I just hope this frumpy lump of tourist lard knows that here in New York City we curb our kids as well as keep them on-leash at all times.
(Yes, I know she's a tourist, because everyone who lives here knows that the leash is to be coordinated with the child's outfit, not the owner's.)
I'll keep this short.
- TV, not T.V.
- ID*, not I.D.
* for "identification", of course
Look at these guys. (They can't even look at each other!) There's handsome Alex on the left, all natty with his bowtie/ascot. And handsome Andy on the right, all dapper with his forelock. Handsome handsome handsome. But which one is more so?
You will note, of course, that I have carefully distorted the serial numbers on these bills and added a little caveat on each. Just in case you were thinking of doing something zany.
You will also note that I am not telling you (at least not right away) which one of these fellas I fancy. I don't want to sway your opinion. Because you know you'd pick the one I like, just to try to show me how much we have in common. (The last time someone tried to do that, she ordered chocolate cake for dessert even though she was allergic to chocolate [and cake], and she wound up dying. A pretty big price to pay just to impress me, don't you agree?)
UPDATE (8 June 2003): As of this date, the poll is "officially" closed. See here for details.
How cool are you, really, sullen girls with your low-rider jeans and exposed thongs and insouciance, slouching and slumping in clumps by the museum steps, looking around as if the world is not only your oyster but the pearl created by it (although of course it's a cultured pearl and not a naturally-occurring one, so, really, where's the excitement in that?). How cool you are with your bulbous guts extruded between your too-tight Ts and the tops of your waistbands (or hipbands) and your lank dirty hair and your smudgy eyeliner and lipgoop and your bad frosty-polish pedicures. ("Why spend $25 at a salon when I can do it at home!") (Answer: Because when you do it at home, honey, it looks like shit. Plain 'n' simple. With sprinkles/jimmies on top. And a cherry.)
How cool you are, how hip and urban(e). Too cool to exert the energy to crack smiles or allow any inflection into your voices. Too cool for good humor, except the kind that comes wrapped in paper and drips, rapidly melting, down your wrist.
And how utterly totally absofuckinglutely cool you are as you shuffle your way to the huge burgundy and white tour bus, you daredevils, you nomads, flying by the seat of your too-tight pants world-weary jaded travellers. What an adventure!
Wow. Talk about a humbling experience.
Here I was, thinking I was really livin' large (or as large as one petite flower can possibly live) because I'd scored above 10,000 in "Bubble Bees", when I had to go and look at other players' high scores. Turns out I am indeed living in a bubble, thinking I'm all high 'n' mighty 'cause my score sent me soaring into the big five-digit stratosphere. Turns out that I'm not the queen bee I fancied myself to be. Indeed, there are other players whose scores put mine and thus, by extension ME! to absolute shame. These hepcats are scoring big-time ... in the supersonic, supersized, six-digit arena of true expertise and skill!
"Yeah, but my score is good for me," I rationalized, gazing appreciatively at myself in the bathroom mirror. "I can't compare myself to anyone else. I am Jodi, and they are melissa and bee catcher and pig ^^ rat. They are who they are, and I am who I am. We're all unique and special in our own ways. I am terrific. I love ME for who I am!
"But still. [M]elissa and bee catcher and pig ^^ rat beat me. I hate them. Sure, they've probably been doing this stuff forever. They're probably children who grew up doing this computer game thing. And here I come, raised on PONG by ATARI, for god's sake. And what's more, these kids have probably trained for this. Little bastards, with their pushy stage mothers. They're probably all flabby and pasty and socially inept. With bad skin! And UGLY!
"Yes, so all of us have our special talents to contribute to the Universe ... and I'll bet melissa, she of the SHOW-OFFY score of 140,480, can't tap dance the way I can. And I'll make you a bet she can't pilate to save her life!!!"
Just you wait, melissa. Someone'll come along and topple you yet. It may not be me, but there's some kid waiting in the wings to take your place. And then where will you be!?
Say hello to Barney. Or his back.
You can see more Barney, including his face, and other dogfaces, in Dogabout. Go there, instead of reading inane blogs.
DOGS, NOT BLOGS. That's my new motto. (Don't steal it.)
Maybe it was one of those "Oh, you had to be there!" sorts of situations, but I don't know. I can't think of anything more adorable and memory-making than what happened once I caught up with Alan Alda after the rather spirited taxi ride I experienced when I ordered my driver, "Follow that car! The one with the lanky gray actor in the back seat!"
Our light-hearted romp through various downtown boutiques put Julia Roberts' character in Pretty Woman to shame. After several swirling hours of modeling quite a bit of what Soho has to offer and sharing oh so many stolen sweet kisses, all set to a lighthearted upbeat soundtrack, we realized we finally had to head back to our separate homes. We snuggled closely in the back seat of our shared taxi, my head on his chest. I could barely hear his deep voice humming "The Four Seasons" by Vivaldi over the strong pounding of his heart, but I felt both dancing in concert with my soul.
"Oh, thank you so much for everything," I whispered with a closed-eyed sigh when I called him (212-555-4077!) on my princess phone an hour later, from deep within my walk-in closet. "I love and adore everything. Especially you." I snuggled my new army-style cargo pants against my chest and tried hard not to cry.
"Same time next year?" he asked. And oh, I could just see his sly wink.
"If I don't kill myself before then, my love," I answered, gently touching the dog tags he'd tenderly placed around my neck not an hour earlier.
"Suicide is painless," he whispered, "but don't get any ideas."
How could I, Alan? How could I, when you give me every reason to live!
Yeah, so you did what you did today and are so proud for doing it and think you made a real contribution, doing what you did, but did you get to follow Alan Alda as he crossed Columbus Avenue (at 67th Street) from the northwest corner to the northeast and watch him hail a taxi and zoom south?
Didn't think so.
A year ago today, I switched from Blogger (O, mellifluous moniker!) to Movable Type. In honor of the anniversary of this turning point, I popped open a can of Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray Soda ("Diet", in keeping with the mood and mode of celery) to celebrate. I don't know why I thought I would enjoy it, when celery in its unadulterated natural state holds absolutely no appeal for me. I mistakenly guessed that carbonation, like chocolate, could render almost anything palatable.
I have now been rendered paralyzed from the neck down. I feel nothing except a slightly fizzy tremor in the tips of my extremities, akin to carbonation. I am now an immovable beast. I am dictating this message to Taxi, who only touch types (but with startling and quite commendable accuracy), so forgive its brevity.
Fortunately my panicked plea "Is there a doctor in the house ... other than Dr. Brown, that miserable quack???" was answered quickly by my trusty standby, Diet Dr Pepper.
Posting may resume tomorrow, pending a reversal of my paralysis, or, barring that, Taxi's availability and willingness to assist me.
DOG: What, if anything, do you need from CVS?*
Me: Dental floss.
DOG: Dental floss?
Me: Yes. Dental floss. It doesn't matter what kind. Floss. Tape. Ribbon. Whatever. But it should be waxed. It doesn't have to be flavored, like cinnamon. It doesn't have to taste good. What's the point? It doesn't have to do anything except be floss. It doesn't have to do anything else. It doesn't have to make dinner!
Taxi: Does it have to floss your teeth?
Taxi: Just checking.
Shana, of course, couldn't be bothered with such trifles.
P.S. I am now in flossession of 40 yards (36.6 m) of Johnson & Johnson REACH® Easy Slide® Ultraglis (MC) Ultra Shred-Resistant Floss For Tight Teeth. ("The floss dentists use most.") (!)
* The DOG does the food- and sundry-shopping here. Feel free to admire my good fortune, thank you.
There's nothing that makes me want to scoop someone's eyes out with a mellon baller more than public marriage proposals. Daytime talk show proposals are nauseating enough, but the ones that really make my spleen spin are those done at baseball games and broadcast onto those huge screens for all the stadium and all the universe to see. Gotta love these supremely cocksure exhibitionist soon-to-be-grooms. And the blushing brides-to-be who just can't say no.
So, with that in mind, I know it comes as a shock to you to see my proposal here. I never said I was consistent or logical. (Some of you have insisted that I be consistent, but what's the point in being predictable? Where's the passion? If you want predictability, go do some multiplication tables off in a corner somewhere while you drink juice from a sip-it box.)
And now ... the proposal.
Hello. How are you? May I tell you how beautiful you are, and how lovely? Although you are not before me now, or beside me, you are in my heart as always, and there, where you reside, you are always ravishing.
I have been trying to put into words everything I feel about you, my darling, but words, I find, are failing me. I know that surprises you because ordinarily when we're together the words can't flow quickly enough. How do I tell you what you are to me, how happy you make me? How no matter what, you're always there for me, to lift me up when I'm down, to bring me back to life when I feel like one foot's in the grave and the other's dipping its toe in and is soon to follow.
When I was younger, I was always looking for someone "hot". And I found him. And many others like him. All the girls liked them. I did too. For a while. I couldn't get enough. But still, something was always missing. As I grew older, my tastes changed, and I eventually came to realize that the hotter someone was, the less I was interested. Then you came along and changed my life forever.
When you're with me, my sweet, my heart races and I feel I can conquer the world. I want to spend every morning with you. I want you beside me throughout the day. I want to share the rest of my life with you. You are a part of me. The best part of me.
You're not just the cream in my coffee, you are it.
My sister has a friend (I'll call him "Tom") who likes to brood. Tom not only digs brooding, but seems to live to do so. He broods, hand on chin and chin on hand, peanut butter in his chocolate and chocolate in his peanut butter, about The Meaning Of Life. He spends so much time wondering and worrying what it's all about, Alfie, that he doesn't actually live. He is paralyzed with fear over having fun, because, what if, he posits, life is not about enjoyment? Everything, to Tom, must have a rhyme and a reason and A Purpose. To everything, turn turn turn, whatever. Trouble is, he frets so much about turning that he can't even turn his head to see what's in front of him, which is his Life, which is begging for him to live it, and which he refuses to participate in because he's too taken in by wondering how to live it.
It's a wonder that my sister, who has about as much patience for bullshit as I do, hasn't told him to get his chin out of his hand before she rams her foot up his ass.
If musing be the brood of life ... just get on with it.
I love blisters. On the feet. I love the way they sort of blossom while you're not looking, while you're just minding your own business, doin' your thang with derring-do or derring-don't (or Darrin Stephens [York or Sargent; either way]). And only later, upon removal of the shoes that caused them, present themselves in all their ripe, full-to-bursting glory, like blushing debutantes making their breathless and breathtaking entrances at the cotillion down a grand staircase.
Oh, how I love blisters on the feet. I love how, when merely touched by a tentative fingertip, they recoil like nervous virgins, unsure whether the strange sensation is good or evil. Uncertain whether they should want more.
Ultimately, unable to contain their basest need, they fairly beg for release, and, when broken, they weep ever so sweetly. All that pent-up pressure and longing ... relieved, at long last. Unabashed relief rushes in, gushes forth, replacing tension, but just as quickly, the blisters feel all exposed and raw, and almost beg for modest coverage beneath Band-Aids®. And then, thus satisfied, yet still pulsing with an odd blend of pleasure and pain, force the feet off themselves, and, if lucky, back into bed, where they can blame the shoes for defiling them. (But they secretly want more, and taunt the feet to seek out the shoes again, each time with less trepidation and eventually totally disregard for the inevitable consequences.)
P.S. I miss the old Band-Aid® wrappers. The ones with the little red string. Peeling apart the two sides of the wrapper is fun 'n' all, but I do so miss the little red string that never really worked the way it was supposed to. (If you were plopped on this planet too late to remember the little red string, you really missed out, and I feel sorry for you.)
I like fresh fruit.
But flesh fruit?
Thanks to Cas for the link.
Several months ago, I turned many people on ("What do you mean, 'several months ago'?" you're saying. "You're turnin' me on right now!") to the gorgeous sound of Vienna Teng. Ms. Teng, who plays the piano and sings, is easy to appreciate.
Last Thursday, I turned myself on (go crazy with the imagery, boys) to the amazing music of Park Stickney, jazz harpist, who appeared at Trinity Church as part of its Concerts at One series. Prior to this performance, the mention of the word "harp" immediately conjured up visions of angels in white diaphonous gowns through which I could catch a glimpse of otherworldly creamy thighs and divine pert bosoms ... And the music? All I ever really heard from a harp was a stroke or two.
But Mr. Stickney, quite cute in his own right, and wearing something more substantial than a white gown, changed all that (jazz). His music is simply heavenly. Listen to me, and listen to him sometime.
I M DA BOMB at IMDb.
Of course, never in real life would I ever refer to anything or anyone as "da bomb". I can't even say it without audibly cringing and imagining quotation marks around it. In fact, seeing it here is making me a little queasy. I need to lie down.
So why did I use it? Because it fits here. Because I have EXPLODED onto the IMDb scene!
My new "thing" is that every time I watch a TV movie, I am going to review it for IMDb. That way I won't feel "guilty" about having watched the thing in the first place. Not that I really feel guilty about it, though. But you know what I mean. Or you should.
Roger Ebert can have his aisle seat. Save me the right side of the sofa! (And bring me an ice cold Diet Dr Pepper, please thank you you're the best.)
Back from Chelsea Piers, and feelin' swell! (Also groovy, but not quite ready to kick down the cobblestones.)
Unlike my no-theme approach established this morning, the following assorted (but by no means sordid) tidbits are a bit more thematic (and, in the case of the first item, traumatic):
- While at the Piers, I discovered, with a fair amount of chagrin, that I neglected to bring two items I never leave home without: lipgloss and a pen. But never fear; I'm a resourceful girl, and quickly learned that blood is a more than adequate substitute for both gloss and ink.
- Because for some reason I'm in a rather good mood today, I actually smiled and may have even giggled (but in a very sophisticated and mature manner) when a slightly flushed/ruddy fellow on West 23rd Street said to me, "Heaven must be missin' an angel. Hello, angel!"
- I didn't even flinch (too much) when a young guy was walking behind me with a mini-boombox (are they still called that, kidz?) that blared the hideous song "Backstabbers". I resisted the urge to stop and pretend to be intensely interested in something in a store window in order to allow him to pass and thus relieve his urge to act out the song on me.
- I did not lick my pouty, sunkissed (no need for gloss!) lips sexily at the many men in suits who obviously thought my own brilliant beauty rendered me blind to their unabashed, undisguised, blatant leers at my ass. (I must admit that I spent quite a bit of time admiring it myself in the mirror, like in Special K commercials. I may have even said, aloud, "Girl, you look fiiiine!" [Note I said "may".])
And to top it all off, I took some happy, phun pho-tos! Enjoy!
Before I go on my merry way today, I will leave you with three little thoughts. They contain no theme. There is no connection or common thread. The only thing these items share is that they are all floating around in my head, looking for an anchor.
- The next time I'm in a fancy schmancy restaurant with someone, I'm going to order the same thing as he does, and then ask the waitress for an extra plate so we can share. The look on her face will be worth the $2.00 surcharge.
- I don't see what the big fuss is about children working in sweat shops. Don't these kids know that there are starving children in the United States of America who don't even have jobs?
- Ladies, when you go to the salon for a pedicure, please make sure that you wear pants and not a skirt or dress. It's bad enough the pedicurist has to handle your scaly feet; she doesn't have to be ambushed as well. (P.S. From where I sit, it is clear that your toenails aren't the only things that need a substantial trim. Trim the trim, is all I'm sayin'.)
Enjoy your morning, your chai, and, if you're a temp, feel free to go through whoever's desk you're (wo)manning today and eat whatever you find. That's what it's there for. (And that's what I'm here for. To tell you what to do.)
On my way home from a workout and pedicure this morning (don't hate me because I have The Life), I almost literally tripped over myself with excitement at the sight of this old-fashioned Exercycle. I took these photos with my digital Brownie camera and huge hand-held flash.
Oh how I love prehistoric exercise equipment. The bulk. The heft. The seriousness and total lack of anything ergonomic or comfortable. Note here, for instance, the absence of anything resembling a wheel, the too-high handlebars, and the obviously uncomfortable, hard, oversized metal seat fit to accommodate the soft, oversized, unfit seat of its rider. And take special note of the state of the art system affixed to the front, whereby the rider is instructed to ADJUST INDICATOR TO WEIGHT OF RIDER. I can almost see the rider, decked out in a light gray sweat suit and Converse sneakers, stumbling off this thing, red-faced, huffing and/or puffing, and heading directly for one of those contraptions with the belt that goes around the user's hips to vibrate the flesh away.
Those were the days, my friend.
Ten days ago, all sorts of movie types were starting to set up a location for the filming of The Amazing Spider-Man. Three days of scrambling and much hoisting of laundry later, the live stage was set for whatever scene will probably take three seconds to view in the theater. All in all, the set-up was there for four days.
No, that's not Toby McGuire swinging in mid-air in the upper right-hand shot. It's a stuntman, suspended at the very top of the buildings, just hanging around.
Underwear was everywhere, but as far as I know, the Ladies in Waiting and Pretty Maidenforms All In A Row, in the bottom shots, never made it into the scene, and their only exposure was what they got as under(wire)studies. But they didn't seem to mind hanging out with the rest of the gawkers (including me). If they couldn't make it into the actual scene, just being seen was good enough.
OK, so I watched the Daytime Emmys last night. They were largely forgettable, thanks in part to the anemic hosting abilities of Wayne Brady, who seems to think that we care that he is not white (and not Bob Barker). This is the second time I've seen this guy host a show, maybe the fourth time I've ever seen him at all (I did watch his morning talk show a couple of times when he had guests in whom I was marginally interested), and the 65,000th time I've heard him refer to the color of skin. Enough already.
But even his lackluster appeal paled in comparison to that of the awards winners. I can't remember much of anything anyone said, except for one young tramp with tits a-gogo, wearing a dress with a slit that almost dared to bare hers, who, as she teetered her way across the stage in heels that she wasn't equipped to handle and tried to keep her dress from exposing the reasons why she was probably hired in the first place, said, "Oh my god, my SLIT!"
She was outdone, however, by 16-year-old boy actor Shia LaBeouf, who as an award presenter embarrassed himself and, worse, me by trying way too hard to come off as funny, charming, endearing, and just all around adorable and loveable. The next Matthew Perry you're not, young Master LaBeouf. Unless, of course, you count the countless trips to rehab that no doubt you'll enjoy by the time you're actually old enough to drink. Plenty of disappointment awaits you, son, when you realize that you are not on the Perry path, but the Macaulay Culkin one. But worse, still, because at least "Mac" used to be somewhat cute.
This Shia brat not only presented an award, but later won one, for his stellar acting work on some Disney series called "Even Stevens". When his name was announced, he took full advantage of the opportunity to prove to anyone watching (or even just listening) that the members of "the Academy" are clearly on the brink of dementia, by leaping onto the stage with the most repulsively staged excitement and studiedly enthusiastic disbelief I have ever witnessed in all my years observing this special brand of tripe.
"I have to thank," he started, feigning a frustrated yet oh so adorable lapse of memory due to the thrill of receiving an award, "I have to thank ... my MOM! My MOM! Oh my god, my MOM! And!!! And ... [insert the names of other people, all barked out quickly as, one by one, Shia "remembered" their names] ... !!! ... and ohmygod!!!" Add to this some general fake flailing and staggering, and a carefully calibrated voice quavering that threatened to evolve into full-fledged crying on cue ...
Thankfully the audience didn't seem as taken by his display as he no doubt wanted it to be. Too bad "the Academy" couldn't change its mind on the spot and snatch the award from this disgusting faker's hand based on that hideously contrived attempt at a performance.
It's a wonder any of them can keep their day jobs.
Fade to black. (The color of Wayne Brady!!!)
This morning I arrived at the gym at 5:35, five minutes after it opens, and three other people (two women and one man) were already there going through the motions of whatever it is that constitutes their workouts. Two of them are among the perhaps six people at that place that I ever talk to, so I smiled at one and waved to the other. At 5:35, that's about all I want to give. And even that's pushing it.
I wonder if any of those three people, upon encountering the other two lined up outside the doors pre-opening, was disappointed to see that he or she wasn't the first one to arrive and thus wouldn't be the first one to get through the doors. I wonder if this ruined any of their mornings. I wonder if the one woman (the one I've never talked to) looked at me derisively and sniffed to herself, "Lazy latecomer!"
They reminded me of the early morning crowd at The Sporting Club at the Bellevue, a Philadelphia gym that, at least for the two years I was a member, opened at 5:00. These people would line up in the dark, in the parking lot under the Bellevue Hotel (I think the hotel may have been renamed since I left), waiting for the elevators to be turned on and their doors to open, all the while positively salivating and pawing the ground in anticipation of jamming themselves into the first one available.
There was one guy (I'll just call him "S") probably about 40 years old, slender (not "built" though), shaved head and underarms! who was always first in line, no matter what. Somehow this guy managed to position himself so that he would be the first person out of the elevator when it reached its destination on the eighth floor of the building. He would have to be, literally, front and center, so that when the doors opened, his body would be the first one out of the elevator, and he could make the mad dash down the narrow hallway in order to be the first one to show his card to the attendant and then victoriously push himself through the turnstile. I don't know if he dropped anything off in the locker room, or used the elevator or stairs to get to the "fitness floor" that was three floors above, but I do know that he always, without fail, beat everyone else at least through the turnstile. I'm not sure if he was always first on the fitness floor, but I'm willing to bet he beat everyone there too, and already manned HIS Stairmaster by the time anyone else entered the room.
I say "beat", because that's what it was to this guy. Some sort of demented competition. He had to be first. First first first first first! The First! Number one! The winner! No matter what, he would succeed! Success would be his!!! No matter what it took!!!!!
Well, one day I managed to get HIS spot on the elevator. I don't know how it happened. I do know that I did it on purpose, and I do know that the entire ride up, with my friend Judy by my side, and the DOG in the back of the elevator, I was positively giddy with excitement and anticipation. NOT at being the first one at the desk and thus through the turnstile, of course, but at beating S and sensing his defeat.
My heart beat like crazy with anticipation. A vein I never knew I had bulged in my forehead. My carotid artery pounded visibly. Would I manage to pull it off? Would S, when the elevator doors opened, somehow manage to push himself ahead of me and Judy (Judy's about 5'10" and not exactly the weakest girl in the world, or the meekest) and emerge victorious once again? Would he foil my plan? Would he beat me at beating him at his own game? I would not hear of it!
At long last, the elevator doors opened. Without a nanosecond of hesitation, I dashed out and off. I bolted as fast as I could, with Judy just behind me. But it wasn't enough that we ran and that we were actually ahead of S. No. In order to thwart S from possibly whizzing by me on either side, I spread out my arms, parallel to the floor, a la Jesus or a pterodatcyl, thus prohibiting anyone from progressing beyond me. And I laughed like a drunken lunatic, which wasn't difficult to do with Judy's hyena laughter spurring me forward and carrying me ...
... all the way ...
... to the front desk ...
... where I handed the attendant my card ...
... pushed my way through the turnstile ...
... and emerged ... VICTORIOUS!!!
And oh, as fast as we moved, and as much as we laughed, it seemed like we were in silent slow motion. Only once I was on The Other Side, did the speed and sound turn themselves back on.
"I'm number one! I'm number one!" I chanted to an overjoyed Judy, raising my arms to the heavens and a God that, all of a sudden, I believed in, if only for that day. If I'd had one of those oversized foam fingers people use at football games, I would have waved it proudly over my head.
I'm not sure, but I'm willing to bet that S foamed at the mouth and waved me one of his own on his way through the turnstile. But I wouldn't know, because I was too busy popping open the bottle of champagne and sharing it with Judy to notice.
Ahhh. Looking out for Number One is fantastic, especially when it makes someone else feel like number two!
(Just pretend, for today, that we've been married for 25 years and we know each other so well that we don't feel compelled to speak just to hear our own voices. Pretend, for today, that we're going on a long trip in the car, and we're happier saying nothing, and realizing that in saying nothing we're actually saying quite a lot.
Just pretend, for today, that you took a wrong turn somewhere, even though our ride was just a leisurely one with no set destination, and we wound up lost in a thickly wooded area on a dirt road with no street lights, and we have a flat tire, but we can't call AAA because you forgot to charge your cell phone and you told me I didn't have to bring mine because, really, why would we need two phones if we were going to be together all day and I'm silly to think that maybe I'd be, like, kidnapped or something and need my phone to call for help when my abductors locked me in the trunk of a stolen car.
Pretend, just for today, that now we're in those woods, and it's getting cold, and now we when we have nothing to say to each other, it's not because we're so comfortable with each other that we don't have to speak, but because we know that if we open our mouths one of us will be saying something horrible that later we will claim we didn't really mean but that we both know contained more than just a kernel of truth.
Pretend, just for today, that we decided not to take that car ride after all and stayed inside because the forecast was for rain. And we both know how much we love the rain and staying inside not doing much of anything, which to us is doing everything.)
Ten days after it went into effect, the fare hike, which increased the price of a subway or bus ride from $1.50 to $2.00, has been overturned. I prefer to take my own hikes anyway, rather than the subway or bus, but still, sometimes time restraints force me to give in and take public transportation. But just this afternoon I was telling a friend that I hadn't ridden the subway since the price increase.
"It's ridiculous." I said. "They should just reverse that decision. I don't want to pay an extra 50 cents, especially since the MTA was hiding all that money. It's just the principle!"
A bit earlier this afternoon, I decided to walk directly from Chelsea to the Upper West Side to meet that same friend, and not to stop home to drop off my workout pants after the Pilates session I'd just completed.
"You never know," I warned myself. "Something might happen to the pants you're wearing, and you'll need a backup."
And then, on my way up to my apartment later this afternoon, I bent down to pick something up in the hallway, and the back of my pants just ... shredded. (New pants bought just 16 days ago and worn a few times. Obviously defective. Not tight in the least, and, in fact, a bit loose. Banana Republic allowed me to exchange them.)
I tell you. Sometimes I scare myself.
But I'm not letting my prescience worry me. Tomorrow I'm going to celebrate by wearing my new new pants on the subway!
Georgia O'Keefe would be proud of me for noticing the delicate flower joyously tucked between this tree's legs. And oh how fitting that the flowers are tulips! (It's homophonic. Figure it out.)
P.S. Click here to see this photo upside-down. It may be easier for you to visualize this way, if you've never seen someone with her legs up in the air but are accustomed to being on your knees before her.
A week or so ago, Victoria Principal was a guest on Oprah, when the theme was age-defying makeovers. Now, I'm not a fan of either VP or O, but I like anything that delivers a POV on makeovers. Cinderella, ball gowns, glass slippers. All that gobbledygook.
Victoria Principal, in a very feminine dress, sporting impeccably styled dark auburn hair and an expertly made-up face as perfectly pressed as a dress shirt, professed to love being in her 50s.
"The face you have at 50 is the face you've earned," she said. Her mouth smiled, but the rest of her face was as frozen as her acting career.
Oh yes, Ms. Principal. You certainly did earn the money, thanks to "Dallas", to afford the face you have. Actually, you probably didn't even have to pay for it; after all, your husband, Harry Glassman, is a plastic surgeon, is he not? I find it revolting that you pretend to have achieved that face completely on your own, when a simple viewing of your supremely starched forehead tells me otherwise. If left to its own devices, no doubt your face would certainly reveal every life experience you earned.
I defy her to forego her next Botox injection or face lift and put her money where her collagen'd mouth is. Fraud.
When Bobo met Claire in a chat room, he used his usual screen name, Bobo4UGrrrl, which he thought was clever. Claire was the first grrrl to agree. (Neither frequented chat rooms much, though. It was just a phase!)
They arranged to meet in person. Claire wore her best big floppy shoes, red ball nose, and orange wig. She painted on a big smile, even though her own was broad enough. Soon she'd find, however, that she needed the painted-on smile. Because when Bobo entered the café, he wasn't the clown his name suggested. He was a meat loaf. And she, a vegetarian.
* * *
Someone with, apparently, holes in his head, decided that the Universe needs these pants. I suppose this is a way to tacitly broadcast to the rest of the yoga class, during those revered moments of tranquil silence, that you are, indeed, an asshole. Ahhh. Clothes that make the w-om-an.
If you absolutely must have a pair, you can find them at Girlshop.
P.S. It would be nice if the ass that was photographed at least looked like it got up off itself once in a while and actually engaged in the activity for which the pants are intended.
My brother, sister, and I used to play the alphabet game during car rides. I would always get nervous when I got to a letter of the alphabet that wasn't that easy to find.
If our trip took us to New Jersey, I knew I could wait until we were there to find my "J". Same with "Q", which I knew I would find there as well, just across the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, where the many liquor stores provided me with the quick jolt I needed to sustain me during the last leg of my alphabet journey. "X" was difficult unless we were on the turnpike (Esso wasn't Exxon yet), where one of the many exit signs was sure to satisfy. And "Z", well, by that point I'd be in full desperate competitive mode, complete with stomach ache, cursing the fact that we didn't live in Arizona.
I used to think, "When I grow up and have my own car, I'm going to get a license plate that will help other kids with this game! I'll have only all of the hard letters on the license plate!" I would imagine this beautiful shining license plate on the back of my gorgeous red Camaro. "JQXZ! Jack Quixiz!"
I worried, however, that those kids wouldn't be able to take advantage of all of the letters on my special license plate, because their parents' car probably wouldn't be behind mine long enough to make the trip from J to Q to X to Z. "But if I can help them with at least one of those letters," I decided, "that would be nice too." See how considerate I was of the children of the future?
Looking back, I realize I was a very forward-thinking kid. After all, this was before "vanity" license plates came into existence. And then, when I was old enough to drive and vanity plates became all the rage, I regarded them with the disdain they deserved and just took what the keystone state of Pennsylvania gave me.
Kids today don't have it as tough, though. "X" can be found everywhere, thanks to these X-Men movies. Any suburb will supply "J"s aplenty courtesy of Jiffy Lube. And the good people who came up with the name Quizno's ... well, I don't know about the food they serve, but I sure know they've done children a great service otherwise.
Oh, but kids these days won't appreciate what kids of my generation had to go through. Everything is handed to them on a plate (but not my license plate). Everything for them is just so E-Z. They don't appreciate jack quixiz.
This morning, when I got back from the gym, I found this lovely stuff waiting for me on the kitchen table. Two dozen white tulips (my favorite flower); a box of chocolate truffles (self-explanatory); and three cards from my kids: one from Taxi, one from Shana, and one from both of them.
But my other son? The one I gave up for adoption when I was eight, worked myself ragged to put through college AND medical school anyway, and who is now a fancy big shot Park Avenue surgeon? Nothing. He never calls, he never writes ... Bastard.
Have a lovely Mother's Day. Be nice to your mom. (Translation: Don't take her to an all-you-can-gorge buffet. If you go out, I suggest a restaurant where they hand out menus.) Tell her I say hi.
Can anyone tell me what the fuck this is and why it's anyone's business who I am?
In addition, if the person who submitted this "report" really knows me "well" on a "social" basis and has "current" "experience" with me, then why would he need to use this asinine service?
Gee. Is this what I get for not having a "100 Things" list or a "FAQ" or "About" page?
Somone ought to turn down the air conditioning in Bed Bath & Beyond! Yow!
I'd like to see what this thing looks like when it gets wet! Hoo boy, yeah!
You know what I'm not too fond of? Something I don't hate it (believe it or not), but about which I'm not too crazy?
Baths. With or without bubbles. I don't know. Call me wacky, but I just don't like reclining in a tub full of my own floating filth (because I'm a dirty dirty girl, oh yes). And I don't appreciate that the water doesn't stay hot long enough for my skin to slide off my bones like chicken or to make a delightful Jodi Consommé to be enjoyed later in the afternoon with two slices of melba toast. And I just can't get into lighting aromatherapeutic candles and sipping champagne from a crystal flute while Yanni plays in the background and I play with myself below the surface of the water. (JUST KIDDING about that last part! I love Yanni with my yoni!)
Give me a shower any day. (Every day, actually. At least once.) Give me a shower with water so hot that if its steady, forceful rush didn't chase my filth off my body, it would steam it so thoroughly that it would peel off like a label from a champagne bottle. And give me a cold Diet Coke that I can perch on the sink ledge and occasionally reach for when I need a little caffeine jolt to counteract the soporific effect of the steam.
Baths are too passive. I'm a girl on the go!
And in a moment, I will actively pursue my morning cleansing and prepare to enjoy a day of effervescent activity on the streets of New York City. And a nice lunch where I will not order the soup, because I always suspect there's a bit of something bubbly in the broth. Veuve Clicquot? Mr. Bubble? Either, or.
Have a stellar Saturday!
(I thought I should bring your attention to the dogs in this photo, lest you think I am making a social commentary on the busy-ness of New York life.)
I'd heard that the second Spider-Man movie, The Amazing Spider-Man, was being filmed in my area, but I hadn't seen any evidence of it until yesterday. (Or maybe I did, but I didn't realize what it was because I didn't know.) I didn't see any "stars", but that's OK, because a few clotheslinesful of drab laundry flapping in the breeze stir me more than Kirsten Dunst ever has. (I'm tempted to say something about her snaggleteeth, but I won't. No, I won't.)
Oh, and one more thing before I forget. Something that must be addressed before I'm forced to suspend someone from a clothesline: When the movie comes out, please refrain from calling the first Spider-Man movie "Spider-Man 1". It's just Spider-Man. Just like the first Rocky is not Rocky 1 and the first Godfather is not Godfather 1.
It should come as no surprise that I'm not the kind of girl who has a gaggle of gal pals with whom she gets together every Friday evening for happy hour and spills her guts about sex sex sex over a pitcher of margaritas (do they come in pitchers? ladies? help me out) and then spills her other guts into a paper-[and worse-]clogged toilet in the ladies room later that night. It should also come as no surprise that I don't have a "sisterhood" of womyn with whom I self-righteously scarf down cheesecake and moan in ecstasy with each creamy bite that I, like they, loudly proclaim is "better than sex".
I'm not a girl's girl. I don't talk about Aunt Flo (a term that makes me see red, so to speak). I don't talk about orgasms. I don't read self help books. Or knit. Or do anything crafty. I get along much much better with men, always have, and always will. Men have said to me, "You're like a guy. You don't think like a girl." I take that as a compliment, considering the source.
Of course, this doesn't mean I don't like women at all. Some, I do. I'm just extremely selective when it comes to forging friendships with those of my gender. I know what I like in a girl (and yes, I mean "girl", because the women I like actually like being called "girls") (and please, spare me the angry feminist email telling me I'm "wrong" and enlightening me about how the word "girl" is pejorative and denigrates women). I don't have a list of criteria or requirements; I just know it when I see it.
Recently I've had the misfortune of being in very close proximity to two women (I refuse to call them "girls", since I don't like 'em; see how that works?) who have no chance of ever being included among those I consider friendworthy. I won't expand on why they are not worthy and why they are deserving of selection only for ridicule. You'll have to figure it out for yourself (see, I like girls who think) (and guys too).
- At the gym, 15 April 2003, 6:52 a.m.; Young woman wearing a SOFA, to her "personal trainer", upon failing to properly complete the simplest of lifts with a weight: "The problem is the weight's knocking into my bracelet, and it's distracting me."
- In Union Square, 7 May 2003, around 4:30 a.m.; Slender young woman in summery, semi-"boho" ensemble, including these shoes (the ones positioned at 5:00), to her guy friend:
She: "Do you like my slippers?"
He: Yes. They're very dainty.
She: What does that mean? Cool??
He: (Defined "dainty" for her.)
Need I say more? No. They said enough.
There is oh so much more I still could say, but I won't. Besides, it's time to cook dinner for my hubby. He gets sooo mad if dinner isn't on the table at 6:00 sharp!!!
When you are in someone's company, whether on the phone or in person, and something is funny ... laugh. Saying "That's funny" doesn't cut it. In addition, under no circumstances should you ever actually say "LOL". It's revolting when written and even worse when spoken. In an instant message, a little "ha!" goes a long way.
And speaking of going a long way, I'm outta here. I'm going somewhere very far away for a few days, and will post here via telepathy.
Please, people, resist the urge to photograph your bare feet and then post photos of them on your BLOGS.
And spare me the photos of your adult toes juxtaposed with those of your baby.
I don't care if you think your feet are "cute".
Shoes are cuter.
That is all.
When I left the gym this morning, it was raining. "Yay!" I said aloud as I stepped outside, smiling into the drops that had others scowling as they passed on the sidewalk. I wanted to do the Gene Kelly thing, but I refrained. This time.
Recently I told someone in an instant message, "When I leave the gym in the morning and it is raining, I say YES!!!! and I get all happy." He said I was "warped" and asked why it makes me happy. I told him I didn't know why. He questioned me again. I told him I don't question it or myself. (If I didn't like the person so much, I would have told him to buzz and/or fuck off, depending on the level of his persistence and insistence that I provide an answer.)
I don't like to analyze what makes me happy. Or what makes me sad. Or angry. Or what makes me tick or click or anything else. I just like to let things be and to experience them while they're happening. I will never understand why people choose to torture themselves by wondering, to the point of biting their nails down to the "quick", why they feel a certain way and what they can do to change it. Rather than worry yourself into paralysis over why you feel sad in whatever situation, wouldn't it be a relief to just let yourself feel?
I will also never understand people who don't like to feel what they're feeling. People who prefer numbness to the stinging slap of emotion. People who don't "own" their feelings. (Aside: I'm not too fond of the word "own" used this way, but it will just have to do.) People who go home and punch a pillow or a wall two hours after they were actually angry rather than just get into being angry when they're actually feeling that way.
Anger, like any other emotion, is not a decision. There is nothing wrong with any emotion. What's wrong is not acknowledging it or expressing it and trying to quiet it down instead of letting it out. Scream. Yell. Pull out your hair. Cry. But under no circumstances should you keep quiet. There's plenty of time for that when you're dead.
So it pisses me off when people question other people why they feel the way they do. "I feel the way I do, because it's the way I feel," is the way I would respond if I were inclined to do so. But as it is, I prefer a pointed "Don't question me."
Why can't people just let it, and themselves, be? (That question, of course, is rhetorical. I don't want an answer.)
* What, you were expecting the song?
I'm sure this comes as no surprise, but many of my boots were not made for walkin'. Oh, sure, I can walk about half a block in them before the bones in my feet cram together, and maybe two blocks before those bones completely crumble, and then there are the blisters and the bloody stumps that used to be my toes ... but who really cares. I mean, sometimes a girl doesn't want to be sensible. And when and where her shoes (or, rather, boots or sandals, because rare is the actual shoe that graces her foot) are concerned, well, this girl won't hear of it. I believe that "sensible" and "shoes" have no business being in the same sentence, let alone juxtaposed next to each other. Or being on my feet.
Nonsense, you say?
Take a hike, I say!
(In your clumpy steel-toed boy boots and scrunchy socks!)
This entry is dedicated to my dear friend Kelly.
Many times when someone says, "You couldn't pay me to _______", they're not being entirely truthful. Because, really, when the blank is filled in with something like "live in Iowa" or "wear capri pants, even for ten minutes" or "drink a shot glass of my own ________ [fill in with your preferred body fluid]", the truth is that, if given enough money to pay their rent for a month, they'd do whatever they say they couldn't be paid to do. This is especially true in Manhattan, where rents have been known to prompt people to actually have sex with the likes of a certain man whose name rhymes with Jonald Krump.
My mother and sister both claim they wouldn't have sex with a certain man they know in real life, whom they've dubbed "The Million Dollar Man" because that's how much they say you couldn't pay them to do it. However, I still have a feeling that even they have their price. After all, they could have named this guy "The Two [or Three, etc.] Million Dollar Man".
One of my sister's friends, whom I'll just call "P" due to the highly personal nature of this subject, isn't quite as resistant. P has been known to say, without much consideration, that he would blow Hervé Villechaize for $75. But then again, P is a multi-megalo-millionaire, so for him it's easy come, easy blow. Or maybe the other way around. I'm getting confused. (Mother, the room is getting dark! Tell Father I love him!)
Yesterday my staff and I went out onto the streets of Manhattan and conducted a survey in which we asked people native to the metropolitan area to name one thing they've said they wouldn't do even if they were paid, but, in reality, they would do if offered one month's rent. We were overwhelmed at how eager people were to respond! Here is a brief preliminary sampling of the findings.
"Cuddle with Jocelyne Wildenstein. And what's more, I'd take the money I saved and put it toward a lobotomy so I could excise that part of my brain responsible for retaining the memory of the experience!"
Richard J. Wilkins, 52; Manhattan (Chelsea)
- "Switch to Pepsi"
Mr. Kriko Pocky Flimflom, IV, 46; Manhattan (northwest corner of 27th and Sixth)
- "Work in another law office ever again with stuck-up lawyers who don't realize that my job in the word processing center is just as important as theirs is and they couldn't survive without me, those jerks"
Cindy Kolaski, 32; Union City, New Jersey
- "Wear anything from Nike, because, of, like, child labor in Tokyo or Seoul or China or something"
Rachel "Rain" Klein-Kessler, 21; Upper West Side, Manhattan
- "Eat at McDonald's"
Peter Brandt, 30; Hoboken, New Jersey
- "Wear a tie to work"
Kevin Lange, 36; Brooklyn
$100 (Lives with parents but gives his dad a monthly "dorm fee")
- "Walk to work completely nude except for shoes and a clown nose"
Jordanna Mielke, 51; Tribeca, Manhattan
- "Tightrope walk, without a net, between the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building"
Steven P. Hauser, 39; Upper East Side, Manhattan
- "Have a baby"
Marilyn Schank, 28; Gramercy Park, Manhattan
- "Live in Manhattan!"
Queenie Pittman-Knox, 70; Bronx
We will be here all night going through our notes for more gems, breaking only to watch American Idol. All of us here agree that you still couldn't pay us enough to vote for Josh Gracin.
There are people walking around this city who are already too tan. They went directly from pasty-leg April to leather-leg August. They look so healthy and athletic! And rich!
Of course, not one to be left behind because you know me, I always have to be in with the cool kidz I went ahead and got myself my own fabulous suntan, a/k/a a "funtan"!
Look! (I'm wearing a white top to show off a bit more. It's so flattering!) (Now all I need is pink lipgloss, and I'll be all set!)
Let there be no Ms. Undertanning: I will not be outdone by the overdone! I will overcome!
Kids, Mommy will be out all day doing glamorous things. Please find a way to amuse yourselves without making a mess.
You may want to check out what my adorable friend Brad drew for me here. Click on "Load" (oh, how I hate that word), and then, in the little box that pops up, select "Jodi's Fortune". Watch the picture as it comes in, because there is a little text message that changes as the drawing evolves.
This is not to say that I don't appreciate all of the fine drawings that everyone does. I do. Even the ones that suck, I like. But Brad's is truly admirable. And the girl he drew actually looks like my sister a little, which is a bonus.
Enjoy. And don't make too much of a mess, because you'll only have to clean up after yourselves later anyway.
You know, I think I've have it up to here (just above the eyebrows!) with Maury and his eponymous show. Yes, I know I "shouldn't" be watching this drivel, and yes, I know I "should", at 10:00 a.m., be out doing good deeds and stuff, like teaching phonics to foreigners. But I'm not. At 10:00 some mornings, you need look no farther than my living room to find me riveted to Maury. Figuratively. Maury and I haven't literally been riveted together since "Circus of the Stars" back in '85, but I don't want to get into that right now (or ever) (so don't ask).
So, anyway. Maury. His show. Me having it up to here. Yeah. I've stopped watching the episodes involving belligerent teens who need boot camp (although I do like to gaze adoringly at the fine physique of the ever-strapping, ever-sleeveless D. West as he storms onto the stage to give these kids a good what for!). I've also stopped watching those dealing with paternity tests. I do, however, still enjoy a nice makeover show ("Guess what, ladies! You get to keep the clothes!"), and I dig seeing women with horribly long hair crying as Richard Calcasola (sp.?) of Maximus Salon, or some other scissor-wizard, lops off a few feet of filthy growth that took them ten years to grow. I also like the "Look At Me Now!" episodes, in which former geeks get to strut their "stuff" (which usually involves implants) in front of guys who spurned them in high school or girls who bullied them. Or the "secret crush" episodes ... especially when the crushee doesn't look too thrilled to discover the identity of the crushor.
And, of course, I like the episodes that involve ... "special people". I won't go into the many "specialties", as there are too many to name. And of course the "special people" turn out to be extra-nice and compassionate and all loving and huggy. And for the duration of the show, I think, Wow, I'm a terrible person. Here I'm complaining because I hate my manicure, and there are people out there who don't even have hands! Once the show is over, of course, I'm running to the salon with my hands in my pockets so no one can see my hideous deformity. (I'm nice that way. I don't want to inflict my mutancy on others.)
What I can't stand about these episodes, however, is ... Maury. I swear I can almost see him internally cringing when he has to kiss the cheek of a woman who has huge hanging skin sacs all over her face or when another woman with extreme elephantiasis (yes, that's the proper word -- it's not "elephantitis", which means, literally, inflammation of the elephant) lifts her skirt and reveals a 400-pound leg of molten flesh. I just don't buy that he's as compassionate as he likes to present himself.
You see, if he were truly compassionate about these people, he wouldn't talk to a 15-year-old "little person" as if she were a retarded five-year-old foreigner. And he wouldn't use them in the "Look At Me Now!" and "secret crush" shows. He wouldn't, when someone is expecting a "hottie" to parade onto the stage, first use these "special people" as foils. He wouldn't, for example, have a 500-pound woman come out and crush the crushee's lap as she sat down on it, and he wouldn't have a shirtless midget come out and do a striptease, and laugh to the point of tears on the sidelines as the audience hooted and hollered. And he wouldn't say, when the "real" person came out, "See? This is who is here for you. You didn't think we would do that [indicating the person who had just left the stage] to you, did you? Hoo!" He wouldn't use these people as jokes before bringing out the real guests.
If he truly believed that the people he calls "special" are "just like you and me", as he likes to say, he would treat them normally and speak to them normally, and not, for example, give them gifts because they're albino. ("I just want to be like other kids!" the little girl says. "Here's a basket of gifts!" Maury says. Because we all know all other kids are regularly presented with baskets of gifts, especially from condescending talk show hosts!)
So why do I watch at all? Why do I continue to watch, even though he shamelessly exploits his guests? Beats me. I guess I just like seeing 200-pound two-year-olds waddle out onto the stage and throw tantrums when they're told they can't have another plate of chicken wings for breakfast!
Thank you, Budget, for the affirmation and validation, but I've been cursing at my armoire for three years already. (Hey, it started it.) May I also have your permission to direct venom at small appliances, i.e. a pointed FRAPPÉ YOU to the blender, and to call my vacuum cleaner a COCKSUCKER?
Didn't she write about Budget moving vans before?
Yes. Yes, she did.
... is if I see the bloated and (beer-)battered corpse of my inconsiderate loudmouth lout of a neighbor, Mr. I Am The Only Person Not Only In This Building But Also Apparently In The World And P.S. I Am Hideous, face up (oh, OK, I'll go with face down too; I'm not picky) in the curbside trash where he belongs and deserves to be, and not in the apartment below mine, where he does not.
This morning his drone started at 5:15, and continued for two hours. Moments ago, I heard it again, and then it stopped ... but I know that as soon as I think I won't hear it again, I will. And the night will continue in this fashion. And I will continue to fantasize about all the various ways I want him to die and how I would be of able assistance in hastening that demise, preferably while wearing some sort of shiny, satiny cape and a pair of exceedingly high quality boots.
Meanwhile, I will only get back at him by vacuuming loudly over his bedroom at 7:45 a.m. (The pilfering of his New York Post from the "front stoop" and the removal of his name from his mailbox were a little too extreme.)
Note to Internet Detectives Of The Future Who Have Seized My Computer Because I Seem A Likely Suspect In The Murder Of My Cross-Eyed, Potato-Faced, Spongy-Bodied Neighbor: I did not do it. Please note that when I spoke of assisting his demise, I merely said fantasize. I am the girl who literally cannot harm a fly ... even the one who, along with her fuzzy-legged friends, laid maggoty eggs in the crossed-eye sockets of my mysteriously murdered neighbor.
I can only take credit for the stunning shot. Credit for noticing the reflection in one of the Madison Square Park fountains last night goes to Daniel. Clearly we are both very impressionistable.
Note: For more photos of the tower, go here. (Must she say this every time? Yes. She must.)
I am sooo going to this exhibit!
How can I possibly not? You see, I'm titillated. Quite. Not only because of the name thing (my name's Jodi, the exhibit's being presented by an arts collaborative named JODI ... see how titillating, and thus, by extrapolation, fun and funny that is?) but because of the whole series of events that led to my finding it.
See, what happened was I did a Google search for "Chelsea Peretti", who made me guffaw shamelessly (as my guffaws tend to be) at Portable Comedy last night. One of those searches led to a BLOG of a friend of hers, and on that friend's BLOG (yes, it is necessary for me to always type that word in ALL CAPS, just like JODI, the collaborative), a friend of hers commented ... a comment that I liked and which prompted me to check out his email address, which contained information after the "@" that I, being the Nancy Jew that I have proven myself to be, deduced was the website corresponding to his (and, as it turns out, her!) place of business. And there, at eyebeam.org, I found this stuff about the JODI exhibit, and learned that it's located on West 21st Street in Chelsea ... which is the first name of the guffaworthy girl I saw last night.
So there you have it. Another cyclical, Circle of Life-ical situation. It's all so very cosmic or karmic or coincidental or something. In any event, I'm going to check it out next week, thus adding another side to that circle.
(But Jodi, you want to write, circles don't have sides. Yes. Yes, I know. Now get back into your six-sided Skinner Box and go to sleep.)
Oooh! I'm sooo excited. The Lizzie McGuire Movie (really, that's its name, LOL!) opens today. And it stars a giggly blonde named Hilary Duff, who, right now, on "Live With Regis and Kelly", is, like, giggling!
Great! Just what the world in general, and the movie world in particular, needs: another dippy, ditzy, bubbly, goofball blonde!
I guess Kate Hudson is, like, history now! And her mom, too!
And Meg Ryan ... well, she's into more serious and challenging roles now!
More later! I'm going to the mall!!!
P.S. For more giggles and general hilarity, check out the comments to this post from the past.
M E M O R A N D U M
RE: Pungency Emergency
As if your attitude weren't offensive enough to force me to regard you with about as much fondness as I have for gum chewers and litterers, you had to do yourself one better, didn't you, and prove that not only can you disgrace yourself by way of your pitiful lack of social grace but by your obvious lack of physical hygiene as well.
Simply stated, your attitude is not the only thing that stinks.
How is it, Joe, that you managed to offend my olfactory nerve this morning before you even started your lame trot on the treadmill just to my left? Why is it, Joe, that your flesh reeked of the kind of sweat that one would ordinarily encounter oozing from the pores of someone who has just completed an Ironman competition outdoors in the Hawaiian heat and not just a paltry twelve seconds on a treadmill indoors in a New York City gym?
While I do appreciate that you apparently do not apply cologne or any other sort of scent before coming to the gym, I would appreciate if, when you wake up, you smell not only the coffee but your own fetid underarms (?) before heading out the door.
Please make a note of it.
It's ass heat.
You have it. You know what it is. You've sat in it. You've produced it. You may not give it a second thought, or even a first, but that's quite all right, because I've given it enough thought for everyone. (I'm generous that way.)
I know ass heat, and I hate it. Now, this is not the same as a "hot ass", which of course I can appreciate (and boy oh boy-ardee, do I ever, especially when all I have to do is look in the mirror to see one! yeah!). No, ass heat is not hot figuratively. Its heat is all literal. And much too much so.
I don't like sitting in a chair after someone has just vacated it. I don't like the sensation of the heat from their ass mingling with the fabric of my pants. I don't like having any sort of contact, however fleeting or indirect, with an ass essence (or "assence") that is not wholly mine.
And don't even get me started on toilet seats. That's another whole can of worms. Or hole of asses. Or something.
I'm particularly fond of the last half of this masterpiece. I plan to read it aloud, in its glorious entirety, while perched barefoot on my fire escape under the veil of darkness, to an audience consisting of the sentinel moon, the vestiges of my teenaged angst, your tortured soul (which I will feel inside me as if my own heartbeat), and anyone else so in tune with the Universe that he can hear the whisperings of all mankind within himself.
Because you ever tried to her right hand, at 09:30 AM Sunday, 27 April 2003 Escape from this window that would she Said about because for show. that shone on the bank in A friendly smile and try to whine, Oh, and polls have to him over again. When opening my salon. Me: with Aveda. Me: Glossary DOG: Distinguished Older Gentleman Taxi: Actual dog Distinguished Older Gentleman Taxi: Actual dog Distinguished Older Gentleman Taxi: Actual dog Distinguished Older Gentleman Taxi: Actual dog gently licked his mother No ! doubt was .
I don't get why anyone would choose to eat liver, especially considering its function while still embedded in a live body. Why not, say, the perky pancreas? Or the snappy cecum? Why are they so woefully overlooked? I'd think that, topped with fried onions and served on a pretty plate, they'd be just as appealing as liver.
But for liver to get all the fame and fortune? For liver to steal the spotlight from the other organ meats that are probably just as deserving of attention? Well, that takes gall!*
*Yes, you are very observant. This is indeed a pun. But I assure you, dear critic, it is not my wurst.
Update (10:50 p.m.): My dear friend MG has posted a fantastic recipe on his site in response to the overwhelming demand for alternative organ meat dishes generated by this entry. Check out his May 1 post entitled "Recipe of the Week" here. Scrumptious!
If you really want to turn my stomach (and polls have shown that 96% of the earth's population not only wants to but strives to), all you have to do is situate any of the following near me in a restaurant setting:
- Lipstick marks on the rim of a coffee cup or any other beverage vessel
- Fingerprints on a water glass
- Crusty, dried-up food trapped between fork tines
- Hardened, crusty ketchup/catsup (or other condiment) on the bottle's neck under the cap
- A napkin doubled up to absorb the spills between a coffee cup and its accompanying saucer
- An ashtray that contains even one atom or molecule of ash
- A scrunched-up napkin (with or without coffee or lipstick stains) discarded in an ashtray
- A table surface where the path of the dirty rag used to wipe it down is visible
- A little dish of individual half-and-half containers in which used ones remain among the unused
- Your child standing up in the booth that faces me or is behind me and, respectively, staring at me with a runny and/or crusty nose, or putting his hands on the back of my seat and thus pulling my hair (especially if he even remotely resembles Mason Reese)
- A corpse, post-autopsy
- Anything floating in my drink other than ice
Note: The usual disclaimer about this list not being a complete one applies. I feel compelled to say this, because people invariably write to tell me I "forgot" something and then remind me of an item or two that they would have included. Those people are included on a special list, the theme of which I need not divulge.