarded spaghetti. Thankfully, that kind of nonsense does not happen to me every day. But the incident gave me a reason to write, a story to tell. And, from time to time, I would do other stupid things and I would document them as well. I had all kinds of time to write at the time because I was working as a receptionist for a clothing company. My job was to sit in front of a computer and enter in the daily sales. People who love fashion would have killed for my position because there was room to grow within the company and become a saleswoman. I hated it. I was only at the job because it gave me the freedom to go to grad school at night and frankly, I could care less about silk dupioni capelets. A whole cape, now there's a concept that I could get behind, because then you could pretend to be a superhero. But I never caught on to the the capelet craze and I was shunned by my coworkers accordingly. Anyway, emailing my friends with stupid stories and entering outfits into an outdated computer is how I would spend my days until one fateful afternoon when I accidentally logged in a pair of pants "Yellow 37" instead of the preferred nomenclature of "Pale Yellow 42." Let me tell you, that's a mistake you only make once. The people at the home office in Taiwan got wind of the mistake and apparently I caused some sort of silk dupioni international crisis. I got out of that soul crushing job soon after, but sadly left my time for writing with it. Now I am a teacher, meaning that I don't have much time for anything until a Jewish holiday falls on a weekday, or it's July.

Another warning. I might offend someone. I thought long and hard about who I should send my blog link to because one of these days, I might write about you. Don't fret because it is far more likely that I won't write about you at all and I will instead write something embarrassing about myself that I don't want certain people to know about. But then I thought, fuck it, who cares? Oh, another warning...I may curse from time to time. Anyway, since my family has been nothing but supportive about my writing, I decided to send them the link. But Family, just so you know, one of these days I might blog about who let me go to school with a Pat Benatar haircut and a Spuds MacKenzie t-shirt on yearbook picture day. Or who didn't catch that for the first eight weeks of first grade, everyone at school thought my name was Sissy Sussman because the handwriting on the emergency forms apparently wasn't clear. You can read this, but I'm warning you, at some point you might want to cut me out of the will. That's a chance I'm willing to take if you are. I'm not worried about offending my dad because he can't use a toaster much less a computer. Ex-boyfriends, beware. I'll probably bitch about you. I'm looking at you, guy who forbid me to wear sweatpants.

Hopefully with the dawn of the new year I'll have lots of interesting things to talk about. I might join eharmony or match.com and if I do, you can bet your bippy I'll write about any and all horrible blind dates. I also decided to get a trainer at the gym so when I knock myself out with a dumbell, you, my faithfull readers, will be the first to know.

So that's it. The one thing I need from you is help for a title. This website demands that you name your blog before you start it, which is pressure that I don't need. For now, I'll call it "Suss Says." I started this game in my drama classroom called "Sussman Says" in order to teach my kids the parts of the stage. It's exactly like "Simon Says" but I use my last name. See what I did there? Shockingly, a vast majority of my kids had never played "Simon Says" so I had to explain the rules and break up a few fights before we began. They loved my game. Of course I've created a small problem for myself because now they refuse to do anything unless I say, "Sussman Says" first. Now, in a typical 40 minute class period, I'll say. "Get out your notebooks. No, you may not go to the nurse, just get a tissue. Stop throwing pencils!" no less than 13 times. They think it's hilarious to yell, "You didn't say 'Sussman Says' first!' and then chuck an eraser across the room.

I think I need a new game.