The last time I went to Live With Regis and Kelly, two of the young actors from All My Children were in the audience. (In case you're an AMC fan, they were Maggie/Frankie and the "new" JR.) After the show, I walked down Columbus Avenue to catch the 1/2 (I still think of it as the 1/9 though, because I'm now an old veteran, since I've been here before "9/11", when it was still the 1/9) (what is this -- "Fun With Fractions"?), and I was right behind the two of them. They were joking around, acting like the krazy kidz I'm sure they are, and about a block away from the studio, "JR" turned to leave. That left me on the sidewalk right behind Maggie.
The way I gawked at the back of her head (her hair actually looked a little greezy), you would've thought I was sharing a sidewalk with Sarah (or maybe even Sandra) Bernhardt. Of course, the first thing I had to do was compare her, size-wise, to me. She's shorter, I noted with a touch of superiority, and probably a touch thinner, I realized with swift hatred, but then again, that's probably an illusion because she's shorter. Thus satisfied that the short, slender actress and I were really of the same size, I was free to note/gloat that she was wearing a ton of makeup that she certainly "needed", while I, of course, was a natural beauty whose oh so subtle makeup was worn out of desire and not of necessity. Still, her jeans were certainly hipper than mine, her boots snappier (I instantly lamented not wearing a kickier pair), her jacket funkier. But that didn't stop me from taking advantage of my proximity to her when both of us stopped at a red light a couple of blocks from where she and "JR" had parted ways.
Say something, I goaded myself. Just fucking say something. Don't just stand there. Say something.
So I kicked myself in the ass with my not-as-groovy boot, turned to my left, tapped her on the shoulder, and said, "I'm so glad you're back on All My Children!" (In case you don't watch the show, "Frankie" was killed, the actress was off the show, and then she returned as Frankie's twin, "Maggie".) (I'm sorry, but I don't write the stuff.) I don't think I "gushed", but I may have. I do think I was "cool", though. Even though I may have grinned excessively. She grinned (nice teeth), laughed (cutely), and thanked me (graciously and genuinely) (I think).
So I followed her for about another block and a half, until thankfully she stopped at the entrance of a building to talk to some guys she apparently knew. Otherwise, I'm sure I would have followed her around town like the stalker I was quickly, shamefully and lamely, becoming.
Now what does this have to do with anything? And who the hell cares if I saw a minor actress who is virtually unknown to anyone who hasn't watched All My Children in the few months since her character was introduced? I mean, hey, it's not like she's Tori Spelling or anything.
Well, I began to think how funny it would be if a "celebrity" were to come up to a "normal" (you know what I mean) person, such as, well ... ME ... and, grinning maniacally, tap me excitedly on the shoulder and breathlessly say something like, "Oh, I just adored you as Word Processor #2 at DiPaolo, Bach & Freeman in 1986! And you were riveting in your three-week temp position, in 1991, as Relief Receptionist at Margolis & Fine!" And then that celebrity would follow me around town, taking note of the cut of my jeans, the swing of my hair, the heels of my boots, the size of my hips (slim, and oh so trim!), and what I bought at the convenience store (just a bottle of Evian, thank you). And then go to the studio, and, while in the makeup chair, sipping her Evian, rethinking the cut of her jeans and the hipness of her boots, grab the arm of her co-star in the adjacent chair, and say, "You'll never guess who I saw on the street today!!!"
And then the co-star would ask what I was wearing, where I was going, if I was half as gorgeous in person as I looked on TV ...
... and at the end of the day, when we'd all be lying in our beds, worrying about tomorrow and what to wear, maybe one of us would realize that the next day we'd all still be just a bunch of ridiculous girls in jeans and boots, walking down the same city sidewalks.
No, the above title does not refer to any pornographic img I may have encountered at the Pace/MacGill gallery yesterday. That's because I didn't go. But before you roll your eyes and say, "Oh, she probably wound up staying inside all day again, watching Bewitched," let me explain.
I didn't go because I had to get to Macy's. But more on that later.
Although I didn't go to Pace/MacGill, I did go to the American Craft Museum, and therein lies the "shaft" referred to above. I don't particularly care for that word (in fact, it should probably have made my recent list), but it rhymes with "craft" and I was indeed "shafted" (please don't make me use any form of this word again!), so there you have it. Or don't, as the case may be (and was) at the museum.
The "it" that wasn't had was the stickpin exhibit and one-third of the "Objects for Use" exhibit. After paying my $7.50 and getting excited because there was, indeed, a rather appealing gift shop, I went down the stairs to see the first part of the Objects display. The writing on the wall (or whatever it's technically called) (does anyone know?), which I actually read (usually I pretend to read, even moving my eyes back and forth as if really doing so), promised three parts of the exhibit: Food and Dining; Interior Space; and Sport, Music and Play. Only the first two were available in the museum "proper". The third was on display at the Deutsche (sp.?) Bank, which I think is adjacent to the museum.
However, according to the gift shop guy, "because of September 11", and the increased security at the bank, the part of the exhibit that had been housed at the bank was closed. It seems that the huge inconvenience of having to actually bring picture ID was enough of a deterrent for would-be attendees. I say that if you're stupid enough to walk around without picture identification any time, either before or after September 11, then you shouldn't be permitted to gain access to anything more stimulating than a Starbucks or McDonald's. But hey, what do I know.
I do know that the stickpin exhibit was not closed "because of September 11". (Please don't think I don't respect the sanctity of that date, but I'm really getting sick of everything being blamed on September 11. But that's another subject for another day.) It seems that the museum needed a new air-conditioning system, so rather than provide its patrons with the promised exhibit through its original run date, the museum decided to move its office staff into the bottom floor of the actual museum, thus displacing the exhibit. Thus pissing me off.
So as it turned out, I got to see two not-too-large floors of handmade household objects. Cool stuff, indeed, including corkscrews, flatware, bottlestoppers, teapots, candlesticks, stemware, and knives (all far more gorgeous than anything at Ikea, Crate & Barrel, and, yes, kids, Pottery Barn) and one fantastic rug called "Fusion" (wool, cotton, metal, and latex) (oooh, latex!) by an Olympia, Washington, artist named Gloria E. Crouse, and a(n?) hilarious forged mild (as opposed to spicy?) steel nutcracker by Thomas Latane of Pepin, Wisconsin.
It would have been nice if, upon approaching the desk to pay the admission fee, someone had informed everyone that one exhibit was now non-existent and the other was only two-thirds intact. I suppose I still would have paid $7.50 to see the stuff that was there, because it was somehow uplifting to see uncommonly beautiful versions of the common objects of our everyday lives.
But then again, there was a lot of ugly shit too that smacked of some bored housewife somewhere sitting at a pottery wheel, envisioning herself sitting between the masculine knees of a transparent Patrick Swayze.
P.S. Stay tuned for info regarding my first ever shopping experience at Macy's Herald Square!
After one day of self-imposed exile, during which I subsisted on a diet of popcorn, matzoh, tortilla chips with satanic salsa, and hideously horrible television shows, I am pleased to report that I've had it up to here (somewhere above my eyebrows but not quite above the tiptop of my keppie) with the hibernation. So today I'm going to head uptown for some "culture" (which you must pronounce KUL-chuh). First I'm going to the American Craft Museum for "Mikromegas" to see "whimsical stickpins" and "Objects for Use: Handmade by Design", which includes "functional works by 200 artists". Because there's nothing this girl likes better than whimsy and function.
I just hope there's not a gift shop, because I'll probably be compelled to buy a stickpin, even though I know that I'll never wear it if I do buy it and I'll kick myself in the ass for lying to myself that "I'll wear it on my denim jacket!!" even as I hand over my hard-earned (ahem) money for one. (For the record, I did buy a pin at the Art Expo when I was helping my friend earlier this month, and when I wore it, I felt like everyone was staring at it and me. It has since broken, damn it, and although I'm pissed off, I'm also a bit "relieved" because this means I won't feel compelled to wear it just because I bought it.) I'm assuming the whimsy and function were accomplished without the benefit of a glue gun. I also hope there's nothing that a four-year-old could duplicate in a daycare setting.
After that, I plan to go to Pace/MacGill for an exhibit called "Photems" by Robert Rauschenberg/Robert Heinecken, which New York magazine describes as follows:
...totemic arrangements of black-and-white photographs from the fifties through 1979, when the artist endeavored to photograph the entire United States inch by inch/Mysterious photographic montages that were fabricated by the artist in 1970 by using the pages of pornographic magazines as negatives.
I just hope the "inch by inch" stuff is separate from the pornography, because I fear that the word "totemic" may refer to something naughty. And I'm also scared there may be a gift shop there as well, and I may find some sort of dickpin to display on my denim jacket.
It's raining, I watched "Emergency Vets" against my better judgment, wound up crying again, this time causing the cat to look my way in disbelief, and now I'm seriously considering the option of going out to get something to drink, because there's no Crystal Light, no caffeine-free (why?) Diet Coke, and only one paper cup of coffee in the refrigerator, bought on Saturday but still drinkable.
I'm hoping that it's benefitted from its stay in the refrigerator, and that its flavors, like that of either a fine wine or certain leftovers, have not only mingled but hobnobbed, and I will finally benefit from my procrastination -- or, more accurately, neglect, since it wasn't really procrastination that abandoned the coffee in the refrigerator but a maddening loss of memory of even the most mundane matters (except, apparently, alliteration).
The excitement I experienced upon "finding" the coffee in the refrigerator this morning was akin to that which I felt on a recent occasion, when I found $3.32 in an interior pocket of a jacket (yes, I'm the kind of girl whose jackets have interior pockets). Then, you would've thought the decimal point was non-existent. And today, you would've thought I opened my refrigerator and found Johnny Depp, shivering, blue-lipped, and in need of a warm blanket and a psychotic, teary-faced, matzoh-munching bum with whom to share it.
As I wrote in an email to a friend, "I want to marry the person who wrote this. She could be a gout-necked, club-footed, toothless, alopecia-inflicted troll, but still ... I'd love 'er."
Cintra, marry me.
1. Denzel - rah rah!
2. Gwynneth - bra bra! (as in "please wear one")
Well, I've decided that if I'm going to keep up the charade of being everyone's favorite Wandering Jew, I'd better get out there and do me some wanderin'. I mean, what kind of girl about town would I be if I didn't occasionally get out of my pajamas and into "street clothes", let my hair down (quite literally), and venture into the so-called real world to see what's happening outside of Pine Valley? Do I really need to see one more obese toddler waddling out onto the Maurystage wearing nothing more than a Sumo-sized diaper, hear one more snaggle-toothed, mullet-haired macho schmuck bragging about how he "owns" his "bitch", or witness one more wet-faced, long-lost mother/daughter reunion? I suppose it's only a matter of time before I metamorphosize not into a giant cockroach but into a belligerent teen in a tube top stretched over my enormous adolescent chest, bulbous gut proudly exposed for all the world to see, and give the jeering audience the ever-popular double finger as I say, "You don't know me! Don't hate! Don't hate!"
Every once in a while I turn into a hermit, and, except for jaunts to the James and Pilates, hibernate in the apartment for a few days. Days where I'll get my complete RDA of all essential nutrients from three Wasa crackers, a can of chick peas, 14 Viactivs, Crystal Light lemonade, and a Milk Bone. Eventually, however, the glamour wears off, and I realize that I really have to "get crackin'" (which for obvious reasons always makes me think of two big, nude, obnoxiously white ass cheeks and a cat o' nine tails) and make sure I get the hell out of the house.
So today I took the N/R (my favorite subway, for some reason -- and not because it stops right outside of a Banana Republic or Bloomingdale's) to the New Museum so I could witness a large mechanical installment called Cloaca produce large mechanical kaka.
Since January 25, the 33-foot long Cloaca, conceived by Belgian artist Wim Delvoye, has been inhabitating a room of its own at the museum, where it actually ingests two meals a day, digests that food (and it's good stuff too, from local restaurants such as Markt, Jerry's, and Savoy), and, once a day, at around 2:30 p.m., displays the results of its remarkable digestive powers for an all too eager audience. It is fed twice daily (in private at 11:00 a.m. and on display at 4:30 p.m.) through a plastic funnel "mouth" that leads to a garbage disposal and then a meat grinder, both of which chew the food before it embarks on its 24-hour tour of Cloaca's own digestive system. Cloaca's stomach, pancreas, and small and large intestines are presented as six glass reactor chambers into which chemicals to aid digestion (acids, bases, and bile, to name just a tasty few) are added. Electronic sensors monitor the chambers, and the food is pumped from one chamber to the next via a series of tubes and pipes that connect them.
So there we were. Just two of us at first, silently bonding with Cloaca if not each other, both pretending we were there just to enjoy Cloaca's company as we scribbled nonsense in our respective notebooks. (My elegant entry consisted of this: I can't believe I'm waiting around to see a machine take a shit.) Occasionally other people would sort of tentatively step into the room, wry smiles attached to their faces, glance sheepishly at Cloaca, information pamphlets in hand, and then disappear. A few remained. But by 2:20, there was quite a gathering. I started to feel all self-righteous. None of these shitheads better block my view, I fumed silently. They haven't even bothered to give the thing the courtesy of an introductory walk-around. Damned voyeurs. They're just here for the end result. They care NOTHING for the -- the -- the process of elimination! Indeed, one goofy-smiled chick actually went up to the guard and asked, "Did it poop yet?" (Aside: Add "poop" to my list.)
Finally the moment arrived. Everyone congregated around the glass enclosure like proud grandparents waiting for infants to be wheeled into the maternity ward. There were giggles. Laughs. Guffaws (uh, that would be me, in response to one guy's comment that it would be funny if there were a little magazine rack inside the enclosure) (OK, it wasn't that funny, but I was a little nervous).
And then, without fanfare, either trumpet or otherwise, Cloaca did its duty. (Sorry for the homophone.) It looked more like a glob of chocolate frosting squeezed through a pastry bag than "fecal matter" (a term I will never be able to say with a straight face). One old guy applauded. I, again, guffawed. (I'm surprised I didn't start barking like a circus seal, and flapping my flippers.) Two or three of us snapped pictures ... before the guard came over and said it wasn't allowed. I, of course, swallowed my camera and fled the building immediately.
I won't even address all the pretentious artistic interpretation crap here. I did agree with a couple of very basic comments offered by two guys near me. One said, "I feel like I'm invading someone's privacy!" And the other said something about a very private function being put on very public display. I wanted to toss in something about how remarkable it is that Cloaca's digestive tract is only twice as long as ours.
I must say that I half expected Cloaca to turn its back, arch its eyebrow, and tell us all to "scat".
P.S. One of the guys I was talking to said that the guard told him that earlier this week Cloaca actually "had the runs". Which reminds me. The installment, uh, runs through April 28.
P.S.S. If you really want to see a picture of the end product, email me.
Update: You can see the picture here. Go on. Click it. You know you want to.
There are things I hate to do, behavior I will not tolerate, people I cannot stand, and foods I will not eat. There are also certain words and phrases that make me cringe audibly when I hear them and which I have taken a very solemn vow never to allow passage from my lips. I hereby offer the following list (in no particular order), which is by no means exhaustive, which of course means that I reserve the right to add to the list at any time. And believe you me (uggh), I will. Or shall. Whatever.
- My bad
- It's a sin
- He/she is a sweetheart
- Sue me
- School of hard knocks
- It's all good
- Be nice
- Pardon my French
- [Whatever] From hell
- Thank God It's Friday
- Hump day
- Party (as a verb)
- Club (as a verb)
- Take a leak
- Between you and I
- Vagina (you can keep your monologues)
- Biological clock
- Working hard or hardly working?
- God's children
- Bat cave
- [Anything]-oholic or -aholic (except for alcoholic)
- Business casual
- Thank goodness
- Guilty pleasure
- Go [team name]
- Beer goggles
- Been there, done that
- Any coffee description other than "coffee", "cappuccino", or "espresso"
- Upside the head
- Day of beauty
- Nathan Lane
Today is my first dog, Shrdze's, birthday. (That's SHUR-dzuh. Not SHRID-zee, kids.) I mean, it would be if she were still alive. Then again, it's still the day she was born, so it's really still her birthday. Even if she died in 1986 (which she did). So let's all, uh, paws (I really do apologize) for a moment and wish her a happy 28th.
Happy birthday, Shrdze ... you pink-nosed, white-fluffed, kasha-head little darling!
Ahhh, if only she were still around. I could be one of those slinky gals about town who carries her dog in a chic quilted bag designed especially for such purposes, and take her with me everywhere, especially the poshest of shops, and talk to her like she's a real baby, and coo to and coddle her like one, and then, sometime 35 years or so from now, the good people at Fauchon would automatically hand me delicate butter cookies that my gnarled hands would then feed gingerly to the dogless bag.
A girl can dream, can't she?
Well, it's about time. Tonight, according to weather.com, there's a Winter Weather Advisory in effect until 4:04 a.m. EST! Yes, that's right. Four-oh-four. Not 4:00. Not 4:15. Not even 4:05, which would be just slightly less ridiculous in its precision. And tomorrow's forecast is for a Wintry Mix. (Warning: May contain traces of peanut.)
I, for one (or two or three, depending on if you're crossing your eyes or not), am thrilled. Couldn't be happier. I'm sick of this "unseasonably warm" garbage. Sick of seeing pasty, wan legs in the middle of March. Sick of toes (yes, some girls have already exposed theirs). Sick of hearing people say, "Oh, it's so beautiful out!" when yet another day insists on reaching into the 60s. Yesterday I actually read on someone's website (someone I don't even know, but he lives in Manhattan too) that he was tired of the cold winter weather. I don't know. Maybe he lives uptown, and the climate's different above 24th Street? You never know.
I just hope I wake up tomorrow (well, yes, I suppose I could end the sentence right there) and see snow piled on the skylights. I hope I look out my front window and see evidence of winter. I hope I see coats buttoned as high as they can button, zipped as high as they can zip, pants stuffed into boots. Red noses, ducked heads. Hats. I hope I see a hapless tourist somewhere freezing his feet off in skippy little sneakers. His wife yelling, "I told you we should of [sic] packed the coats!" His kids whining.
Hey, if the weather makes just one person miserable, then I'll be happy. But the more of them there are, the merrier I'll be.
Remind me, please, someone, to avoid watching "Emergency Vets" (Animal Planet) anymore. It's just too traumatic. I won't go into any details here, because I know it would upset my "DOG" (if not the lower-case variety that shares this apartment with us). All I'll say is that midway through the show this afternoon, I was left a sobbing mess. And when I reached over to pet my snoozing cat, she promptly woke up, took one disdainful look at my ridiculous teary face, and muttered something indecipherable.
I think she called me a "pussy".
Considering the source, is that an insult?
Today on "The View" (is this going to be a trend with me? if so, shouldn't they pay me?), Jane Fonda sat on the sofa talking about something or other. I didn't really listen. I couldn't. I was just so/too mesmerized by her neck. I mean, her face looks like it did 15 or 20 years ago, as does her hair, as does her body. But the neck ... well ... it looks as if the years erased from her face have been redistributed several inches below it.
I do realize that she's an older woman now, and things change. I have no problem with that. There's nothing wrong with aging (despite what you may have heard). It's just that if you're going to pretend you're 45 years old when you're old enough to be your own mother, then shouldn't you at least keep your neck abreast or just ahead of the game?
Yesterday on "The View", one of the guests was an exercise "expert" (I don't know his name, but he did sport a mustache that was very much like that of Mark Spitz, circa 1972) whose purpose was to inform the world of ten (?) mistakes women make when working out. (Men, for the record, don't make mistakes -- either in the gym or out. Please make a note of it.) Of course, being the exercise aficionado that I am, I already knew everything he told the world in general and the stunned fivesome in particular. EXCEPT. Except for this one item:
You should try to break a sweat while working out.
It's raining, it's pouring, and somewhere, I'm sure, there's just gotta be an old man who's snoring. And here, in lovely downtown Manhattan, there's a young (ahem) girl (ahhhem) who's dancing. Or at least prancing. Or who was at least splashing joyfully through puddles on her way home from the gym, gaily singing the theme to "Sesame Street" softly to herself.
Yes, nothing says Hello, pleased to meet you, and why yes, I'd love a sedative, thank you than my actions this morning on my way home. When I saw that it was raining (and not merely drizzling, as it was doing when I left home earlier), I looked up at the sky, sighed loudly, and grinned maniacally, barely able to contain my excitement. If I'd worn a hat, I would've tossed it into the air a la Mary Tyler Moore. Instead, I almost literally skipped down the slick pavement (OK, so a couple of times I did skip, but who's counting?). And I definitely turned my face to the rain and walked a few steps with my eyes closed.
And then ... I was mugged.
(No I wasn't. I just wanted to make sure you were listening.)
Oh, how I love the rain! If you know me "personally" (and most of you do), you know that I prefer it over sunshine any day. In fact, if you know me well, you know that sunshine actually pisses me off. (No, I don't know why. I don't care why. Don't question me.) Give me the rain, and gray skies, any day. And not just because it used to mean that gym class would be held indoors, which meant that we wouldn't play softball -- so I wouldn't be forced to display my almost freakish inability (bordering on disability) to hit or catch the ball (oy, I could tell you stories -- and some day I will) -- and instead we'd all square dance in the gym (which I secretly loved).
So when I reached the triangle where Broadway and Fifth Avenue converge and turned to see my beloved Flatiron Building, I just had to take a picture. For some reason, I'd avoided taking one since moving here in November 2000, because I didn't want to seem like a tourist in my own neighborhood. I mean, every day, without fail, I see at least one person standing at the same spot as I stood this morning, looking up at "my" building and taking photos. And every time I see someone doing it, I think, "Doofy turista!" But then I realized, Who's the girl who, twice in the past seven days, went on little adventuras that had her gleefully snapping photo after photo in other neighborhoods in the city? (Oooh, there's my delicious double standard [hold the cheese]!)
Anyway, it's raining. I'm happy. In fact, I couldn't be happier. (Well, I could ... but where am I going to find a square dancing partner on such short notice?)
Amazing. I just saw the Shaolin monks on "Live With Regis and Kelly". One of the monks put the tip of a spear to his throat and had Regis push against it with all his weight as he, the monk, opposed the force with his own weight. Of course all of my confidence was placed in the monk, but I still thought that somehow Regis would manage to "monk"ey (sorry) around and wind up pushing the spear through the monk's throat. I envisioned Regis, "Live", ABC, and Disney being charged with manslaughter as a result of the delightful blood bath ... but no! It was absolutely awesome, in the true sense of the word.
So why is it that I can't even manage to walk down the street without spontaneously bursting a capillary?
Today it's not Indian food. Today it's the memory of what happened six months ago. Six months ago, each day seemed to take a week to pass ... and now, even though so many weeks separate us from September 11, it still seems like only one has passed since my world, our world, changed forever.
Today my stomach lurches, my head pounds, and my heart aches. Still.
What a difference a day (or six months) makes? Hardly.
Being sick used to be fun. It used to be my excuse for not taking a shower, lying on the sofa all day under a mess of blankets, watching bad TV, drinking warm ginger ale, nibbling Saltines, and having free reign to act like a big baby. It was even somehow reassuring to have my mom hovering from time to time, testing me for fever, first with her lips and then with the thermometer. (Please. It was oral.) Being sick, best of all, meant no school.
So, I've been feeling quite ill ever since Friday afternoon. On Friday afternoon I had lunch at an Indian buffet. So, using my brilliant powers of deduction, I've concluded that the cause of my malaise was the Indian food. Add to this the fact that the mere thought of the words "Indian food" causes my stomach to contract threateningly, and there you have it. In fact, just the typing of those two words is doing the strangest things to my entire digestive system.
Now I have no school. I have no work. No obligations. No "have to"s. So now being sick isn't quite as much fun. In fact, it's a pain in the ass. (Or, more accurately, a pain in the stomach, a pain in the head, and a pain in the hair. Yes, even my hair hurts. And my skin -- she tingles!) Now I am free to do whatever the hell I want to do any day I want to do it. So now when I can treat a Sunday night like a Wednesday night, when each day is almost indistinguishable from the next (except for the TV schedule, which serves to keep the days in some sort of order -- I mean, I know it's gotta be the weekend when there's no "Maury"), when there is no "school night" or "work night" and every night is just a NIGHT night, being sick just isn't fun anymore. It's not fun because it's not getting me out of anything. What good is lying around on the sofa in my cute little pajama bottoms and fresh little T-shirt, snuggled under a blanket, drinking Crystal Light like the elixir it is, when I can do it any time I want now? What good is acting like a baby when I can do it any day I please?
Why is it, then, that I keep torturing myself by occasionally murmuring (silently) the stomach-wrenching, intestine-clenching mantra Indianfoodindianfoodindianfoodindianfoodindianfood? It's the same sort of self-torture I perform when I have a toothache and encourage my tongue to taunt the achy tooth until that metallic-feeling "twang" jolts my entire head into some sort of submission.
I must be sick!
If any of you could please tell me why it's necessary for the people in the yoga place downstairs to chant and beat on drums until the stroke of midnight, I would really appreciate it. If you can tell me why this has to happen, why these supposedly peace-loving people insist on disturbing mine, I will invite you to accompany me tomorrow when I ask the person in charge what the fuck is going on.
What's in a name?
I dunno. A chewy nougat center?
Check this out, courtesy of a yet another website where I could easily waste a lot of time (so what else is new?).
The name of Joooooookkkyyyy creates a quick, analytical, and clever mind; you are creative, versatile, original, and independent. You have large ambitions, and it is difficult for you to be tolerant and understanding of those who desire less in life or who are more slow and methodical by nature. Patience is not your forte. You do, however, have leadership ability and would never be happy in a subservient position. You are ambitious and aggressive by nature. You would be happiest in positions where you are free to express individually and creatively and where opportunities are not restricted; you desire freedom, and do not tolerate being possessed by others. You appreciate change and travel, and the opportunity to meet and mix with others, and to influence them with your creative ideas. You are very self-confident and feel you can accomplish anything you set out to do, and you can, although, this name does not allow proper completion of undertakings, and forced changes cause financial losses and bitter experiences. This name also creates caustic expression and moods which prevent harmony and happiness in close association. When under strain, tension could affect the stomach and solar plexus. There is a tendency for you to worry.
This describes me so much better than my own name. The one bit that would have made milk come out my nose had I been drinking it (milk, not my nose) (I hate milk, though) (I'm unsure about my nose), is this:
You have a serious desire to understand the heart and mind of everyone, and could be very effective in a career or in volunteer work where you are handling people and serving in a humanitarian way.
(If you know what this reference -- "Working with with Audrey Hepburn to save the lives of countless Third World children" -- well, refers to, then you know just how laughable this really is.)
I think I should seriously consider changing my name to Joooooookkkyyyy. (It's so ... koooooookkkyyyy!) I know it's a boy's name, but then again, so is the one I have now, and who's gonna know the difference? Besides, I could always change the "y"s to "i"s, to girl it up!
All in favor ... raise your Hans!
Reason #2761 why it's better to be a dog:
2761. Their noses don't turn red in the cold.
A red nose is only cute on a particular reindeer. And contrary to popular opinion, red noses are not charming on drunks or clowns.
Why do I do this to myself? Why oh why? Why, when I have even the most miniscule jag of skin on one of my fingers, do I insist on indulging my urge to tear it off, no matter what the consequence? You could tell me that, in so indulging, the entire side of my body occupied by the affected hand (today, the left) would be rendered completely lifeless, and I would still persist. I would probably even flippantly remark, "Oh well. I'm right-handed anyway."
As I nibble at the skin with my teeth (and here I always envision myself as some sort of greasy, rabid rodent, eyes spaced about one centimeter apart), as I feel the seering heat of the tiniest bit of thin-skinned flesh being torn from the finger, and as I see the blood (oh god, I feel faint now, writing this after the fact) rush out as quickly as office workers at 5:01 p.m., I know I'm going to suffer. I know I'm going to regret it. But still I forge on -- mindlessly, diligently, obsessively. You know me: I don't like to rest until I get a job done. I take pride in my work!
So how am I going to explain this to the manicurist? Or do I just keep the Band-AidŽ on and leave this finger (left index, in case you need to picture it) out of the fun? I feel really bad for the finger, now throbbing intensely enough to keep me from sleep. But its wrath is nothing compared to that of its next-door neighbor, the leader of the band, who, not content with just quietly sticking up for his friend, paused by my ear and murmured such things that I don't dare even repeat. It sounded eerily like Marlon Brando.
Should I be scared?
About ten minutes ago, I left a voicemail message for the "DOG", telling him I would be leaving in ten minutes for the Art Expo (where the elegant Jane Seymour will be too). That means that either I should've left already, or I will be leaving soon. Obviously it's the latter.
I'll fill you in with all the exciting details regarding the Art Expo later (including an explanation of why the hell little ol' me was even allowed to go). Of course, I don't know how long or late I will be. I just hope it won't last all afternoon. (What will I tell Ricki, if I miss her at 5:00?)
Anyway, I don't know how long or late I will be. I only hope this thing won't take all afternoon. I expect that within a few hours, I'll be ready to come home ... unless, of course, Jane Seymour wants to have tea at 4:00. And it would just be impolite to refuse.