I'm prettier than you are.
Sunday, 30 June 2002
Fabulous Find

Serendipity is a wonderful thing.

This morning I stumbled upon bottledair.org, a site belonging to a young New Yorker named Elise. Check out her hilarious post, dated June 28, 2002, entitled "The Retirement Cake".

Have it. Eat it. Read it.

(What ... you were expecting me to say she "takes the cake"? Oy. Please.)


Note: Earlier I posted that Elise's site is called "bottledbliss.org" and that the post was dated June 30. Please note that it's "bottledair.org" and the post is dated June 28. (Elise was kind enough not to point out my blunders. The kid's got class.)

fresh-baked at 10:34 PM
Brady Bonanza! play me

Quick! Get off your computer! Tune in to TVLand!

There are four back-to-back episodes of The Brady Bunch on tonight, starting at 8:00 (EST). They're all episodes in which the Bradys sing!

Don't miss Greg as Johnny Bravo, starting at 9:30!

Go! Get out of here! What you waiting for?

fresh-baked at 08:13 PM
Irregular Inanity

As many people in the so-called "blogging" community know, there are several weekly questionnaires, ranging from "Sunday Op-Ed" to "Saturday Scruples", to which many people respond.

I'm not a big fan of routine, so I don't participate in these questionnaires. I don't respond well to regularity (no "laxative" jokes, please -- I'll have to ask you to scat if you insist on making one) (besides, I just did so, and that's about as much hilarity as I can handle). That doesn't mean I don't like reading people's answers. So with that in mind, I hereby offer you my special questionnaire, "Infrequent Inanity", which contains neither a theme nor a purpose -- except my own amusement (I never said I wasn't selfish).

Put down the comics page (and stop pretending you're really reading the serious news, because I'm just not buying it), and answer these simple questions. If you want to post your answers here as a comment, please do so. Or, if you prefer to post them on your own site, leave a comment here with a link to your answers. (Update, 9:32 p.m.: I'd prefer the latter. It will save my "bandwidth", whatever that means. Thanks.)


  1. Are your Sundays spent in a lazy daze or in a panic to get everything done that you didn't accomplish on Saturday?

  2. When you put away freshly laundered towels, do you put them on top of the towels that are already in the closet or at the bottom of the pile?

  3. On a plane, do you prefer an aisle or window (or middle??) seat?

  4. Chinese food: Chopsticks or fork?

  5. French fries: steak-cut or shoestring?

  6. Band-Aids®: Pull off quickly or peel off slowly?

  7. Do you sleep with a stuffed animal (other than your spouse, girlfriend/boyfriend)?

  8. Catherine Zeta-Jones: overrated or ... not?

  9. Chocolate: dark or milk?

  10. Would you ever consider plastic surgery?

  11. Do you love me, do you Surfer Girl?


Thanks for your participation! Stay tuned for future installments of Irregular Inanity. (Maybe.)

fresh-baked at 03:18 PM
Justifiable Schadenfreude

There's a girl at the gym who, about a year ago, lost quite a bit of weight and was looking relatively fantastic. Her attitude, however, was less so. In fact, she was downright churlish as a matter of course and surly when anyone paid her a compliment.

After a while, she just sort of disappeared, and I thought it was because her trainer was no longer around, so maybe she followed him to wherever his new job took him. However, when she reappeared at "my" gym recently, several months after her trainer left, with her old ass and thighs in tow, I deduced that she hadn't followed him at all, but had followed her nose to more than her share of Mr. Softee trucks.

Ordinarily I wouldn't give a fuck if someone gained back the weight they'd lost. I'd think it was a shame that whatever happened to her, happened, and that sooner or later she would probably lose it again, having once tasted how wonderful it felt to have weight literally lifted from her shoulders. But I must say that today, when I saw this chick with her new trainer, and she was surly and inconsiderate to those around her, I tasted a delicious sort of schadenfreude and had no qualms about internally mocking the amporhous mass of dough that her body has become once again.

fresh-baked at 02:40 PM
Sunday Sermon play me

To those of you who expressed a bit of concern, via comments to the post that precedes this one, that my Sunday Sermon would be of a religious nature, I say to you this: Religious? Right.

I am by no means religious. In fact, I detest organized religion. I pray to no one except whatever god(dess) is in charge of making sure my hair looks good on those days when I venture out of the house. The last time I was in a church was a few weeks ago, when I visited Trinity Church downtown to attend a free harpsichord concert that bored me to near tears. And the last time I was in a synogague was ... well, I can't even remember, but I do know that I was in one in 1974 for my brother's bar mitzvah. So don't worry your pretty little heads. There will be no religious prosyletizing. But there is a nice spread of bagels, lox, and all other manner of smoked fish and accoutrements, including some marvelous knishes that I know will have you coming back for more.

Feel free to eat for the duration, but please be aware that if I can't hear myself speak above the sound of your chewing, you will be removed from the premises by that tall man standing in back.

And now, without further ado, is my sermon.

This morning as I walked to the gym, I glanced down at the sidewalk as I often do to make sure that I wasn't stepping on anyone. Now, by "anyone" I don't mean the obvious streetperson, but the occasional errant spider or other lifeform. I'm also curious to see what sort of garbage, in the form of flyers or half-eaten food, is around, because I like to look at almost everything. Everything to me is a veritable feast for the eyes, and I am ravenous for all that I can consume.

I almost wish I hadn't looked down. There, in the middle of the sidewalk, was something that I wish I didn't have to see. It was a small bird, just a little gray guy, a common variety that everyone has probably seen. His delicate wing feathers, stirred by the slight breeze, were all that moved. Indeed, they were the only part of him that will ever move again, because the rest of his body was squashed so deeply into the pavement that it seemed to be part of the concrete.

What happened to this bird? There was no tree around from which he could have fallen. He was in the middle of the pavement, far away from the deathtrap of tires. And somehow I don't think he died of natural causes. Who could have stepped on this bird, and not have noticed ... or noticed, but just didn't care?

As if it wasn't depressing enough to imagine this little bird's life being squashed out of him by an uncaring foot, I had to let my imagination run away a little further, until I was asking questions I could never answer. How many people, in their rush to get wherever they were going, had to have stepped on this bird after he died? There must have been a moment when somone noticed that he was there and didn't care enough for his dignity to at least move him off to the side so his body didn't have to be further mutilated. Surely there had to be someone who cared enough.

Apparently not.

But now it's too late for anyone to come to his rescue, even in death. His body is so mangled and almost indistinguishable from the concrete that attempts to pry it away would be futile. As incredibly sad as I was to see this bird in the condition I saw him in this morning, I wish I'd been there earlier, to at least move him aside. But knowing myself the way I do, I know that even that wouldn't have been enough. I know that I would have done what I did when I was a lot younger: I would have found something to pick him up with; I would have gone home and gotten a spoon or something else to dig with; I would have found a place to bury him, even if I don't have my parents' back yard in which to do it; I would have asked the god(dess) to go outside her usual jurisdiction and take special care of this poor little guy.

As you know if you've been a regular visitor to this site, or if you know me in "real life", I am a person who isn't crazy about most people, but who has a huge place in her heart for animals, and respect for all life (even that of the people I can't stand). I can't even kill a fly. Or a roach. Every time I see "road kill", I apologize to the animal for its lost life. I once accidentally washed a spider down the drain of a bathroom sink and was crushed for days.

Today, I was crushed again. Crushed by the sight of a bird's lifeless body that will never fly again, crushed by the reality that people can be so uncaring, and crushed because there was nothing I could do to save him.

fresh-baked at 11:31 AM
Sunday Sermon

Please be seated. Enjoy the udu drumbeat. I'll be with you shortly.

Services start at approximately 11:00 a.m.

fresh-baked at 07:55 AM
Saturday, 29 June 2002
TGIF, Part 1.25

Why oh why oh why would anyone who visits a large city choose to eat at a T.G.I. Friday's, a Houlihan's, an Olive Garden, or any one of those horrid chain restaurants that riddle the suburbs?

I know Manhattan is a tiny village, but it does offer options.

Just a thought.

fresh-baked at 03:38 PM
Crass Act

Yesterday evening I went to see the American Ballet Theatre production of "Giselle" at Lincoln Center with my friend Leslie. Leslie is a ballerina, so of course this was not her first time at a professional performance, but it was mine. The only ballet I ever saw "live" was when I was about six, and I witnesseed it from onstage, where I danced on pink tiptoe in a pinker tutu and did a perfect cartwheel (not a traditional ballet move, I imagine).

I am by no means an aficionado, but I have a smattering of knowledge about a few of the steps, thanks to Leslie and a ridiculous ballet class I recently took as part of a theatre program with which I was involved. Last night's performance wasn't the best, as Leslie confirmed, but of course it was still quite fascinating to watch. I know how much effort goes into even the simplest of steps, so it was awesome (in the truest sense of the word) to see these dancers make far more complicated and difficult moves look so damned easy.

As soon as the curtain fell at the end of the second act, and the dancers came out for their curtain calls, quite a few people in the audience actually started to leave, pushing their plodding way past others who were still seated and applauding in gracious thanks for the grand feat they'd just witnessed.

"These dancers just gave these fucking losers an absolutely precious gift for the past two and a half hours, and this is the way they show their appreciation?" I said to Leslie, who was as flabbergasted as I was.

Just then the guy to Leslie's left, whom earlier she'd dubbed Truman Capote, and his female companion, started to impatiently shuffle past us to get into the aisle, which was to my immediate right. Leslie told him, in all her delicious fury, that he was just going to have to wait, but he insisted on shoving his carcass past the two of us, offering as an explanation, "We have to get back to New Jersey."

"That's right, Les," I said. "New Jersey won't be there in two minutes. Don't you understand? If he doesn't leave right now, New Jersey will not be there."

Don't these people get it? Don't they know how incredibly rude it is to walk out during a curtain call? Would they leave a dinner party as soon as they set down their dessert spoons? Leave the bed as soon as they are "done"?

You were just given something beautiful, you cretins. You were presented with an exquisite two-and-a-half-hour gift. The least you could have done was hang around for two-and-a-half minutes to thank them for it.

fresh-baked at 03:21 PM
Friday, 28 June 2002
TGI ...

Don't say it. Don't even think it. I know it's almost impossible to not fill in the blank, just as it's impossible to leave off the "two bits" part of the "Shave and a haircut" jingle.

When I used to work in offices, I dreaded the Friday morning elevator ride even more than I dreaded the ride every other weekday morning. (Long Aside: I believe in silence on the elevator. The elevator is not the place to discuss what a dickhead your boss is, or what you watched on TV last night, or what you bought your kids on sale at Target. Or anything else. Oh, and don't even try to engage me in conversation once the doors are closed. Just bow your head, examine the tips of your shoes, and shut up. Don't hum. Or whistle.)

As I was saying ... I dreaded the Friday morning elevator ride. Invariably I'd either overhear or actually be personally greeted with "Thank God It's Friday!!!" or, perhaps even worse, the handy acronym, "TGIF!!!" And then everyone else on the elevator would laugh and/or sigh as if they hadn't already heard the exclamation twenty times already, even at 8:58 a.m.

Of course, the greeting (and thus my dread) wasn't just limited to the morning elevator ride. And it wasn't just limited to exchanges between people who actually knew each other. No, it was an all-day refrain, and everyone, from the FedEx delivery person to the new temp waiting to be walked back to her spot, was a cheerful participant. Except for me. I was neither a participant nor turn-that-frown-upside-down, every-sentence-punctuated-with-an-invisible-exclamation-point cheerful. Just. couldn't. do. it.

So now I no longer work in an office, and I go to the gym way too early for anyone to be awake enough to speak at all let alone offer a spirited "TGIF!!!" The only person I speak to before 9:00 a.m. is myself, so I know I can escape the platitude. (Unless, of course, I've forgotten my "meds", and one of my alternate personalities, such as the irrepressibly bright-eyed Brandi, catches me off-guard.)

I don't miss the "hey, we're all in the same boat" solidarity that "TGIF!!!" engendered. But I'm not a complete spoilsport. I'm not totally anti-social (despite impressions to the contrary), and because after enough caffeine I actually enjoy engaging strangers in conversation, I've decided that I'm going to indulge in a little platitude of my own creation. It, too, has an acronym counterpart, so it should catch on quickly.

What is it? Well, it's sort of along the lines of "TGIF!!!" but appropriate only for Mondays. It's FIM!!! which is short for "FUCK! IT'S MONDAY!" But unlike "TGIF", which is quite a jumbled mouthful, it's an acronym that, like "scuba", can actually be fashioned into a real word.

So if you see me on the street this coming Monday, and you have nothing else to say because you don't know me but you feel compelled to say something anyway, just offer me a hearty "FIM!!!" And say it like you mean it.

fresh-baked at 10:06 AM
Thursday, 27 June 2002
Scooby Don't

Someone, please, explain to me why Scooby Doo (the cartoon) is so fascinating. I've only watched about five minutes of one episode, ever, but that was more than I could handle.

Please limit your explanation to the cartoon. I have about as much interest and patience for the movie starring that no-talent halfwit Freddie Prinze, Jr. as I do for that Ya Ya tripe.

Thanks, kidz.

fresh-baked at 04:20 PM
Peeventh

Gum-chewing is not a sport. It is especially not a spectator sport. I do not need to see the gloppy pink goo rolling around in your mouth. If you insist on chewing gum (and I really wish you wouldn't do it in the first place), then please don't turn it into a Big Event, complete with sound effects. Masticate in the privacy of your own home.

Thank you.

fresh-baked at 12:18 PM
Wednesday, 26 June 2002
Um ...

sign in Chelsea hardware store window


Ordinarily I'd be pointing out yet another case of the possessive being used where the plural should be (unless the creator of this sign only had one umbrella for sale and used a contraction for "umbrella is", which I really doubt). But although I just drew your attention to the error, that isn't really the focus of this post.

This, however, is: There was something supremely endearing about the pencil scrawl to the right ("Arm Brella") that makes me forgive the other error. I saw it this morning in a Chelsea hardware store window, and it literally stopped me in my tracks. It instantly reminded me of a deck of cards that my adorable Poppop -- a hilarious, brilliant, multilingual man with very little "formal" education ... a man who sacrificed his education to support his family as a baker in Europe -- boldly inscribed with the word PINOKL (pinochle).

He's been "gone" for almost nine years now, but all it took was a little thing like this to make me feel like was walking beside me on Seventh Avenue this afternoon.

fresh-baked at 10:12 PM
A Show of Support

As I told you just this morning, I'm not a big fan of the heat/humidity/haze. Indeed, if it were possible to completely hibernate starting right now and continuing through September (or whenever the inevitable "Indian summer" decides to stop extending this hell), I would certainly do so. But it's not just that I deplore being uncomfortable and feeling like half of my body weight is lost through my pores every time I step outside for more than two minutes. No, that's bad enough. But what is worse is, of course, Other People.

Yes, other people. Always the bane of my existence, always the objects of my scorn, always the one "thing" that can ruin my day if given even half a chance. Yes, other people manage to somehow turn a perfectly uncomfortable experience into a completely revolting one -- and they don't even have to make too much of an effort. No, they do enough damage just by being out on the street, wearing what they wear when the temperature insists on approaching the three-digit mark.

If I wind up in court some day, defending myself for a series of murder charges, I will instruct my attorney to use the following exhibits on my behalf:


  • Exhibit A: Shirtless Men. I have nothing against shirtless men. In fact, a shirtless man is often a good thing, especially when it is offered in the form of "All My Children" stud Cameron Mathison. But a man whose shirtlessness displays a torso so soaked in sweat that the hair on it is plastered to his wan, bulbous gut, and reveals that his cavernous bellybutton (I hate this word, but there are no good alternatives) could, indeed, be used as a receptacle for melted butter during a lobster-fest, and whose wobbling, shimmering expanse indicates that he has indeed participated in too many indulgent episodes involving butter (melted or otherwise), well ...

    • For the record, I am not a big fan of ambulatory shirtlessness. I don't mind it at all if you're in the park and you're sitting or lying on the grass, or if you're on the beach, or even if you're a fabulous Chelsea boy rollerblading down Eighth Avenue. But don't just stroll down an ordinary street sans shirt. (And yes, that even goes for Cameron.)

  • Exhibit B: Braless Broads. No, fellas, this isn't as sexy as some of you no doubt think it is. I saw a woman the other day whose tits melded with her waist to form an amorphous pendulum of unprecedented magnitude, and trust me when I tell you that it was perhaps one of the most repellent sights I've seen in quite a long time. And believe me, I've seen plenty, including knockers that did indeed do just that, bringing to mind those old "clackers" that I used to have years ago -- two glass (yes, glass back then) balls, each attached to a string that was fastened at the top to a little handle that, when jostled by a flick of the wrist, would clack the balls together, causing them to rebound off of one another in full "be careful, you'll put someone's eye out" force. Ladies, bras are our friends. I know they may be a bit uncomfortable when the weather is so unkind, but please be kind and wear one.

    • Aside: If you do support me in this campaign and wear a bra, make sure its straps do not show. If the shirt you're wearing cannot effectively hide your straps, then either wear a shirt that can or find a bra that can remain out of sight.

  • Exhibit C: Asses A-GoGo, a Great Big NoNo. If your ass, when viewed through your tight white stretch pants under direct sunlight, resembles anything close to cottage cheese, then I suggest you consider adding some to your diet, and for god's fucking sake, change your pants. I don't care if you are abundantly equipped in the ass department. Just wear pants that flatter it. Believe it or not, there are pants out there that are not made of cheap spandex. I've seen "plus-size" women who wear them, and they look fantastic.


I rest my case.

fresh-baked at 03:08 PM
Audience Participation

All right, everyone. I need your help. It's going to be hot, hazy, and humid today -- actually, it already is -- which means that I will not be spending any more time outside than is absolutely necessary. I am leaving for Pilates (I'm so trendy!) soon, and on my way back from that session, I am going to slither over to the video place and pick up something to watch. I want two movies. Or films. Flicks. Whatever.

Any suggestions? (And no, no hilarious comments about porn. Don't be so predictable.)

You have ... 43 minutes.

Go!

fresh-baked at 10:02 AM
Tuesday, 25 June 2002
When you dream, dream big

dreamdick.gif


I appreciate the offer, but don't you think it'd be nice if we at least asked Keanu first?

fresh-baked at 04:12 PM
Miss Lawrence Lays Down the Law

On several occasions, people have said to me, "You're at the gym so much you may as well become a personal trainer." Yeah. Right. I'm not the person you'd want to be your personal trainer, unless, of course, you think drill sergeants are cute and your listening skills and ability to apply what you've just heard are so well-developed that I won't have to go over something twice. And also, the old "Those who can't do ... teach" thing doesn't apply here. I know my shit. (And yes, I do think that makes me sound really tuff.)

First of all, there's just the little matter of my impatience. The quote "Patience is a virtue I have no time for", which you have no doubt seen atop the column to the right, is mine. (And here you were feverishly searching Bartleby.com for attribution, weren't you? Admit it.) I not only have no time for patience, but I possess none. I mean NONE. I can give you some excellent references if you need confirmation. (But then again, you shouldn't be questioning me. Didn't you learn anything from yesterday's last entry?)

So where were we? Impatience. Yes. If I say something once and you weren't listening, then I may not repeat myself. I will probably sigh, loudly, raise my eyebrow even higher than usual, and, quite possibly, say something really sweet, such as, "What are you, fucking DEAF?" (But you'll have to listen carefully. I may say it under my breath. After all, I do have some tact.)

It will also be your fault if you can't keep up with the pace of my speech. The way I speak is the way I imagine a family of ten scrambles to reach for the food on the dinner table. You have to be quick to catch quite a bit of what I say. But don't ask me to slow down. Another of my quotes is "I slow down for no one," which applies just as much to my fast walking as it does to my fast talking.

There was a time, however, that I was a fantastic teacher. Just ask my sister. She was my "pupil" and I was her teacher. And no, it wasn't that I was "home schooling" her, although she still says she learned more from me than she did from "real" school. Yes, she learned more from Miss Lawrence -- that's the name I insisted she use -- than from any of the teachers who used to tell my mom she was brilliant but too rebellious.

Miss Lawrence had straight, glossy, dark auburn hair that she wore back in a clasp, a la Marcia Brady circa 1972. She wore tailored skirts and sweaters that flattered but did not flaunt her trim, 26-year-old figure. She had many male admirers and was the darling of the School Board. She was well-versed in English, her main subject, but her knowledge of math, social studies, and science were nothing at which to sneeze.

During her lunch break, Miss Lawrence would visit her favorite restaurant, which was just down the hall and around the corner from her classroom. It was there that her star student worked as a hostess, waitress, and short-order cook in order to earn her tuition. Miss Lawrence was never prouder than when, at the end of her tasty Ellio's frozen pizza lunch, she glanced at her check and noted the perfect penmanship of her prize pupil.

I don't know why, given my impatience, it was so easy to teach my brilliant rebel of a sister. And not just teach her but teach her well. She not only scored extremely high on every test I painstakingly hand-wrote just for her (complete with little boxes to fill in with a No. 2 pencil) but she paid close attention and never asked a single stupid question, either when I was 26-year-old Miss Lawerence or just 10-year-old me.

In this case, I suppose those who can't teach ... did.

fresh-baked at 12:45 PM
Monday, 24 June 2002
DQM - A Sweet 16

It stands, of course, for Don't Question Me. It is, of course, my credo. You must, of course, comply.

Why? Well, what did I just say. What does DQM stand for, again? Have you already forgotten? And doesn't "DQM" sorta, kinda, like, go hand-in-hand with "Because I Say So"? Yes. Yes, it does. You're a quick study, you.

The following list (again, a list, and again a list with the caveat about it being far from complete) contains questions you should never ask me, in no particular order:


  1. Can I have a sip of your water/soda/any beverage?
  2. Why don't you want any children?
  3. You mean you don't ever want to get married?
  4. What is tofu, anyway?
  5. Are you still living in New York?
  6. Why did you turn down the Sandra Bullock part in Speed?
  7. Will you read something that I wrote and let me know what you think?
  8. Are you sure you don't believe in God?
  9. Why don't you drink?
  10. We don't have a table in 'non-smoking'; would you like to be seated in the smoking section?
  11. Would you like to go to the Hamptons?
  12. Do you mind if I breastfeed my colicky, red-faced infant at the table?
  13. How can you tell if you hate something if you've never tried it?
  14. Can you repeat what you just said?
  15. Would you mind giving me a backrub?
  16. Why are you always so ... angry?


Furthermore, if I've just said that something is "so", and I've supplied substantial "back up" to validate what I've just said, then there is no reason for you to question either the veracity or validity of the statement I've just made. Don't ask, "Are you sure?"

And whatever you do, under no circumstances are you to ever turn to me, after a particularly delicious full-on, non-stop, practically punctuation-free "rant" or "rave", and say, "Oooh! Tell me what you really think!" (Don't write it either, especially if you're going to add "LOL" or any permutation thereof.) Because I'll be tempted to tell you. And believe me, you really won't want to know.

fresh-baked at 09:18 PM
I am not a call girl

To The 27 People Who Have Called Me Today:

Stop calling me already. Stop using the phone to reach me. You should know by now that I rarely, if ever, pick up the phone. Even if I recognize your number on the Caller ID, chances are I'm just not going to pick it up. If you really want to get in touch with me, send me email. I'll respond immediately.

I ordinarily don't wear T-shirts, but you're forcing me to reconsider.

fresh-baked at 04:27 PM
Ewww ewww ewww, baby baby

Ask me if I want to hold your baby, and I'll have to pass. But bring your puppy within 500 feet of me, and I'll be rushing over and bending down to rub his belly faster than you can say "Woof!", and making all the in(s)ane cooing sounds that accompany the experience.

I know it comes as a complete shock, but I am not a Baby Person by any stretch of anyone's imagination. It's not that I hate babies (except when they're boiled, because then you just lose all the flavor). It's not that I have anything against them. I just prefer animal babies over human babies. Always have. Always will.

I don't hate small children, either. But I would like to take the time now to post a news flash for those parents out there who seem to think that everyone else should love their children as much as they do. NEWS FLASH: WE DON'T. We especially don't adore them when we are held captive to their adorability because we are sharing public transportation with you.

Please heed the following (and note that, as always, when I use "he" I mean both genders; not for me that "s/he" nonsense):


  • Your child isn't even one-eighth as cute as you apparently think he is, either in looks or personality.
  • The choo-choo is not an appropriate venue for StoryTime.
  • Your child's singing may be sweet, soothing music to your parental ears, but to quite a few of of us it's a twisted cacophonous jangle.
  • If you insist on performing "The Inky Dinky (or "Itsy Bitsy") Spider", please realize that even one rousing chorus is more than sufficient.
  • Your child's face, staring into mine from the seat ahead of me (or in front of me, if in a diner booth), isn't any cuter to me than my fist shoved into yours will be to him if you don't tell him to turn the hell around.
  • Your toddler may have just learned to walk, but please don't allow him to display his fresh new talent on the train station stairways at any time, especially during rush hour.
  • Silence is golden. Demonstrate this to your child sometime. He may just learn something from you.


This list, of course, as with all my lists, is by no means complete. I assure you that there are other items that I'll want to include sometime in the future (i.e. five minutes from now), and you know I'm good for it.

Woof.

fresh-baked at 02:17 PM
Sunday, 23 June 2002
Train Wreck

Remind me, the next time I consider spending eight hours on the train during a 36-hour period, not to do it.

Remind me that being on a train for eight hours out of 36 means that 22.222% of those 36 hours will be a colossal, literal pain in the ass. Remind me that "business class" in no way indicates that the ride will be any better (aside from leg room) than in "coach", and that I will, by the end of that ride, know more about the passengers' "business" thanks not only to cell phone blather but to the inane dealings between colleagues seated across the aisle from each other who insist on loudly letting the rest of us in on the fascinating details, and also that "class" is something that most people are sorely lacking.

Remind me that I have absolutely no respect for people who have no respect for other people. Remind me to take a sweater. Remind me to bring Diet Coke. Remind me to bring a hell of a lot more CDs, because the one that I swore I loved enough to listen to endlessly failed to live up to that great expectation.

Or better yet, remind me that I just can't stand the train and to make my friends visit me instead.

Thank you.

fresh-baked at 09:28 PM
Saturday, 22 June 2002
Chasing a Dream

I can't stand when I can't remember my dreams. I know I have them, every night, in full color and Surround Sound, and sometimes starring "celebrities" I despise (which, come to think of it, is most of them). I know I have them because I wake up either remembering them completely, down to the last detail, or so vaguely that those details not only elude me but escape even farther away the harder I try to remember them, the way mercury does when the thermometer breaks on the bathroom floor and the little gray orbs refuse to be corralled despite the best of efforts.

All I know about tonight's feature presentation is that it was based on The End Of The World (yes, I suppose it was "REM" sleep, then) and my realization that my time is pretty much limited. In other words, "the usual". This dream theme has haunted me for as long as I can remember, starting with one particularly sweet occasion when I was about six and I dreamt of bombs falling onto a battlefield populated by men in "George Washington hats". On impact, the bodies of those men exploded into tiny pieces, each of which started to do a push-up onto the bloody battleground. And there the dream ended. Or at least that's as far as I could remember it then.

I woke up screaming and in tears, which of course brought my mom into the room, where I told her about the dream. She soothed me, or at least tried to, by telling me to think about something pretty. I tried desperately to fill my mind with a field full of perky, smiling daisies, but it didn't work. I waited all night for it work.

I'm still waiting.

fresh-baked at 04:58 AM
Friday, 21 June 2002
Catastrophe

I have a cat. Yes, I have a cat. (And no, you jokesters, no comments referring to "pussy". Believe me, I've already considered the hilarious joke potential.) She's been living with me since April 1, 2000. Her name is Shana (yes, her real name) (and no, I didn't name her) (but yes, I like the name, because it means "pretty" in Yiddish).

Before I even met her, I promised myself that I would not call her anything other than her real name or maybe a slight variation on it. I figured that, because she was to be my "pet", I could give her one or two "pet names", such as the extremely creative "Shay" or the Yiddish diminutive, "Shanala". Little did I know that within a month or two I would be breaking that promise. And that after two years, all vestiges of that promise would be long gone.

Now I rarely, if ever, call her by her real name. The following are two lists of names that I not only use, but to which she will respond (on the days she actually pays attention to a word I'm saying or wakes up long enough to let me know she's still alive):

Names Based on "Shana"

  • Pretty
  • Shay
  • Shanala
  • Shorna (OK, already we're deviating) (this is what the dog calls her ... but that's another whole story)
  • Shorma
  • Scorna
  • Scorns
  • Scornmew
  • Shornmew

Names Completely Removed from "Shana"

  • Honeymew
  • Mewy
  • Kitten from Kapitten
  • Mewy from Kapewy
  • Mewy Mewstein (pronounced steen, not stine)

I am not proud of this. I should be forced to eat one can of cat food (and not the good stuff, like Sheba®) every time I use a name from the first list. And every time I use a name from the second, I should be forced to consume the contents of her litter box.

I just can't believe this has happened to me. Me. Me, of all people. What the hell went wrong? When did I turn into Shana's "Mom-mew"?

(Shana refused to be interviewed for this post. When asked to comment, she did deign to turn my way, but only offered a perfunctory baleful look and a rather pointed "Fuck mew.")

fresh-baked at 07:37 PM
Plans? Who's got plans?

So. What's everyone doing this weekend?

If you're not doing anything "special", make something up. "I'm sitting around my house in my pajamas all weekend, eating ice cream out of the container while listening to The Partridge Family" is fine, but at least embellish.

C'mon. Make me laugh.

Love,
Bobby Van

fresh-baked at 12:02 PM
Thursday, 20 June 2002
Consumer Concern

The following is a letter I wrote today to the good people at Bobbi Brown (the makeup chick, not the music guy). I'll let you know if/how they respond.


BOBBI BROWN COSMETICS
65 Bleecker Street
Ninth Floor
New York, New York 10012

     Re:  Lasting Impressions

To Whom It May Concern:

       A few weeks ago, while out of town on special business, I realized that I forgot to pack my makeup kit. I can’t go anywhere without it, so I was in quite a bind. At first I decided to just go to the drugstore and try to inexpensively replicate the products that I’d left behind, but after one quick application in my car’s rear view mirror, I realized that I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t live with myself or present myself to my public if I wore cheap makeup.

       It wasn’t just that the stuff looked like garbage on my skin and the lipstick tasted like a curious blend of petroleum jelly and crayons. No. More upsetting was just knowing that I was wearing cheap stuff, the kind that rebellious teens slip into their backpacks on wacky after-school dares.

       I decided there was only one solution: to buy better stuff. So I nearly broke the speed barrier dashing to the nearest Bloomingdale’s, where I was confronted with more choices than a debutante at her cotillion. What to do, what to do?

       I’ll tell you what to do: Pass by my pedestrian Prescriptives. Eschew Estee Lauder. And bop on over to Bobbi Brown.

       I did. And I spent more money than I probably should have. But I figured it was worth it, because I’d read all about it in Allure, Marie Claire, and other “fashion” magazines.

       Let me just tell you: I love the Lip Tint, in Maple. Luscious enough to slather onto pancakes. And the Creamy Concealer, in Bisque. Dreamier than the lobster version. Equally fabulous are the Creamy Eye Pencil, in Dark Brown, and the Cream Blush Stick, in Tawny.

       I do have one problem, though: The words “Bobbi Brown” have all but disappeared from the products’ containers. After only two weeks of use, I could barely make out half of one “B” and the “w” on the blush stick. And forget about the Concealer. The lettering is completely gone.

       Your products are wonderful. The counter girl was a doll. But I have to tell you that I’m not going to buy Bobbi Brown products in the future if the lettering is going to wear off so readily. I bought Bobbi Brown to enhance not only my looks but to enhance my social standing. But what good is it doing if, when I’m applying my makeup in the ladies room at Nobu, no one can tell it apart from Revlon or Maybelline?

Sincerely,

Jodi

fresh-baked at 10:32 PM
Take a Haiku

I just read your blog.
You didn't shower today?
Thanks for the update.

fresh-baked at 09:39 PM
Sigh

This is why I ♥ Aaron so much.

fresh-baked at 06:25 PM
The Hole Truth

I'm sure by now that those of you who poke around on other people's personal sites are familiar with "The Mirror Project". And quite a few of you have probably seen links to something called "The Foot Project". (I'm not going to link to them, kidz. You can find them yourselves if you put 1/8 of an ounce [or its metric equivalent] of energy into doing a simple search.)

I participate in neither, and don't plan to do so either. It's not that I have anything against mirrors; in fact, I tend to check myself out in any and all reflective surfaces, including spoons, puddles, and other people's sunglasses. I do, however, have a "thing" about -- or should I say against -- feet, because most of those that I've seen displayed should only be viewed in the privacy of their owners' own homes with the shades drawn, if at all.

My own feet, I must proudly admit, are really quite lovely. But still, I have no desire to share them with the cyberworld at large. If you really want to see my toes, then visit me. We'll have lunch, we'll get some good iced coffee, we'll hang in the park, and I'll wear one of my many pairs of stunningly stylish sandals. But ask me to take a picture of them and have them posted on someone else's site? No thanks. I'll pass.

I have decided, however, that I don't want to be a total spoilsport. I've decided that if I won't join in the voyeuristic/exhibitionistic fun on other people's sites, I'll be enterprising myself and start my own Project. (It's important to have a hobby -- and this ship-in-a-bottle nonsense isn't all it's cracked up to be.) So I happily, and with more than just a smidgeon of pride, introduce you to my Project, and heartily invite you to participate.

I'm calling my endeavor The Hole Picture. And what I want from you is this (and please bear with me, as the details of this vast undertaking are still in their pupal state): Send me a picture of your most cherished hole. Yes, that's right. Hole. It can be a golf hole, a clothing hole, a pothole, a hole in my bucket dear Liza dear Liza, or even an orifice. Have fun. Be creative. But don't be an asshole. And don't send me pictures of yours to prove you are one.

I know that by asking for this, I may be really "asking for it". And I know that I'm bound to receive some pretty asinine submissions. But believe me, a lack of originality submerged in banal juvenility won't phase me. Or shock me. I won't think it's cute. I won't acknowledge you or your submission. I won't even do you the honor of excoriating you on this site. I will only delete your submission posthaste and immediately, if not sooner, and it will find its way into the Black Hole of the universe and nowhere near the jodiverse.

fresh-baked at 04:28 PM
Pregunta Del Dia

¿Do you know the way to San José?

(25 words or less)

fresh-baked at 08:38 AM
Twin Set, Chapter 1.5

My team of crackerjack advisors informed me that the link I supplied in "Twin Set" (yesterday), when visited, gave rise to a very unwelcome succession of pop-up ads. I hereby officially apologize to anyone who encountered this problem.

Please note that I have changed the reference into an image that can now be viewed without pop-ups (except the variety that may appear in the pants of some of the more pre-pubescent among you).

(Advisors: Look for something special in your paychecks this week.)

fresh-baked at 05:37 AM
Twin Set, Chapter 1.5

The following is a letter I wrote today to the good people at Bobbi Brown (the makeup chick, not the music guy). I'll let you know if/how they respond.


BOBBI BROWN COSMETICS
65 Bleecker Street
Ninth Floor
New York, New York 10012

     Re:  Lasting Impressions

To Whom It May Concern:

       A few weeks ago, while out of town on special business, I realized that I forgot to pack my makeup kit. I can’t go anywhere without it, so I was in quite a bind. At first I decided to just go to the drugstore and try to inexpensively replicate the products that I’d left behind, but after one quick application in my car’s rear view mirror, I realized that I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t live with myself or present myself to my public if I wore cheap makeup.

       It wasn’t just that the stuff looked like garbage on my skin and the lipstick tasted like a curious blend of petroleum jelly and crayons. No. More upsetting was just knowing that I was wearing cheap stuff, the kind that rebellious teens slip into their backpacks on wacky after-school dares.

       I decided there was only one solution: to buy better stuff. So I nearly broke the speed barrier dashing to the nearest Bloomingdale’s, where I was confronted with more choices than a debutante at her cotillion. What to do, what to do?

       I’ll tell you what to do: Pass by my pedestrian Prescriptives. Eschew Estee Lauder. And bop on over to Bobbi Brown.

       I did. And I spent more money than I probably should have. But I figured it was worth it, because I’d read all about it in Allure, Marie Claire, and other “fashion” magazines.

       Let me just tell you: I love the Lip Tint, in Maple. Luscious enough to slather onto pancakes. And the Creamy Concealer, in Bisque. Dreamier than the lobster version. Equally fabulous are the Creamy Eye Pencil, in Dark Brown, and the Cream Blush Stick, in Tawny.

       I do have one problem, though: The words “Bobbi Brown” have all but disappeared from the products’ containers. After only two weeks of use, I could barely make out half of one “B” and the “w” on the blush stick. And forget about the Concealer. The lettering is completely gone.

       Your products are wonderful. The counter girl was a doll. But I have to tell you that I’m not going to buy Bobbi Brown products in the future if the lettering is going to wear off so readily. I bought Bobbi Brown to enhance not only my looks but to enhance my social standing. But what good is it doing if, when I’m applying my makeup in the ladies room at Nobu, no one can tell it apart from Revlon or Maybelline?

Sincerely,

Jodi

fresh-baked at 05:37 AM
Twin Set, Chapter 1.5

My team of crackerjack advisors informed me that the link I supplied in "Twin Set" (yesterday), when visited, gave rise to a very unwelcome succession of pop-up ads. I hereby officially apologize to anyone who encountered this problem.

Please note that I have changed the reference into an image that can now be viewed without pop-ups (except the variety that may appear in the pants of some of the more pre-pubescent among you).

(Advisors: Look for something special in your paychecks this week.)

fresh-baked at 05:37 AM
Wednesday, 19 June 2002
Award

I'd like to present a special award to the person who found this site via a search for "kooky funsters". Whoever you are, you should know that you not only beat out the person who was looking for "Britney Spears vacuuming" but several other nominees as well.

Congratulations!

fresh-baked at 04:50 PM
Twin Set

OK, before I start, I just want you to know that by "twins" I do not mean jugs/boobs/rack/tits, or whatever other hilarious nomenclature you ordinarily use. By "twins" I mean identical twins. Actual people. The kind who annoyed the fuck out of me in the Doublemint® ads. Those twins.

But already I'm getting ahead of myself.

I am not a twin. But there used to be a time when I wanted desperately to be one. I tried for years to become a twin, but eventually something told me it just wasn't going to happen. There was no long-lost twin who my mother gave up for adoption because she decided she could only stand so much cuteness at a time, and who would one day show up on my doorstep with a battered suitcase and a history to match. Nope.

My sister and I, although 18 months apart, used to pretend we were twins. When our ages were still in the double digits (I know you're shocked to learn that I'm not seven years old), we insisted on wearing matching outfits. Our favorites were our "newspaper" skirts -- short, snappy little numbers that looked like the pages of a newspaper, complete with actual stories, and our mod "wet-look" fringed red miniskirt and matching bolero vest sets that would've been the envy of all the Brady girls. We had many others, including these horrendous suits that had knickers instead of regular pants, in which we had our second- and fourth-grade school pictures taken, much to my modern-day horror.

I don't know why we liked dressing alike so much. It may have been because we were each other's best friend, or maybe we were narcissistic little bitches and this was the closest thing we could get to carrying around a full-size mirror all day. It's not really important, and I don't care to dig into the psychological ramifications of what it all means. It was just cute.

We haven't dressed alike in years. She says I dress more like a "lady" than she does (which is fucking hilarious given that I sometimes wonder why I wasn't born with a dick) and that she looks like a "small man". She insists I am "like a model" (yeah, I'm laughing too) and she is "peasant stock". I could no more see myself wearing her stuff (colorful, somewhat "bohemian", schmattes in her hair, tons of bracelets) than she could see herself wearing mine (think Banana Republic meets Calvin Klein meets Anthropologie, or Monica from Friends [fuck off, I like that show]).

Now, as an "adult" (yes, the quotes are necessary), I just cannot stand when I see adult twins who are dressed exactly alike. (I'm not going to go into identical twinfants™ or toddlers here. Let's leave the kids out of this, OK? It's bad enough they have to hear us arguing every night after we put them to sleep. I will not subject them to this!) Once you've reached a certain age (I'd say, oh, about 10), it's just not cute or charming when you and your sister wear matching overalls and have the same bangs. And no, it's also not cute when you and your sister take it even further.

Get your own identity already. The cord was cut years ago. Just because your parents named you "Mandy and Sandy" or "Mandy and Mindy" doesn't mean you can't get over it, go beyond it, and celebrate yourselves as an individuals.

(Oh, and by the way, speaking of twins ... did you check out the twins' twins on the site I linked?)

fresh-baked at 02:38 PM
Your generosity is appreciated

I'm really touched by the wonderful responses generated by yesterday's mind-bending question. I'd like to thank all of you who commented for your participation (and also for sending me that really moist pound cake and a crate of limes -- you didn't have to do that, but I'm thrilled that you did). It was a treat to read comments from my "regulars", and a nice change of pace to hear from irregulars as well.

However, because the turnout, although generous, wasn't nearly enough to maintain the level of hilarity that is our standard here at jodiverse, we are forced to impose a two-post minimum on all visitors to this site. We don't want to have to do this, but Management temple-throbbingly insists there is no alternative.

Thanks for your support.

fresh-baked at 01:24 AM
Tuesday, 18 June 2002
You are getting sleeeeepy ...

hypno.gif


No wonder nothing's worked for me before!

Pass the lard, pummel my face, and set my hair on fire! Please! I'll pay you $14,000!

And if that doesn't work ... I'm just going to have to resort to this!

fresh-baked at 10:23 PM
Smokin' Token

It's been quite a while since Camel Joe, the phallic-snouted mascot who had been the butt of way too many stupid jokes and the subject of far too much controversy, was yanked from R.J. Reynolds' advertising campaign for Kool cigarettes. I never quite understood all the flak, and always dismissed it with my customary refrain, "Oh, people are just too fucking stupid."

So Camel Joe is gone. He's been banished. He's hitherto forever hidden from view. But what of his sister? Why hasn't anyone raised the roof about her? She's not only a threat to our health, she's even more insidious than her bad boy brother, and her ill effects even farther-reaching. She's also much more unsightly than her sibling ever was.

I'm talking, of course, about Camel Toe. Yes, Camel Toe. A day doesn't go by that I'm not confronted by her everywhere I look. Indeed, during the warmer months, it's almost like an assault. I cannot help but notice her in all her squashed glory, especially now that she insists on flaunting her bad self in the tightest, most unforgiving (and unforgivable) of jeans.

I'm onto you, Camel Toe. I can see right through you. But I'm not going to play your game. I didn't play your brother's, and I most definitely am not going to play yours. He, at least, was smokin'. You, my dear, are not.

fresh-baked at 05:46 PM
Content Management

It's no secret, kidz, that I'm here to entertain you. I know it's my purpose in life--nay, my mission--and it's a mission I accept with tearful gratitude and a pride that leaves me almost breathless. But sometimes ... well, sometimes I just want to lean back in my chair, tip back on its back two legs, and, just before I topple backwards comically, flailingly regain my balance, and then laugh like the hyena I am when I realize that I was thisclose to rendering myself a quadriplegic what with my hijinks and carelessness and all.

Anyway, I've got both hands clasped behind my head now, and I'm leaning back in the chair, typing with my feet (truly a sight to behold, especially since I'm wearing stiletto heels) (down, boys!), and I've decided that it's time for you to return the favor. It's time for YOU to give something back to ME.

So what I want you to do is this: Take everything out of your purses and/or pockets and/or whatever vessel you use to carry all of your stuff, go through it, and answer this question:


If you had forgotten to bring three of those items today, which ones would you miss the most? Which ones are so important that, upon realizing you'd forgotten to bring them, would have you dashing out the door and running back home to collect, or bolting to the nearest store to replace? (Wallets, keys, and Mexican jumping beans are all "givens", so don't include them.)


You have 60 seconds.

GO!!! (and here you'll just have to imagine that zany music that accompanies scenes on TV of people running around in fast-motion and bumping into each other)

fresh-baked at 12:03 PM
... for a bruisin'

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been 21 days since my last confession.

Tonight I watched David Letterman, and ...

tomcruisewasonbutididnothatehim.

(Hail Mary ... or something.)

fresh-baked at 12:28 AM
Monday, 17 June 2002
A Thor Spot

At around 9:15, it started to thunder. Not the crack and crash variety that seems to go hand in hand with lightning, but the loud, rumbling, booming sort that my mom used to tell us was "God rearranging his furniture" or "God, bowling".

I've loved thunder for as long as I can remember. I love it by itself, I love it served with heaping side dishes of rain and lightning, I love it any way it presents itself.

But now -- tonight, and every time it's thundered this way since September 11 -- the initial thrill I experience upon hearing the first rumble is almost immediately followed by my thinking, It's a bomb. I hold my breath and close my eyes. I stop typing. I wait for the next rumble. It's the Empire State Building. And the next. I should put on shoes just in case.

It's not until I hear the rain, and see it through the skylight, that I start typing again.

fresh-baked at 10:06 PM
Yeah, but can it type?

inbox.gif

fresh-baked at 12:03 PM
Blue Monday play me

So now you're back at work, and everyone's still shuffling back to their desks with coffee and something crumbly, quite a bit of which will lodge itself between their keyboards' keys (and eventually render their keyboards useless, if not just disgusting). And they're all talking about their weekends, and how weekends always seem to fly right by, don't they, and how they wish the weekend could last at least three days, hahaha. And in the reception area, waiting for the office manager, sits a new temp who apparently doesn't know that "business casual" doesn't mean stirrup pants circa 1987 and a Tweetie Bird sweatshirt.

And already they're talking about next weekend and how they hope the weather will hold up, and ... and ... and ...

And you just want to tell them all to shut the fuck up, but you can't because you really need this job, even it if sucks and you're underappreciated and you're the only one there who knows what the hell you're doing.

So what are you doing, anyway? Well, you're taking that overwhelming, hapazard stack of garbage that's sitting on top of your desk -- the results of your boss' long overdue weekend clean-up of his office (not everyone golfs, after all) -- and spreading it all around your work space. Furrowing your brow, taking a studiedly casual sip of your coffee, opening up a document on your computer, and shuffling through a few of the papers until you "find" the one you need to consult in tandem with the random document you're about to view on your monitor. You're peering intently from paper to screen, gnawing a little on a fingernail ... and then going here.

Enjoy.

fresh-baked at 07:45 AM
Sunday, 16 June 2002
Conflicts of Interests

It's a struggle. It's really a struggle sometimes, not only to keep track of all of the stuttering, jammering, singing, songing, whispering voices in my head but to reconcile their differences with an eye toward living together like one big happy family.

But before you start tiptoeing backwards out of the room, or pushing your chair ever so slightly away from your monitor and looking over your shoulder in shuddering paranoia, let me just take one moment to tell you that this isn't schizophrenia. And these struggles are not life-shattering or -threatening. They are not based on morals or ethics or any notion of Good Vs. Evil.

So get back here.

These conflicts are really quite insignificant and of little, if any, consequence, but they are the sort of thing that, when I'm lying in bed at night (or during the day, given my love of the nap), keep sleep from actively pursuing me. In fact, when I give these matters the attention they don't deserve, sleep just kicks me in the head and tells me it's going out to dance the night (or afternoon) away with really slutty women in shiny black thigh-high boots.

I guess the whole "problem" is that I don't like to sit on the fence. I don't like it because, if you really must know, the white picket posts have a tendency to dig into my ass and leave holes in all my pants in places I don't necessarily want to expose.

Without further fanfare, and with the caveat that this list is by no means a comprehensive one, I offer the following conflicts of interests:


  • I am inherently neat, with a tendency toward sloppiness.
  • I am a latent slob, with a neatness compulsion.

  • Yes, that is indeed Sean Hayes pedalling maniacally and sweating profusely on the stationary bike at the gym.
  • No, that is not Sean Hayes, so you can stop looking over at him in the mirror and hoping he catches your eye and asks you to guest-star on Will and Grace.

  • I was born in the wrong era and am old-fashioned.
  • I was born way ahead of my time.

  • It's OK not to make the bed if I really don't want to, especially if no one's going to see it.
  • It's not OK to leave the bed in such a mess, and I can't convince myself that I'm just "airing it out" the way I do with the clothes that are flung/slung over the back of this chair.

  • Pink lemonade is better than yellow.
  • They both taste the same.

  • Bad TV is evil.
  • Bad TV is good.

  • I can easily get by with just one pair of jeans, one pair of black pants, and four shirts: black tanktop, turtleneck, and T-shirt; white T-shirt.
  • I have nothing to wear even though you could outfit all of Chelsea (especially the boys) with the contents of my closet.


I rarely, if ever, resolve these conflicts. I'm just fortunate that my brother and I weren't born Donny and Marie, because neither one of us is even the slightest bit country, and I wouldn't want to have to reconsider in order to accommodate him.

I could really go for a nap right about now, but I know that it will be a hideous waste of time. Sleep's raising its eyebrow at me and saying, "Yeah right, moron. I'm outta here."

fresh-baked at 02:58 PM
Happy Birthday

Yes, you can have me and eat me too.


    Happy birthday to one of my darlingest friends --
    the inimitable, formidable, incredible, adorable,
    indelible Leslie.

    This tiny dancer can afford an inch or two, so if you
    see her on the street, be sure to pinch her. I will
    not, however, be responsible for the consequences.



fresh-baked at 01:13 PM
Picture Imperfect

Right now there are about 15 twenty-something "kids" posing on the triangle where Broadway and Fifth Avenue converge, just north of the Flatiron Building. They're being photographed by someone, and they're all sort of frozen into position as if they're doing some sort of 2002 version of "voguing". They all look like they think they should be in a Benetton or Gap ad. I have no idea what they're doing, but I can't stand it.

The thing is this: I just hate seeing people posing for pictures. I don't care if it's professional or it's amateur. I don't care if it's tourists. It doesn't make a difference. Just seeing people turned toward the camera in that way that makes them look thinner, quite possibly sucking in their cheeks, and definitely exhibiting only the most artificial of smiles is enough to make me want to take the photographer's camera and tear the film out of it like they do in stupid movies when someone doesn't want his picture taken, accosts the person responsible, and destroys the film. (And don't worry. If the camera is digital, it's even easier to keep the pictures from ever being born.)

What I like is a candid shot. I like a picture where the person isn't ready or doesn't even know his picture is being taken at all. I like pictures where the guy's head is sort of turned and we can see him wiping his mouth on his hand. Where a girl's adjusting her shirt in preparation for the pose she's anticipating and constructing. Where the dog is chewing his "flippy" with such concentration and adoration that nothing, not even the sexiest of poodles, will distract him.

And pictures where the subjects' smiles exist only because they were told to say "cheese" are the cheesiest of all. On the extremely rare occasions when I've told people to stand still so I can get their picture, I've had them say "fuck" instead.

So if you see me with my camera (and I'm never without it), and you ask me to take your picture, I'm terribly sorry, but I'm just going to have to refuse. When you're sleeping and your face is angelic against the pillow when in "real life" you could quite possibly be Satan's spawn, that's when I'll do it.

And if you don't like it, you can shoot me.

(But wait until I'm not expecting it. I won't pose for you either.)

fresh-baked at 10:40 AM
Saturday, 15 June 2002
Silence!

You're all invited to my place tonight at 8:00.

We're watching Silence of the Lambs on cable, which means there are no commercials, which means that if you have to "go", you should do so now. I don't want you rushing in here and lining up to use our facilities. Yes, we have two bathrooms, but I just don't like the idea of so many asses touching our toilet seats. And I know, I know, some of you would probably just hover or squat, but still. So make sure you take care of that before you get here.

You should also know that you should eat whatever snacks you want to eat before the movie starts. I will not tolerate the rustling of cellophane, the shuffle of popcorn, the masticating of jujubes or Milk Duds, or any making out in the balcony. You can bring a drink, but make sure I don't hear you gulping or swallowing.

Make sure you don't talk while the movie is on. The only person who is allowed to ask stupid questions, comment on Jodie Foster's looks, and repeat ad nauseam how sexy she thinks Anthony Hopkins is, is I (yes, that's proper grammar).

You might also want to know that we live in a fifth-floor walkup, so if you're not prepared to walk up 69 steps, then don't even bother coming. I don't want to have to listen to you gasping for breath for the first half hour of the movie.

See you soon.

fresh-baked at 07:48 PM
Site Cemetery

Waaah!

  I will never forget all the sleepless nights
  when you kept me company.
  I will miss you, my good friend!




fresh-baked at 04:09 PM
Come out, come out ...

All right, it's not funny anymore. I know you've gotta be around here somewhere. I counted to 100 at least 5,000 times, the way you asked me to just after you blindfolded me, spun me around, and drove me somewhere in that junky car that smells like old tacos, and I didn't peek once, not ONCE, just like you said.

So where are you already? It's kinda chilly out, and I swear something is crawling up my leg! I don't like this game, and I don't think I like YOU. You know what -- don't even bother calling me anymore either.

Goodbye.

fresh-baked at 02:25 PM
May I help you?

To the person who found this place via "leather pee dripping pants":

Did you find everything you were looking for? Just let me know if I can be of assistance. I'll be busy taking inventory back here by the gym socks landfill.

Oh, and just to let you know ... I'm running low on toilet cake, so if you want some you'd better let me know soon.

Feel free to browse. Thanks for stopping by.

Tell your friends!

fresh-baked at 11:53 AM
Hats Off

I used to think that I could use as my credo the ever-popular "Live and let live". But the more I think about it, and the more I find myself among people (that kinda happens to you when you live in this city), I tend to believe that my belief is more along the lines of "Live and let die", a la the James Bond movie and its theme song.

I mean, my tolerance can only be stretched so far. I can accept a wide variety of aberrations in clothing, hairstyle, footgear, and anything else. And although I would never do it myself, I like piercings, tattoos, and just about anything the Chelsea boys want to display. But when I see a scrappy young guy standing on a street corner, wearing a cowboy hat made of yellowish straw, way too big for his little head, and he's trying to catch the eye of any and every person who passes by, apparently hoping that someone mentions just how fucking cool that goddamned hat is, and he keeps touching its brim in order to bring attention to it (as if the hideous thing can't do that on its own), well, that's just pushing it.

If you're going to wear something crazy, if you're going to be so bold as to wear something that's making some sort of statement, then have the balls to wear it without self-consciousness. Don't make desperate attempts to draw attention to something that draws attention to itself on its own. Don't struggle to pull that 12" micro-mini back down over your ample ass. Don't twirl the ends of your waist-length pink-and-blond braided extensions. Don't keep taking that straw hat off, running your hand through your hair, putting the hat back on, and keep repeating the entire cycle until I want to run the hell over to you, snatch that damned thing from your hands, and shred it with mine.

If you're going to wear it, just wear it.

Yesterday afternoon a friend and I were down around Avenue "A", and we saw a girl wearing the oddest sleeve-type things on her legs. They were made of some sort of flimsy, chiffony fabric, and hung from just under her knees and extended to her ankles, where they flared like the bottom of a pair of pants. I'd never seen anything like it. And it was certainly strange-looking. But it didn't bother me, because she didn't seem self-conscious about it. She was just ... wearing it. I admired her ability to wear what she was wearing, and to do so with such insouciance.

My own sister is like that. She can get away with wearing crazy stuff, even in the unhip suburb where she lives, because she doesn't make a big deal out of it. She just wears it. She doesn't fidget, she doesn't fuss. It's just who she is, and that's the only statement she's making.

I like that.

I can live with that.

fresh-baked at 01:48 AM
Friday, 14 June 2002
Color Bind

While writing yesterday's entry entitled "Gym Dandy", I struggled with something that I shouldn't even have bothered to give a second, third, or tenth thought.

As you may recall, I wrote about a "trainer" at the gym. What I didn't include in my description of him was the fact that he is black. I didn't know if I should make that distinction, because it wasn't really relevant to the post. At the same time, had I included that detail, it may have been easier for people to envision him just a little bit better.

In another recent post, I wrote about a young Asian guy and his parents. There, too, I asked myself if it really mattered that they were Asian.

I wondered if I would be "offending" anyone if I included these details. I am by no means politically correct, but at the same time, I don't want to be completely tactless or insensitive, neither of which I am. The conflict lies within myself, because as I wrote several months ago, in a piece lovingly entitled "Fuckin' Jewboy", "... I don't give a damn if you're black, white, gay, straight, male, female, Italian, Jewish, or you prefer Jay Leno over David Letterman." And I don't.

We're used to describing someone by his or her gender, and very often by ethnicity. So where do we draw the line? Do we just ignore other details that we intend to be descriptive, because we fear that inclusion of those details may be construed as racist, sexist, ageist or anything-else-ist?

A while ago, someone told me that he and a friend (let's call them Hank and Doug, respectively) (I don't know anyone with these names, so they are "safe") were waiting for a business associate to join them -- a woman Doug had never met. Doug asked Hank what she looked like, so he could keep an eye out for her. Hank supplied details about the woman's age, hair color, and said she usually wore a lot of black. Eventually she appeared in the distance, and Hank said to Doug, "Oh, there she is!" Doug followed Hank's line of vision and watched as a blond woman in her thirties, dressed in head-to-toe black, wheeled herself toward them. "You didn't tell me she was in a wheelchair," Doug said.

Hank asked him if it really mattered, and Doug said of course it didn't, but that Hank could have at least included that fact in his description. Hank eventually admitted that he didn't mention it because he didn't want it to seem like it mattered. But as Doug was quick to point out, her disability was a fact of her existence, and as such, it shouldn't have been excluded or ignored.

So, what my point is (and yes, there is one), is that I really shouldn't have "worried" about including the fact that the guy at the gym was (is) black. It may have helped readers to picture him a little better. There was no need for me to feel as if I had to exclude that information. By actively deciding to exclude it, I may have been making a "deal" out of something that isn't even a deal at all.

So proclaims the 38-year-old, 5'5", 112-pound, dark-haired, white Jewish girl dressed in black.

fresh-baked at 11:40 PM
Lion Sack

To the Mick Jagger-esque (circa 1968) man-child on the southbound M5 with the very large stuffed lion peeking out of a big white plastic bag:

I only agreed with you that the lion "really looks real" because I thought you were incredibly sexy, the way you stood there by the back door, waiting for your stop, your hair curling haphazardly onto your forehead due to the rain and drizzle.

When you told me you were actually taking it back to the store, and I said, "Awww, that's sad," and I smiled, I didn't mean the smile. I was disappointed in you.

But when you said, "It's OK. He'll find another Dad," I thought you were sexy again.

After you exited the bus, turned around to smile at me one more time, and I waved to you, smiled, and quietly said, "Bye", I realized that I would probably never see you again.

I just want you to know, though, that if this were 1983 and I was still in that, uh, "phase" that I was in back then, I would have followed you off the bus. And tomorrow morning we'd wake up with the lion between us.

fresh-baked at 06:41 PM
Found!

OK OK OK ... I'm OK now. I found my wallet. It was in my bag, in the inside zipped section. It wasn't stolen, the way I thought it was. It's not in the hands of some shithead who grabbed it from my bag even though I held it so close to my body that it may as well have been welded to my hip. It's here, it's here, it's here.

I'm just glad I found it so relatively soon after having thought it was stolen (no, not lost -- I went, as I always do, on auto-panic, and immediately assumed it was STOLEN, FUCKING STOLEN GODDAMMIT, PEOPLE FUCKING SUCK!). This means I didn't have to look in the freezer, under the bed, in the dryer, and inside the cat's stomach.

But still, I'm upset. I mean, I missed a perfectly good opportunity to call myself all sorts of really nice names for having had my wallet STOLEN STOLEN STOLEN. Now I'm going to have to find another reason to do so. My day will not be complete until I do.

fresh-baked at 11:26 AM
Virus Alert (yes, I'm serious)

This morning I received an email with either a subject line or sender name of "HAHAHA" (I forget exactly how many HAs). It contained a virus -- a "worm" -- called Hybris, which was contained in an attachment called "dwarf4u.exe". If you receive email like this, make sure you do not open it.

I'd like to find the motherfucker responsible for this and give him punishment to fit the crime.

Yes, that's right. I want him executed.

And I want to be there when they flip the switch, so I can point at him and laugh, and say, "HAHAHA!"

fresh-baked at 08:55 AM
Thursday, 13 June 2002
Gym Dandy

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "For someone who spends so much time at the gym, she doesn't really talk a whole hell of a lot about it." You're thinking, "And I'm actually kinda relieved, because I can't stand when people talk about their workouts."

Well, I'm right there with you on that one, bub. I don't like to discuss my workouts. Unless I'm asked, I won't tell you what I do there, and even if you do ask and I do respond, I'm not likely to dwell on it beyond the most basic of details.

What I will talk about, though, is the Other People At The Gym. Because, after all, they're fair game. Their shenanigans are a whole of a hell lot more interesting than my fanatical workouts. Trust me.

I have plenty of anecdotes involving these people, but today I'll only touch on two isolated tidbits that I hope never repeat themselves.

One of the offenders is a "trainer" (use of quotes wholly warranted), who, when he's not busy ruining the bodies of his clients by guiding them through a multitude of dangerous exercises using hideously improper form, turns his special brand of body-wrenching, back-breaking, spine-crushing, teeth-gnashing torture on himself. His vast array of grunts and groans, some of which are genuine, but the bulk of which sound manufactured, are reminiscent of an exceptionally bad amateur porno flick; borne, however, not of concentration but of constipation. Between sets, he paces as if he wants anyone watching to regard him as the caged animal he no doubt imagines himself to be.

Today, as with every other day, he wore a weightlifting belt. Ordinarily he fastens it appropriately, tightening it just enough so it won't slip or slide but just slack enough to accommodate the basic activity of respiration. Well, today he had it cinched so tightly around his waist that even Scarlett O'Hara would have been envious. This guy, not too tall (5'10" tops), broad but not "buff" (probably 200 lbs.), suddenly had an hourglass figure. I'd be surprised if his waist, cinched the way it was, measured 25 inches (the size of mine).

The other offender, spotted yesterday, was a woman. A member of the gym, probably in her late thirties. Dark hair. She strutted over to a treadmill as if she didn't have a gut hanging over her flair-legged, low-rise terrycloth pants and floppy medium-sized tits that were flirting seriously with gravitational disaster.

Now, nothing says, "Yes indeed, folks, I'm here for a serious workout" than white pants sans underwear and the flimsiest of pale pink bra tops with minimal, if any, support. It was bad enough that all of us unfortunate enough to be on cardio equipment behind her had to be treated to the sight of her various body parts running amok. But worse was that even the barest sheen of sweat would render her entire get-up outrageously see-through, and given the efficiency of the air-conditioning system, her chest would easily accommodate both her handbag and the jacket she should have thrown over her ensemble in the first place. Fortunately, however, I finished what I was doing before I was forced to witness that inevitability.

But as much as these other people annoy the living fuck out of me with their ridiculous workouts or asinine get-ups, they do provide me with a level of entertainment that I just can't find anywhere else.

There are oh so many more offenders. Stay tuned.

fresh-baked at 11:54 PM
I don't want to talk about it. Period.

All right, so tell me: When was it decided that it's de rigueur for chicks to discuss their "monthly friend" or "visitor"? When did it become an accepted, expected topic of conversation? And who, pray tell, was the force behind these decisions?

I want -- no, I need -- to know so I can submit a formal complaint to whomever is responsible. I'm sick of hearing gal pals everywhere exchanging stories of how their "boobs are tender" and how "bloated and crampy" they feel. And it's not just gal pals, either. I've had women whom I barely know glance at me ruefully in rest room mirrors and announce to my reflection, "Uggh. I just got my period."

Do I care? Do I need to know? Does anyone need to know, except, maybe, your boyfriend/husband/lover/partner/significant other, or your gynecologist if you're due for a visit? Why does anyone else have to know?

And what am I supposed to say or do when someone graces me with this thrilling information? Am I supposed to smile and nod my head in a great show of sisterhood? Automatically whip out a tampon as a symbol of solidarity and press it into her palm with a wink? Regale her with the fascinating details of my own "cycle"?

Ladies. Please. Listen. I don't want to hear about it. I don't want to know about it. I don't want to talk about it. Period. Exclamation point.

fresh-baked at 09:57 PM
I don't want to talk about it. Period.

I'd like to present a special award to the person who found this site via a search for "kooky funsters". Whoever you are, you should know that you not only beat out the person who was looking for "Britney Spears vacuuming" but several other nominees as well.

Congratulations!

fresh-baked at 09:57 PM
I don't want to talk about it. Period.

All right, so tell me: When was it decided that it's de rigueur for chicks to discuss their "monthly friend" or "visitor"? When did it become an accepted, expected topic of conversation? And who, pray tell, was the force behind these decisions?

I want -- no, I need -- to know so I can submit a formal complaint to whomever is responsible. I'm sick of hearing gal pals everywhere exchanging stories of how their "boobs are tender" and how "bloated and crampy" they feel. And it's not just gal pals, either. I've had women whom I barely know glance at me ruefully in rest room mirrors and announce to my reflection, "Uggh. I just got my period."

Do I care? Do I need to know? Does anyone need to know, except, maybe, your boyfriend/husband/lover/partner/significant other, or your gynecologist if you're due for a visit? Why does anyone else have to know?

And what am I supposed to say or do when someone graces me with this thrilling information? Am I supposed to smile and nod my head in a great show of sisterhood? Automatically whip out a tampon as a symbol of solidarity and press it into her palm with a wink? Regale her with the fascinating details of my own "cycle"?

Ladies. Please. Listen. I don't want to hear about it. I don't want to know about it. I don't want to talk about it. Period. Exclamation point.

fresh-baked at 09:57 PM
The Direct Approach

I'm impressed. I'm really impressed with the ever-increasing quality of my readership and the ways in which the readers find my site.

Today someone found me by a simple search for "jodi" (I was number 11 out of "about 443,000"). Not "fuck jodi" (yesterday), not the converse ("jodi fuck"), not "mom fuck young son". Not even "urgent need to pee + can't go".

The direct approach is so refreshing. It's the equivalent of a guy who, in whatever situation, uses a simple "hello" as a means to meet/greet me. No "I want to chew your panties" or "Le-e-e-egs!!!" or "Psssssttt!!!"

Thanks, to whomever the simple-search person may be.

And now, I must prepare to go Out In The Field, in the name of research. I'm wearing a safari jacket with lots o' pockets, sturdy hiking boots, and carrying a large net. If you see me on the street, don't say, "Oooh baby baby, catch me ... I'm a wild animal!" Just say hello, for god's/Pete's/fuck's sake.

Thank you.

fresh-baked at 12:54 PM
Wednesday, 12 June 2002
Miss Linksalot

More thanks. This time, to Erin and Tiffany, for linking to me. They have been added to my list, which is fast becoming the Grauman's Chinese Theatre of the East Coast.

fresh-baked at 05:35 PM
Gallery Gal

Every once in a while I get into an "I Don't Take Advantage Of This City Enough" mood and tell myself that although Happy Herbert's pretzels, iced coffee, and the internet certainly add up to a rollickin' good time, nothing can beat a romp around the city doing something that you just can't do anywhere else. I mean, what's the point of living in one of the most amazing cities in the world if you're not going to take part in any of the stuff it has to offer? "You may as well move to the fucking suburbs," I berate myself. "And we all know how much strip malls and mowing the lawn excite you."

So, what's a girl to do? Well, she knows better than to attempt to go back to a museum so soon after her last excursion. So she turns the pages of New York magazine for inspiration, and reads about the galleries. Decides that she's a gallery gal. Too hip for museums. Too cutting edge. Museums, she decides, are for the hoi-polloi. Tourists. Kids. And she wants none of that.

(And here she decides to stop referring to herself in the third person, even though she's having a great time dipping into schizophrenia. Come on in ... the water's fine!)

My first stop was the Julie Saul gallery, 535 West 22nd Street, for the Orit Raff exhibit. It was given a red star (indicating its worthiness) by New York, and this blurb: "Close-up photographs of scorched pots, soap bars, and gloves that explore notions of cleanliness; through 6/22". I figured I'd better check it out before the end of its run. I also figured that any exhibit featuring scorched pots would at least contain an element of kitsch. Or, at the very least, I figured I'd find something funny about it.

But it just ... sucked. The white walls were lined with maybe 20 photographs. On one wall, a large "piece" featuring about a dozen pairs of used rubber kitchen gloves. No scorched pots; just a collection of suspect brownish anonymous smudges of crust. And further down the line, several photographs of bars of soap in extreme close-up. Soap, unused, fresh out of the package. I dunno, call me crazy, but I think my version is a lot more compelling. Notice, if you will (and you'd better), how my art makes a statement on how even the most pristine icons of modern society are subject to tarnishment. Maybe everything isn't as we think it is. Or what we are told to believe it is. Maybe what we consider the essence of purity is, in reality, impure? Hmmm.

My next stop was two blocks down, precisely, at 535 West 20th Street, where Feigen Contemporary is host to an exhibit of Russ Meyer's photographs. Russ Meyer, as I hope you know, is responsible for "Mondo Topless", one of the most hilarious movies I've ever seen. (I was tempted to say "titillating", but that was just too obvious.) The Meyer selection was too tame for my taste. I mean, if you're going to show photographs of buxom women, show me stuff that'll make my eyes pop out. As it was, the selections were "nice" to look at. But if I wanted "nice", I could've ... stayed home all afternoon -- and looked in the mirror! (And no, you will not find any pop-up images of my "version." Nice try, but no deal.)

But all was not for naught. As an extra-crispy bonus, there was a small exhibit of stuff by the outrageously salacious Robert Crumb and the inimitable Annie Sprinkles, who had 192 slides on display atop a lightbox, complete with two magnifying glasses through which to view shots of her body in action, in all sorts of deliciously disgusting configurations. Of course, I could have duplicated this selection at home as well, but thankfully Annie managed to cover the gamut from T to A and back again.

And then, just as I was about to leave, I noticed that there was a lower level to the gallery. Check out The Gallery to see what I saw. Or what saw me.

fresh-baked at 05:10 PM
Deadline Diversion

It's time for your coffee break. Stop doing whatever you're doing. If you're in a conference with a roomful of schmucks, just leave. If you're on a conference call, hang up. If someone's standing by your desk, picking through your candy jar with hands that she didn't wash after using the ladies room, tell her to fuck off. (Actually, you should've told her to fuck off earlier, when she took the lid off the candy jar before even saying "Good morning.")

Whatever you're working on can wait. But this can't.

Enjoy!

fresh-baked at 10:43 AM
Yet Another Sally Field Moment

Thank you, Sara, for linking to this site. You've been added to my patented Linkin' (b)Log™. Congratulations!

fresh-baked at 12:25 AM
Tuesday, 11 June 2002
From the R&D Department

I know that most of you are hard at work during traditional business hours, which means that you miss out on a lot of high quality daytime television. So that's why I'm here to give you the scoop on what's going on in the real world while you're busy with your cubicles and office gossip.

Sure, you have your spreadsheets and your quarterly report that must be on that back-stabbing, ass-kissing bastard McAllister's desk by noon. Sure, you have your forms to file in yellow, white, and pink triplicate and Helen's surprise birthday party in the kitchen. But I have none of that. I have nothing but time, and lots of it, and that's why I'm able to do the sort of important research that you would do if only you weren't so busy.

Here are the results of today's exhaustive research. I'm wearing a white lab coat, crepe-soled sensible shoes, plastic black-rimmed glasses, and my hair is pulled back into a severe bun, all to lend an air of authenticity (or, failing that, the beginning of a really hot "Forum" entry in Penthouse).

On the days when I don't go to the gym just after it opens, I go later in the morning, preferably during an hour when I can watch a hideously bad talk show with less guilt than I would if I watched it at home. Today I arrived at 9:10, cursing myself for having missed the first ten minutes of "Live With Regis and Kelly". I don't like missing their entrance into the studio, because then I can't check out what Kelly's wearing and make fun of the hideous taste of her stylist. (It also means I can't gaze lovingly at her gams, but that's another story -- for Maxim.) That first handful of minutes is vital anyway, because it sets the tone for the rest of the hour. Past research has found that it's usually most entertaining if Regis had been out drinking wine the previous night.

Anyway, one of today's guests was none other than my ex-husband, Neanderthal-browed Nicolas Cage, who sauntered onstage in a full black leather ensemble. Skin-tight pants, boots made not just for walkin' but for struttin', and a multi-zippered motorcycle jacket. At first I thought he'd suffered head trauma and was under the impression that he was auditioning for a part in his 1983 movie, "Valley Girl". But as Nic was quick to point out, while soaking up the dripping, drooling admiration of both co-hosts, "I only feel comfortable wearing leather."

He wasn't kidding. I was waiting for a smile. A raised eyebrow. Some indication that he wasn't taking himself nearly as seriously as he appeared to be. I thought he would crack the stone facade that I've come to know is his only facial expression. But no.

He was even very somber when he said, "I worship no false idols" -- after coolly mentioning that he lives in a house where Dean Martin and Tom Jones once lived (but no, not at the same time, kidz). And that he owns a fleet of cars. And that he races cars. (I'm just waiting for the day when one of these "celebrity" race-car drivers dies in a fiery crash. If it can't be Tom Cruise, then I'm willing to settle for Nicolas.)

Because I'm so multi-talented, and thanks to close-captioning, I was able to watch two shows at the same time. I read parts of "Montel" while listening to "Live". Montel's guests included, among others, a mother who breast-fed her son until he was like five or six, and experts who said there was nothing wrong with it. I couldn't watch for very long, however, because I was on the verge of forgetting I was in a public place and about to start screaming at the television the way I do at home.

You know what ... I don't care if "they" say it's OK to breast-feed until a kid is five or six. I don't care if it's healthy. I don't care. I. don't. care. All I can say, and all I will say, is this: If a kid can ask for it, he's too old for it. If he's old enough to handle a cup, it shouldn't be his mother's. End of story.

The rest of my day was spent in the "development" phase, until 4:00, when I felt compelled to watch "Oprah", even though I despise her and that chronic Tuesday guest Dr. Phil. Although I'm unwavering in my Oprah stance, I was actually willing to give Dr. Phil a second chance (and no, I didn't plan that rhyme). I was even all set to report back to you, quite sheepishly, that I was wrr-wrrrr-wrrrrr-wrong about him. Alas, I turned the TV off in a huff halfway through the show, disgusted not only with Oprah, Dr. Phil, and every teary-eyed, head-nodding member of the audience, but myself as well for putting up with the bullshit for as long as I did.

What did you learn from all of this? Nothing. What did I learn from all of this? Nothing. Will I be watching "Live" tomorrow morning? Yes. Of course. I can't miss Sarah Michelle Gellar, can I?

It's all in the name of research, friends. And I do it all for you.

fresh-baked at 11:58 PM
Star Billing

We people who use exclamation points at the end of our site names ... we're just so cliquish!

Clique here, and check out the quote just under the site's title.

What does a girl have to do to get her quote above the title? I'm too coy to ask!

fresh-baked at 02:21 PM
For your "To Do" list

If you do nothing else today, just promise me you'll do this: Read today's item on Todd's site. His stuff is always worthwhile, but this one is particularly disarming. Enjoy!

fresh-baked at 02:03 PM
It's a boy!

Another strappin' young buck has linked to this site. Let's hear it for Aaron!

Aaron, like Wil (of "My So-called Penis" fame), lists me as "The Jodiverse" (Wil doesn't use "The", but close enough) -- so don't get all confused if when you check out their sites and don't see me listed as "Because I Say So!"

Either way you slice it, I'm just happy to be acknowledged. I mean, hey, you can list me as "That Stunner from New York" or "That Know-It-All Slut from Manhattan", as long as you get the URL right.

fresh-baked at 12:46 PM
Ms. Spelling

This is the first time and also the last time I'm going to tell you this, so make sure you're listening. Write it down in case you'll forget.


"Definitely" does not contain an "a". It is not spelled "definately".


If you value your life, you will never misspell it in my company.

(And no, I haven't seen this misspelling here yet. I just saw it on someone else's site and felt it was my duty to speak up. I've been silent for too long. And now I must be heard!)

fresh-baked at 11:46 AM
What's going on here?!

Take your hands off me, you bastard!

Tell me what you think is going on in this picture. If it makes any difference to your interpretation, the mailbox that is waiting to be loaded onto the truck has a bent leg.

Here's what I think, kidz: We'll be seeing mailbox-burgers sometime very soon. The bent-leg mailbox will not be used for food, but will be fashioned into a stylish jacket.

Isn't this a violation of the U.S. Postal Code, or whatever code/rule/regulation is in place to prevent the abuse of government property?

Alert the media. Please. Someone!

fresh-baked at 11:30 AM
Monday, 10 June 2002
Fun Feature

Hey, kidz.

Check out the fabulous fun feature called GuestMap, under "Contact" in the column to the right. Let me know where you are (and who you're going with, and what time you'll be home). I worry about you.

fresh-baked at 11:33 PM
More thanks

Thanks to this lovely lady for keeping her radar on!

Thanks also to this groovy guy, whose site name certainly jazzes on up my "Linkin' (b)Log".

And still more thanks to this friendly fella for tipping his hat.

(Wil and Steve have the distinction of being the first GUYS to link to me [that I'm aware of, that is]. C'mon, fellas ... what are you waiting for? Oh ... THAT? Well ... OK ... but just this once.)

fresh-baked at 10:03 PM
I cannot tell a die

Sometimes I think I'm going to catch someone in the act of trying to die on me.

A few weeks ago, I was out in the living room alone, watching something inane on TV, when my dog, Taxi, tiptoed over and hung out with me for about five minutes. His "dad" had gone to bed a while ago, and Taxi had followed.

At first I was amused, because ordinarily the two of them go into the bedroom together and don't leave the room until the next morning. But being the chronic worrier that I am, the amusement quickly turned to alarm.

"Oh my god, he's out here because Bob is dead. Yes, he's dead, he's stopped breathing ... he's dead and this is Taxi's way of letting me know. I'm going to go in there and see a dead guy. What do I do if he's dead? Does this mean our plans for the weekend are off?"

I crept into the bedroom, accompanied by Taxi, and approached the bed. Held my own breath in order to listen for Bob's. "I don't hear anything, I don't hear anything!" I panicked. I edged closer, the familiar cold hand on the back of my neck asserting itself. And then, true to form, Bob ... snurfled. That annoying sound that, on an ordinary night, makes me wish he would stop breathing (if only temporarily). The cold hand disappeared, and I left the room, pretending I was disgusted by his snore.

But that's not the only time I've thought that someone was going to die on me unexpectedly. There were numerous occasions years ago, when my mom and I used to commute together on the train into Philadelphia (we were both glamorous legal secretaries -- sort of like the Blythe Danner/Gwyneth Paltrow of the legal secretarial world), when I thought that she had died on me too.

Invariably the rocking of the train would cause her to nod off, and I would watch her face, beautiful in its animation while awake, become even more so in its serenity while asleep. One time she was extraordinarily still, and I actually thought, "So this is what she's going to look like some day."

I hit myself in the arm, told myself to shut the fuck up, and then did something -- pretended to cough, rustled a newspaper, cleared my throat -- so she would wake up. Her eyelids slowly opened, her lips formed a smile, and I pretended it was an ordinary morning.

fresh-baked at 09:33 PM
You never know unless you fry

eat me

Sometimes you just don't want another organic and/or macrobiotic lunch. Sometimes you just want to throw caution to the wind and fork over a couple o' dollars for a fried friend.

Of course, a meal must always be balanced ... so that's why you throw in a tofu dog with grated carrots for good measure.

fresh-baked at 05:56 PM
Sunday, 9 June 2002
Touch this

Is it any wonder that the person looking for this had to turn to a search engine to find it?

fresh-baked at 08:01 PM
Private Display of Affection

I don't know why it moved me so much, but it did.

This morning I was walking up Broadway, a few blocks from my apartment, and I saw a youngish (28?) Asian guy standing on the sidewalk opposite two much shorter people who I'm guessing were his mom and dad. I could see their faces but I could not see his. All of them were dressed casually -- the parents in simple pants and short-sleeve shirts, the son in long shorts and a T-shirt. A taxi was waiting by the curb, the door behind the driver wide open. No one was speaking.

It wasn't the kind of silence that is borne of anger or disapproval. It was the kind that speaks more than words could possibly say. The mom's face -- the eyes and nose pink from sniffling back tears, the downturned mouth struggling to right iself -- was beautiful in its unabashed, simple display of love for her son. The dad's head was slightly bowed, and his face, much more stoic than the mom's, was nevertheless just as telling. His unblinking gaze, focused on his son, contained the tears that I knew would spill down his cheeks had he dared to shut his eyes for even a split second. I could not see the son's face.

I approached them, transfixed, all the while pretending to look around at everything else except them. When I was just a few feet away, the son bent down to collect his parents in a three-way hug. It was perhaps the most private public moment I've ever witnessed.

Even though I felt like an intruder, I couldn't help but glance over at them. The mother's eye caught mine for the briefest of moments, so I gave her a tiny smile to let her know I "understood" -- and I did understand, somehow, even though I didn't know what exactly it was that I was understanding. She closed her eyes.

Once I passed, I was compelled to watch them, so I did what any idiot would do when she doesn't want to seem like an eavesdropper or voyeur: I took out my cell phone, pretended to punch in a few numbers (like a character on a TV show, blindly pushing random buttons), and turned my body away from them just enough to give them "privacy".

They broke out of their little huddle, the son stood up to his full height, and the parents moved ever so slightly toward the taxi. The mom, trying to smile, entered first. The dad followed slowly. They both looked out the open door at their son, bent down to look in at them.

He rose, gently shut the door, and then stepped back from the curb. He rose to his full height as the taxi slowly and silently pulled away. He raised his right arm and hand to wave.

Through the rear window, I could see his mother's face turning back to look at her son. Her eyes were losing their battle to stay tear-free. She reached her hand toward the glass and slowly waved ... waved ... and was still waving as the car disappeared from view.

The son bowed his head slightly, wiped his nose, his eyes, and stood on the sidewalk, alone. Except for the strange girl with the cell phone, who stood maybe 25 feet away, sniffling back her own tears.

fresh-baked at 02:15 PM
A Long Time Coming

No, it's not what you think. It's not porn. It's not "erotica". It's not XXX-rated, or even just X.

It's the long-awaited, much overdue, now up and running "Linkin' (b)Log" -- my list of the wonderful people who have been gracious enough to link to this site. Check it out, on the right.

If you've linked to me and you're not on the list (and you'd like to be), please let me know.

I'd also like to apologize to Anita, Tess, and my good friend at Trivium for not thanking them here earlier, in a regular post. It was an oversight. (And no, they didn't bring this to my attention. These ladies have too much class to whine.)

Enjoy.

fresh-baked at 12:08 PM
Saturday, 8 June 2002
Linkin' Log

Thanks to Laura for linking to this site. She won me over just by placing "i hate mayonnaise" as the first item on her 100-item "About" list. (And we are in complete agreement about Johnny Depp. Yep.)

fresh-baked at 11:53 PM
I'm a Loser

Today, somewhere during my travels to and from Trenton and suburban Philadelphia, I lost the pin that I kept affixed to my denim jacket. It was a pewter-colored cartoonish cat in a spacesuit (complete with headgear), paws outstretched as if flying ... nothing "precious" insofar as metals or stones were concerned, but precious in terms of sentiment.

What pisses me off is that today when I admired it, as I occasionally did when I wasn't taking it for granted, I thought, "I should make sure the pin in the back is secure, because you never know ..." and then I neglected to check. So now I'm fucked. It's lost, and it's not in the car of the friend who chauffeured us around this afternoon, and it's not at the Chinese restaurant where I ate the crunchy noodles against my better judgment. It's also not in the disgusting ladies room at the Trenton train station.

I don't know which notion I hate more: that someone else found it and is wearing it, but doesn't love it the way I do; or, that it's been crushed by someone's filthy shoe or otherwise maimed ... alone and wondering if I'm going to rescue it from wherever it lies dying.

Sometimes it really, really blows being such a sentimental, maudlin anthropomorphisist/anthropopathisist. And this is just one example. Just wait until you read, sometime soon, about the viciously strangled umbrella.

fresh-baked at 07:08 PM
No Excuses

Why is it that whenever another person on the street and I almost bump into each other, or actually do collide (yes, it happens), I'm always the only one who says, "Excuse me"? Can someone please explain that to me? I'd really appreciate it, because I've just about had it with people's lack of even the most common of courtesies.

About 15 minutes ago, as I rounded the final corner (what is this, a horse race?) on my walk home from the gym, a UPS deliveryman rounded it in the opposite direction. "Oooh! Excuse me," I said, even adding a bonus tiny smile. He said nothing. Didn't even blink an eye. No acknowledgment whatsofuckingever.

In addition, there have been so/too many occasions where I've held the door open for other people -- sometimes an entire fucking parade, it seems -- as they've passed through it in the opposite direction, and not one of them has thanked me. What, am I their personal butler/doorman/doormat? You'd better believe that as each successive jackass passes by me, I offer him or her either a heartfelt "Excuse you" or "You're so welcome". Still, rarely has someone acknowledged that I even said something.

I am not invisible. I may be a mere slip of a girl, but the last time I looked, I was still visible to the naked or not-so-naked eye. When I peer into a mirror, there is indeed a reflection -- contrary to what some people may have said about my being a "vampire" (given my aversion to sunlight and daytime and the fact that I have a black cape permanently affixed to my shoulders). But when people don't make the extraordinary effort to acknowledge that they are not the only creatures occupying the planet, I really want to relieve them of some of their blood.

fresh-baked at 09:35 AM
Friday, 7 June 2002
OyToy

but I never part my hair in the middle

Kelly posted a charming likeness of herself, so I decided to do so too, but by using a different generator (or whatever the hell the technical term is).

And no, I am not a geisha or a mime. I used the white face because there was no option for a face that matched the arms; the blue looked like rigor mortis; the gray, like general sickness; the red, like constipation; the green, like indigestion; the yellow, like jaundice; and the blue, like a three-year-old holding her breath, which, the more I think of it, might have been appropriate.






fresh-baked at 07:18 PM
Three Thimble Thoughts
  1. It's always some rich bastard who says, "Money can't buy happiness." Some jerk-off who doesn't just live in a house but in a compound that can't be reached at all except by helicopter or jetpack. If money can't buy happiness, you schmuck, then how about forklifting a heap of the stuff over to people who would consider any roof at all "happiness".

  2. I can't stand when I see a guy walking down the street (hold on, let me finish the sentence) wearing sneakers with his suit. I'm not talking about guys like my darling "Poppop", Isaac, who sometimes wore them instead of his "nice pair of Florsheims", but business guys, the kind some people (not I) call "suits". It's bad enough when men wear galoshes (I would say "rubbers", but it would make me snicker like the little boy I am), but at least that makes a smidgeon of sense (even if it makes me sick when I see it). But the sneakers/suit thing? No.

  3. When I star in my next sitcom, I want to be the one who has the "And Starring ..." position at the end of the opening credits. You know, the way Tom Bosley did in the first few seasons of Happy Days before he was bumped by that Fonzie fella.

    fresh-baked at 01:20 PM
Model Behavior - Fix

If you were unable to listen to the quote in yesterday's item entitled "Model Behavior", please note that I have changed the format of the sound file -- from "wav" to "mp3" -- so now you should be able to play it without any difficulty.

Not only did I manage to find "freeware" to do the conversion, but to install it without crying and implement the change without any fuss. I'm so impressed with myself. I feel like such a big girl now -- and am singing the Huggies® Pull-Ups® jingle in celebration. I'd record it and include it here, but that would be too disturbing, even for me.

fresh-baked at 09:05 AM
Model Behavior - Fix

I'm impressed. I'm really impressed with the ever-increasing quality of my readership and the ways in which the readers find my site.

Today someone found me by a simple search for "jodi" (I was number 11 out of "about 443,000"). Not "fuck jodi" (yesterday), not the converse ("jodi fuck"), not "mom fuck young son". Not even "urgent need to pee + can't go".

The direct approach is so refreshing. It's the equivalent of a guy who, in whatever situation, uses a simple "hello" as a means to meet/greet me. No "I want to chew your panties" or "Le-e-e-egs!!!" or "Psssssttt!!!"

Thanks, to whomever the simple-search person may be.

And now, I must prepare to go Out In The Field, in the name of research. I'm wearing a safari jacket with lots o' pockets, sturdy hiking boots, and carrying a large net. If you see me on the street, don't say, "Oooh baby baby, catch me ... I'm a wild animal!" Just say hello, for god's/Pete's/fuck's sake.

Thank you.

fresh-baked at 09:05 AM
Model Behavior - Fix

If you were unable to listen to the quote in yesterday's item entitled "Model Behavior", please note that I have changed the format of the sound file -- from "wav" to "mp3" -- so now you should be able to play it without any difficulty.

Not only did I manage to find "freeware" to do the conversion, but to install it without crying and implement the change without any fuss. I'm so impressed with myself. I feel like such a big girl now -- and am singing the Huggies® Pull-Ups® jingle in celebration. I'd record it and include it here, but that would be too disturbing, even for me.

fresh-baked at 09:05 AM
Thursday, 6 June 2002
Hey+you

To the person who found the old "Because I Say So" (Blogger version) by doing a Google search for "jodi+fuck":

I know you visit this site too. Regularly. I know your I.P. address.

Did+you+really+think+I+wouldn't+figure+out+who+you+are?

fresh-baked at 10:45 PM
**

If you read "Fair Weather Friend" before 8:58 p.m. (EST), you may want to reread it. The text of one paragraph was sort of repeated in another paragraph, and it "read" kind of stupid with the same basic text included twice. (Yes, I'm a perfectionist. I thought you knew that by now!)

fresh-baked at 09:03 PM
Fair Weather Friend

You know, it's really rude for you to get here so late. Last night I was under the impression that you would be here in the morning, so we could spend the entire day together. But no. I waited around all day for you, and even put off getting a manicure in anticipation of your arrival.

When 5:00 rolled around and you still hadn't shown up, I began to worry. I thought maybe something happened to you and you wouldn't be coming here at all. I couldn't believe you could or would let me down like that. But then I remembered that this wasn't the first time you disappointed me this way.

So now it's almost 7:30 -- and at long last you have arrived. I won't ask you where you were all day. (I do know you stopped by my mom's earlier today. I spoke to her around 6:15, and she told me you'd been there late in the afternoon. She said you were probably on your way.)

I hope you'll spend the night. I love falling asleep with you.

Thanks, rain!

fresh-baked at 07:27 PM
Pain in the Ash

Imagine my surprise when this afternoon I received an email from Ashley, the nicest, sweetest, sincerest girl I haven't ever met.

Ash writes:

Hey, I have you on my buddy list ??? I have been having this account for a long time and I need to cancell it and open a new account. I am sorry if I do not remember talking to you, but I have a ton of people on my buddy list and you were one of the ones I can't remember meeting.

Also, if you don't know me you might know my roommate Jen, she uses my account and may have added you. My ex-boyfriend Johnny is cyber stalking me so i need to set up a new aol name, so if you know me you can e-mail me at: Ashley@***.com so i know i get your mail and i will add you to my new aol account. If you do not remember me either I have some pictures on my homepage http://***/profiles/ashley20/ they might help you remember me.

Talk to ya later,
Ashley

Oh, if you do not know who I am and you can not remember me then I can only tell you that i am cute and single and you might want to get to know me better. If you do not like cute girls then fine have it your way please click here and i will make sure me nor my friends will never e-mail you again, ever !

Just a few things:

  • I don't associate with people by the name of "Ashley". But if a friend of mine were so unfortunate as to have parents who did that to her, you'd better fucking believe she would've changed it, years ago, to something decidedly less cutesy, such as "Tiffani".

  • All of my friends know how to spell "cancel".

  • My friends know me better than to ever write the word "ya".

  • I simply cannot be friends with someone who doesn't know how to punctuate.

  • Run-on sentences make me bleed from the ears.

  • Oy fucking vey iz mir: "i will make sure me nor my friends will never e-mail you again, ever !"


Aside from those things, though, I think we would really get along, 'cause you know me ... I love the cute, single girls!

fresh-baked at 05:00 PM
Model Behavior

If you read "Fair Weather Friend" before 8:58 p.m. (EST), you may want to reread it. The text of one paragraph was sort of repeated in another paragraph, and it "read" kind of stupid with the same basic text included twice. (Yes, I'm a perfectionist. I thought you knew that by now!)

fresh-baked at 09:18 AM
Model Behavior

In the mid-'80s, when I was living in Center City Philadelphia, I worked, after my "regular" job as the best legal secretary in the universe, as a busgirl at a very popular upscale (or "yupscale") cafeteria-style restaurant called "The Commissary". When I wasn't busy dismantling the hilarious sculptures that the more adorable customers would construct out of plates, flatware, and empty sugar packets, I was in the back of the restaurant, hanging out by the bussing "station", which was only several feet away from the small bar.

This vantage point not only afforded me a clear view of everyone's entrance and exit ("Oh fuck, that pain in the ass who asks me to open her Saltine packets just came in" ... "Oh good, those schmucks with the Sunday paper who think this place is the goddamned library are leaving") but also allowed me to cackle (internally, of course) whenever some errant customer would come back to the bar and timidly ask for a drink. I can't stand timidity. Especially when there's no reason to be intimidated. "I'll have a Diet Coke, please" isn't public speaking.

One day this tall girl in a short skirt came in, probably in her early 20s, and headed toward the bar. Apparently she'd spent just a little too much time watching MTV's "House of Style" or CNN's "Style", because she didn't just walk back to the bar like a normal person. No, she slunk. Shoulders down and slightly slumped forward, but with an outrageous pelvic tilt that positioned the rest of her body, from hips up, at a 30-degree backward-leaning angle. I suppose that in her imagination, this ridiculous posture was just like that of the runway models.

Anyway, she slinked/slunked/slank to the bar, settled into a pose, and then opened her mouth to order.

"I'll have a Doooy-it Co-o-o-o-ke ... a gleeeee-iss of milk ... and a cappuccino!"

Diet Coke and a glass of milk, ordered in an accent that was so undeniably, stereotypically Philadelphian that it was laughable. And then "cappuccino" pronounced in an Italian accent to rival that of Anna Magnani.

Apparently she'd watched just a little too much "Jeopardy" as well.

fresh-baked at 09:18 AM
Wednesday, 5 June 2002
126 Pieces of Gold!

Because I love you all very much, and because you've all been so dedicated to "Because I Say So!", I've decided to treat you to a veritable treasure chest of riches unrivalled by anything dug up by any pirate or dog anywhere.

If you look at the column on the right, under "Daze Gone By", you will see that the archives have grown! That's because I spent all day (we're talkin' about six or seven hours, kidz) cutting and pasting the old "Because I Say So!" entries into Movable Type. I had tried, to no avail (obviously), to do the import/export thing. I was sick of trying to make it do what it's supposed to do. So I, being the old-fashioned luddite that I am, did it the hard way. Or, for me, the easy way.

Enjoy!

fresh-baked at 10:48 PM
One of these things doesn't belong here ...

madison_square_park.JPGlemonade.JPG
oatmeal_sign.jpgweather.gif

fresh-baked at 02:40 PM
Tuesday, 4 June 2002
Fame on Both Sides of the Atlantic

Thanks to Zel, from England, for linking to me. (Zel's passion for Keanu rivals mine circa July 1995, when my friend Christine and I actually considered going "on the road" to follow him during a "Dogstar" [his band] tour. Can you see it?)

And thanks also to Kim, a co-New Yorker! Yeah!

fresh-baked at 11:33 PM
If you need me ...

I'll be here (2.30 MB), reading this.

A lemonade would be nice ... but don't bring me one unless you're bringing one for yourself ...

fresh-baked at 01:07 PM
About A Girl

"I hate EVERYONE!!!"

How many times a day do I say this? Five? Ten? Four Hundred Sixty-Two?

Oh, wait. Maybe it's a rhetorical question. Or maybe it should be, because I say it so much that it's almost become part of me, like my nose or my spleen or my perpetually raised eyebrow.

The bizarre thing is that even though people get on my fucking nerves -- and I'm always fantasizing about the ways I would slap someone across the face or grab ahold of someone's hair and hold it above her head with one hand (so she looked like an onion) as I punched her face, punching-bag style, with the other -- yes, even though they get on my nerves, I just have to be around them.

Of course, there are those days when I sequester myself from the world (with the exception of email, of course, and my own romps around the internet) and suffer from a sort of agoraphobia (damn those frightening agoras!) and tell myself that I would be happy if I never came in contact with an actual person again, with the exception of the person I live with and my aromatherapist. But even a seasoned misanthrope such as I can only go for so long without seeing people (if not actually speaking to them).

Yes, as much as people irritate the living fuck out of me, I just can't live without them. (Sort of like that banal "Women -- can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em" thing.) It's something I only suspected before, but today I realized it to be true.

You see, this morning I accompanied the DOG to the gym he just joined, to take advantage of a one-week free pass I signed up for (even though, when I did so, I knew I wouldn't want to use it). Anyway, we arrived at 6:00, when the place opened, and three other people were already there working out. Only three. (I say "only" because the early-morning crowd is much larger at Equinox, my regular gym.)

I must say, that for a person who isn't too fond of people, I was quite disappointed. I actually wanted other people around when I worked out. This isn't to say I wanted to be surrounded by them or even to talk to them; I just wanted the energy of more pumping hearts, more expanding lungs, more blinking eyes. I wanted to "feed" off of them, to compete against them (I must confess that I "race" my unwitting treadmill neighbors) ... even to hate them for one of the many, sometimes petty (hey, at least I admit it) reasons I hate them.

So I did a whopping 15 minutes on the stationary bike, followed by a stellar seven on the treadmill, and then told the DOG I was leaving to go to Equinox. He, ever the consummate gentleman, interrupted his own workout to retrieve my jacket, walked me to the elevator, and gave me $4.00 (for what, I don't know -- just for being adorable, I guess). And then I dashed down the street to Equinox, where I happily hated everyone there.

fresh-baked at 11:46 AM
Monday, 3 June 2002
Who the fuck ...

Because I love you all very much, and because you've all been so dedicated to "Because I Say So!", I've decided to treat you to a veritable treasure chest of riches unrivalled by anything dug up by any pirate or dog anywhere.

If you look at the column on the right, under "Daze Gone By", you will see that the archives have grown! That's because I spent all day (we're talkin' about six or seven hours, kidz) cutting and pasting the old "Because I Say So!" entries into Movable Type. I had tried, to no avail (obviously), to do the import/export thing. I was sick of trying to make it do what it's supposed to do. So I, being the old-fashioned luddite that I am, did it the hard way. Or, for me, the easy way.

Enjoy!

fresh-baked at 11:24 PM
Who the fuck ...

would do something like this!?

Warning to my own "DOG": Don't bother clicking on that. You'll see even more red.

fresh-baked at 11:24 PM
More Fame

A million thanks to Melly and a Broad for linking to me.

"Melly and a Broad". Hmm. Sounds like a gal-pal movie in the making. Melly ... Broad ... who do you want to play you? (And just so you know: Linda Fiorentino
is out. She's already, uh, doing me.)

fresh-baked at 05:13 PM
L if I know

This afternoon I finally went to Williamsburg. I say "finally" because a friend of mine kept raving about how "cute" it was and how much fun, and I kept telling her I would check it out sometime soon. So today I went.

For those of you who don't live in the area, Williamsburg is not some sort of Colonial tourist town where people dress up in those horrible George Washington and Benjamin Franklin get-ups and re-enact the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Please. That kind of stuff actually nauseates me. But the Williamsburg I visited today -- a section of Brooklyn that is reached only by one subway line, the "L" -- was just about as thrilling, but without the scratchy outfits and wigs.

I don't know, kids. I just don't know what all the hubbub's about. Maybe I'm, like, jaded. Maybe I expect too much from places or situations. Maybe I'm hard to impress. It's just that I read and heard that this place was up-and-coming, a fun and funky place to visit, and I went there expecting to want to come back some day ... I guess I just don't fit in among the derelicts and 20-somethings posing outside or inside one of the many coffee shops that line Bedford Avenue. Maybe I'm more of a snob than I've given myself credit for.

As I was about to leave, I decided to have lunch at Bliss, a vegetarian restaurant a few storefronts from the subway. At first I thought I loved my food (vegetable/tofu curry), but I think it was just infatuation, given that I was so hungry that my maple-tint lipgloss was starting to look good. Or maybe the experience was tainted because one of the restaurant workers was slumped over a table in the back (if there is, indeed a "back" -- the place is tiny) receiving a loud "karate chop" sort of massage, the vibrations from which I could almost feel on my own back.

I won't be ... back.

fresh-baked at 04:45 PM
L if I know

This afternoon I finally went to Williamsburg. I say "finally" because a friend of mine kept raving about how "cute" it was and how much fun, and I kept telling her I would check it out sometime soon. So today I went.

For those of you who don't live in the area, Williamsburg is not some sort of Colonial tourist town where people dress up in those horrible George Washington and Benjamin Franklin get-ups and re-enact the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Please. That kind of stuff actually nauseates me. But the Williamsburg I visited today -- a section of Brooklyn that is reached only by one subway line, the "L" -- was just about as thrilling, but without the scratchy outfits and wigs.

I don't know, kids. I just don't know what all the hubbub's about. Maybe I'm, like, jaded. Maybe I expect too much from places or situations. Maybe I'm hard to impress. It's just that I read and heard that this place was up-and-coming, a fun and funky place to visit, and I went there expecting to want to come back some day ... I guess I just don't fit in among the derelicts and 20-somethings posing outside or inside one of the many coffee shops that line Bedford Avenue. Maybe I'm more of a snob than I've given myself credit for.

As I was about to leave, I decided to have lunch at Bliss, a vegetarian restaurant a few storefronts from the subway. At first I thought I loved my food (vegetable/tofu curry), but I think it was just infatuation, given that I was so hungry that my maple-tint lipgloss was starting to look good. Or maybe the experience was tainted because one of the restaurant workers was slumped over a table in the back (if there is, indeed a "back" -- the place is tiny) receiving a loud "karate chop" sort of massage, the vibrations from which I could almost feel on my own back.

I won't be ... back.

fresh-baked at 04:45 PM
L if I know

A million thanks to Melly and a Broad for linking to me.

"Melly and a Broad". Hmm. Sounds like a gal-pal movie in the making. Melly ... Broad ... who do you want to play you? (And just so you know: Linda Fiorentino
is out. She's already, uh, doing me.)

fresh-baked at 04:45 PM
L if I know

This afternoon I finally went to Williamsburg. I say "finally" because a friend of mine kept raving about how "cute" it was and how much fun, and I kept telling her I would check it out sometime soon. So today I went.

For those of you who don't live in the area, Williamsburg is not some sort of Colonial tourist town where people dress up in those horrible George Washington and Benjamin Franklin get-ups and re-enact the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Please. That kind of stuff actually nauseates me. But the Williamsburg I visited today -- a section of Brooklyn that is reached only by one subway line, the "L" -- was just about as thrilling, but without the scratchy outfits and wigs.

I don't know, kids. I just don't know what all the hubbub's about. Maybe I'm, like, jaded. Maybe I expect too much from places or situations. Maybe I'm hard to impress. It's just that I read and heard that this place was up-and-coming, a fun and funky place to visit, and I went there expecting to want to come back some day ... I guess I just don't fit in among the derelicts and 20-somethings posing outside or inside one of the many coffee shops that line Bedford Avenue. Maybe I'm more of a snob than I've given myself credit for.

As I was about to leave, I decided to have lunch at Bliss, a vegetarian restaurant a few storefronts from the subway. At first I thought I loved my food (vegetable/tofu curry), but I think it was just infatuation, given that I was so hungry that my maple-tint lipgloss was starting to look good. Or maybe the experience was tainted because one of the restaurant workers was slumped over a table in the back (if there is, indeed a "back" -- the place is tiny) receiving a loud "karate chop" sort of massage, the vibrations from which I could almost feel on my own back.

I won't be ... back.

fresh-baked at 04:45 PM
Sunday, 2 June 2002
Expansion

As I said earlier this week, I'm busy working on expanding this fabulous site so I can divert you for a bit longer from doing whatever else you're supposed to be doing. I, of course, have nothing else I'm supposed to be doing, so I am spending a ridiculously inordinate amount of time learning how to add more amenities for your enjoyment. The equivalent of a mint on your pillow, I suppose.

I will include a link to "Because I Say So! - The Gallery" on the right side of this page. If you go there now, however, I can guarantee that you'll be appropriately disappointed. The gallery exists, but there is nothing to see. Or maybe it's just some sort of revolutionary new installment that just appears devoid of content. Pretentiously interpet its deeper meaning as you see fit.

So bear with me (and no, no hilarious comments about wanting to "bare" with me instead) while I make these changes. I basically don't know what I'm doing, and everything is trial and error ... with a delightful emphasis on the latter.

And no, I'm not cursing over here. I'm not that kind of girl!


Note: As of 6:18 this evening, the first photo was added to The Gallery. Go on ... take a look. (It's a thumbnail, so be sure to click on the image for enlargement.)

fresh-baked at 05:13 PM
Nah Nah

Enough already with the commercials for that fucking "Ya-Ya" movie. I'm sick of seeing Sandra Bullock beating that telephone receiver against the counter, a trait her character apparently shares with the mother she probably wants to be nothing like. Sick of the group of women standing in a circle wearing ridiculous hats, joining hands, raising their arms, and exuberantly chanting a celebratory "Ya-ya!!!"

Give me a break. I can already tell you, without having read the book or without having seen the movie -- and rest assured I will never do either -- that this "chick flick" is going to wind up having some sort of message of "redemption", and that the Sandra Bullock character is going to come to terms not only with her own disapproval of her mother but eventually accept that mother, embrace her, flaws and all, and, in turn, embrace her own.

All this, with the always emetic fake Southern accents.

Ptui. Feh. Kaka. Wretch. Vomit.

fresh-baked at 02:06 PM
Expansion

As I said earlier this week, I'm busy working on expanding this fabulous site so I can divert you for a bit longer from doing whatever else you're supposed to be doing. I, of course, have nothing else I'm supposed to be doing, so I am spending a ridiculously inordinate amount of time learning how to add more amenities for your enjoyment. The equivalent of a mint on your pillow, I suppose.

I will include a link to "Because I Say So! - The Gallery" on the right side of this page. If you go there now, however, I can guarantee that you'll be appropriately disappointed. The gallery exists, but there is nothing to see. Or maybe it's just some sort of revolutionary new installment that just appears devoid of content. Pretentiously interpet its deeper meaning as you see fit.

So bear with me (and no, no hilarious comments about wanting to "bare" with me instead) while I make these changes. I basically don't know what I'm doing, and everything is trial and error ... with a delightful emphasis on the latter.

And no, I'm not cursing over here. I'm not that kind of girl!


Note: As of 6:18 this evening, the first photo was added to The Gallery. Go on ... take a look. (It's a thumbnail, so be sure to click on the image for enlargement.)

fresh-baked at 02:06 PM
Nah Nah

Enough already with the commercials for that fucking "Ya-Ya" movie. I'm sick of seeing Sandra Bullock beating that telephone receiver against the counter, a trait her character apparently shares with the mother she probably wants to be nothing like. Sick of the group of women standing in a circle wearing ridiculous hats, joining hands, raising their arms, and exuberantly chanting a celebratory "Ya-ya!!!"

Give me a break. I can already tell you, without having read the book or without having seen the movie -- and rest assured I will never do either -- that this "chick flick" is going to wind up having some sort of message of "redemption", and that the Sandra Bullock character is going to come to terms not only with her own disapproval of her mother but eventually accept that mother, embrace her, flaws and all, and, in turn, embrace her own.

All this, with the always emetic fake Southern accents.

Ptui. Feh. Kaka. Wretch. Vomit.

fresh-baked at 02:06 PM
In the Field

If you truly were psychic, you would have known, before trying to hand me your flyer, that I wouldn't take it.

I wasn't joking when I said that we wouldn't have stopped to give you change if you hadn't had a puppy lying beside you on the sidewalk where you sat (looking, I might add, a little too clean to be truly homeless).

Yes, I am gorgeous. Thanks for the acknowledgment!

Thanks for being impressed that I asked for half-and-half in my iced coffee instead of skim milk, Attractive Man Next to Me at the "Caffé" Counter -- and thanks for leaving before you could witness me dumping three packets of Equal into my cup, thus diluting your initial impression.

If you're going to shed on the toilet seat, at least have the decency to remove the damning evidence.

No, really, it's all right, Mr. Hideous Tan Shoes, if you don't look to see if anyone is behind you when you're going through the door. You are, after all, the only person in the universe.

Actually, I think it's cute when you talk loudly into your cellphone about absolute fucking bullshit.

fresh-baked at 12:38 AM
Saturday, 1 June 2002
"Life and Limb": An Exchange Policy

Life

To: My father's old "best friend", the one who committed suicide on Father's Day several years ago, leaving behind a 16-year-old daughter

How thoughtful.

You know, before you decided to relieve yourself of the burden of living, you should have come to me first. I wouldn't have tried to talk you out of it, because I'm not the negotiating type, and, quite frankly, if you were considering killing yourself I wouldn't even want to waste my time with you. But had you come to me, I would have suggested that you exchange your life for the one that my friend Aldo lost last October after a long bout with leukemia. I know he would have appreciated it. He would have found some way to make use of a life you considered useless.


Limb

To: Lazy losers on the escalator

If you have legs, and you have no physical limitations, then there is absolutely no excuse for you to use the escalator when there is a stairway that is available at the same location. "I'm tired" is no excuse. "It takes too long" is no excuse. "I'm a lazy bastard" is no excuse. And no, I don't want to hear, "I have a big shopping bag." That's no excuse either.

You know what ... If you don't want to use your legs -- if you prefer to let something else do the transporting for you -- I know someone who would be more than happy to relieve you of them. She's been in a wheelchair longer than I care to even imagine, thanks to multiple sclerosis, and she would gladly use the legs you seem to forget you have. In fact, she'd be thrilled, and beyond appreciative, so if you don't mind I'm going to call around to make arrangements to have the exchange effectuated immediately.

fresh-baked at 10:06 AM