I'm prettier than you are.
Monday, 30 June 2003
As Good As It Goetz

This afternoon, a reader wrote to tell me that the man in the peapod suit was none other than ... "subway vigilante" Bernhard Goetz!


For more about the peasful Mr. Goetz, go here.

fresh-baked at 07:42 PM
Kiss Me, Kate

What a juxtaposition

This is part of today's front page for the Drudge Report. The Golden Age is over, replaced by fool's gold.

True elegance has been replaced by brash ignorance, and those now regarded as icons are as flimsy as the clothes they barely wear.

I detest it. Loathe it. Give me Katharine Hepburn — in her mannish flannel "slacks", with her wavy red/auburn hair and freckled skin, her lust for life, and her one in a million persona — over any of these tarts and their trashy costumes, with their over-processed hair and over-tanned skin, their lust for the spotlight, and their dime a dozen attitudes — any day.

fresh-baked at 03:55 PM
Sunday, 29 June 2003
Proud

... and loud.

My god, homosexuals are noisy.

fresh-baked at 02:57 PM
Saturday, 28 June 2003
Taste of Health

Today the DOG and I went uptown to the Taste of Health food festival in Damrosch Park at Lincoln Center. This very nice man, dressed quite snappily as a peapod, was on hand to hand out literature on becoming a vegetarian. He was kind enough to pose for a photo, and good-natured enough to agree to accommodate me when I told him to "Say peas!" as I snapped the shot. "Peeeeas!" he said, proudly.


Within minutes, I fell deeply in love, based purely on physical appearance, with a very fetching slice of carob-fudge pie, which then became One with the Universe of my Body. As I ate it, I could be heard exclaiming, over and over again, "Yummm", which I now realize may have sounded to passersby almost like "Ommm". But really, it was so lovely that I would have gladly chanted for the chance to eat it.

We made the rounds of many food tables, stopping to sample (with toothpicks! no fingers, thank you!) the ridiculously delicious treats from May Wah, and to get full-size food from Veggie Works World (based in New Jersey) and Tsampa, a Tibetan restaurant that I've wanted to try for quite some time.

Here is the view that we enjoyed while eating our food:

 

The arrow in the first photo indicates where Hayley, the dog, would eventually plop herself down. Later we learned that Hayley is now 90% vegetarian. (Taxi, for the record, was left at home. "Vegetarians are a bunch of pussies," he said as we left the apartment this afternoon.)

Here is a view of the food that we ate:

 

The DOG had the rollups, which included grilled seitan. The bite that I had was delicious. I had the Tibetan food served on a notably non-biodegradable disposable plate.

It was at this point that, observing the people gathering under a tent for one of many lectures and seeing someone lying on a mat in a corner somewhere getting a massage or an energy re-alignment, and fearing the threat of random yoga, I summed up my feelings about the event: "Krishna. Yoga. Fuck you. I'm here for the food!"

So I put the DOG's money where my mouth was and proved it by sitting here a little later:

   and eating this:

Yes, that would be mock beef and faux prawns. Krish(na)-kebabs, I thought.

What's more, we even got to bring the fun home, courtesy of Whole Foods, which gave out party-favor bags to everyone who wanted one. We both wanted one. We were told that each bag contained identical items, but when we got home we saw that there were differences in variety, which thrilled me more than it should have. Here is our impressive bounty (everything is from Whole Foods with the exception of the two packs of lentils, which were handed out by a representative of that company):

With all this good stuff, we will soon have our own private foodfest called "Om Sweet Om".


P.S. Yes, the blue wrapper is empty. It used to house a Tofutti Ipsy-Pipsy (!) "mocolate" bar. (Tofutti doesn't call it "mocolate". I do.)

fresh-baked at 08:37 PM
Friday, 27 June 2003
Fancy Lady

May I tell you how enamored I am of my new Skechers? The ones I mentioned twice yesterday? And that's only here. Who knows how many other times I raved about them in the REAL world.

Yesterday afternoon, I stood in the middle of Times Square for a few hours, and engaged random passersby in chirpy conversation about my fabulous new footwear. Later, after sundown (when all the beautiful people [beauty that owes much of itself to dim evening lighting] come out), I saw Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik enjoying an intimate dinner together at a diner, pulled a chair up to their booth, threw my left leg (the non-wooden one) across both of their laps (they were sitting right next to each other, on the same side of the table!), and drew their attention to my Skecher-shod foot.

"Now this is a shoe, boys!" I said, triumphantly.

"Is that one of yours, Nolo?" Jimmy said as he caressed the slingback strap.

"Oh, I wish," Manolo said, admiring the flexibility of the neoprene. "It's magnificent. As is the foot in it and the person to which the foot is attached!"

They split a creme brulee and I had mixed berry sorbet. (It was a very fancy diner.)


P.S. Of course, because I'm such a fancy-pants, I didn't have pants to go with the new shoes. So I bought these, in black. Note that they are convertible, and the legs can be worn up or down or in-between. I plan to set a trend by wearing one up and one down!

fresh-baked at 05:44 PM
Thursday, 26 June 2003
Mmm, M102!

No one believes me when I say I love the bus!

Wait a minute. Did I forget to mention that the other day, I treated myself to a really nice bus ride home from 57th Street, where I'd stopped to see a Very Important Person after my delicious lunch? Well, I did. I took the M102. Although it wasn't a "limited" and made more stops than I would have liked it to make, it was quite possibly the best bus ride ever because the bus itself was so clean that I would have purposely dropped any leftovers on its floor just so I could eat them off of it. Unfortunately I didn't have any leftovers, so I didn't get the chance. But I licked the floor anyway, for good measure.


P.S. The red-headed woman at the front of the bus, on the left, is sampling the rail on one of the seats. So no, I wasn't the only one. Please.

P.P.S. The bus was so new and clean that it smelled just like my fresh new Skechers! (The Skechers, for the record, taste like poi!)

fresh-baked at 10:41 PM
4 Horrors and 1 Reward

HORRORS

  • At Equinox (in chronological order of offense):

    • Light brown sparse bush being patted dry quite lovingly by its smiling guardian.

    • Texas-sized buttocks the texture of tapioca pudding flecked with nibbly bits of cherry in the form of azzits (medical term created especially for this affliction).

    • Grayish-brown, ridged, opaque toenails deeply embedded in freshly-yogatized male feet.

  • On the street known as Broadway:

    • Hershey's Kiss-like N&A (the corresponding words rhyme with "quipples" and "zareolae", respectively) dancing spritefully, underneath an extremely sweaty unlined white bra-top, in do-si-do unison with breezily bouncing bosoms.

REWARD*

  • These, in black. Sensibility ... on sale (in store)!


* for surviving such a vicious visual assault

fresh-baked at 12:36 PM
Wednesday, 25 June 2003
He's buzzed!

Someone has been busy!



It is a very proud day in the life of this fierce competitor! I admire his dedication and am pleased to see that he identifies himself by the level of his victory.

Congratulations, BEAT YA BY10! I know how it feels to be so accomplished! And way to go, measuring your success against that of others! I heartily endorse it.



fresh-baked at 10:50 PM
Bile With Style

Always use the good china.

I would invite you to join me for a cup of bile, but really, you're doing quite nicely serving it. Besides, I prefer not to mingle with the help.

Oh, and please keep your lumps. I prefer my bile straight. After all, what's the point of tempering the bitter with the sweet?

Good day.

fresh-baked at 07:52 PM
Tuesday, 24 June 2003
Illegal Tender

Every once in a while, I get mail from companies offering a credit card or membership in a super-exclusive top secret book club or discount hotel society, and inside the envelope, accompanying the introductory letter, is a shiny cardboard or flimsy plastic card that looks like an actual credit card. Like this:

Cut me out and use me!

And every one of these sample cards includes a disclaimer either on its face or on its reverse side, like this:

Don't cut me out and use me!

Now, what I don't get is this: Is someone really going to try to pass one of these cards off as the real thing? And even if they're numbskulled enough to try to do so, is a cashier or anyone else to whom the card is presented, really going to accept the card? (Uhhh ...) They are not plastic; they are not embossed; they do not have a magnetic strip to swipe.

And it's not just these cards. I've also seen play money that included disclaimers. Stuff that in no way resembles the real thing, such as a pink, deckled-edge $12 bill sporting the face of Jan Brady, or an oversized, way too green fun-dollar bill with some schmoe's nephew's face peering out from the center, with a NOT FOR LEGAL TENDER reminder/caveat.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I mean, after all, I did paid for my college education with all the mesh sacks of gold-foil-wrapped chocolate Hanukkah "gelt" I could carry and put the balance on my Banana Splits fan club membership card, so you never do know.

fresh-baked at 10:01 PM
At Home With the Author

Pretty even when no one's lookin'!



Uhh, hello. You're here again? Well, all right. I suppose it's fine with me if you pop by several times a day like a stalker, hoping I'll post something inspirational or at least include a photo of my lunch.

But the truth is, Obsessos, my lunch plans fell through. It was my hope to thrill you with mouth-watering, full-color photographic evidence of yet another epicurean adventure. And although the lunch I prepared for myself (tempeh with mixed vegetablism) was quite good, it wasn't nearly pretty enough to memorialize digitally. Sorry, but all that "it's what's inside that counts" stuff doesn't cut it here.

So today, you're just stuck with an artist's rendering of the author in her casual finery. I would post a photo of the banana I enjoyed earlier, but it's inside me now, where it counts.

fresh-baked at 05:28 PM
Monday, 23 June 2003
Harlem Streetwalker

Yes, that was I you saw on 125th Street this afternoon around 12:30, waaaaay too west of where I wanted to be, which was Strictly Roots, a Caribbean vegan restaurant in Harlem.

If I'd known that above Central Park, Seventh Avenue is called "Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. Boulevard", and that, unlike downtown, Broadway and Seventh Avenue aren't even in the same general area, I would have been spared quite a few blisters and self-admonishments. Needless to say (but I'm saying it anyway), I didn't know, so my search for 2058 Seventh Avenue was a bit roundabout, which means I was somewhat lost and literally didn't know which way to turn. But thanks to several helpful people whom I stopped on the street, I eventually found my way. (Men are always eager to help the pretty ladies.)

Once I found the restaurant, I knew I was in good hands. D.C., one of the owners of the place, welcomed me warmly. Everything in the cafeteria-style lineup looked delicious, and since there was nothing I wouldn't eat, I "panicked". I wanted everything. But because I didn't want to be a total gluten glutton, only a partial one, I asked D.C. what he recommended.

So here's what I wound up with:

Collard greens, fried plantains, mash [sic] potato, and veggie "fish". All just delicious. Delicious enough for me to turn around from where I was sitting and call over to D.C. to tell him so. And definitely worth getting lost for.

I wasn't lying when I told him I'd be back. He told me a much better way of getting there (there's a subway stop that is only two blocks from the restaurant), which even I and my obscenely poor sense of direction will be able to handle. Thank god for D.C. I thought I'd have to go out and buy a pair of sensible shoes.


Visit the Strictly Roots website here, and read a comprehensive review here.

fresh-baked at 07:30 PM
Simple Request

On this lovely* Monday morning, with the sun finally shining and the birds happily singing and the pasty flesh sexily hanging over the waistbands of pants worn by people who have spent the past few rainy weekends enhancing their guts with "comfort food", I have but one simple request. One measly, tiny, puny, barely there request. So miniscule that if it were something to be scrutinized visually, it would need a microscope to be viewed at all.

My request is this: Can everyone just please stop using Jayson Blair's name as a verb?

Jayson Blair!Thank you.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get out into the sunshine and warmth before my head starts Linda Blairing!


* Actually, I thought it was lovely when it rained. Yes, I loved every single sopping day of rain.

fresh-baked at 11:00 AM
Sunday, 22 June 2003
Chantastic!

Need I say it again?

Apparently so.

Instead of emulating children in the classic child's pose, I oh so gently suggest you try the child's pose that has you cowering in the corner as scary stepdads approach with stiff new belts that can only be broken in by beating them against your yoga-limber backs.

Hatha nice day.

fresh-baked at 12:23 PM
Saturday, 21 June 2003
"Hungry Jew" Revisited

For some reason, I walked up Fifth Avenue, rather than Broadway, on my way home from the gym this morning. (Yes, I go on the weekends too. Don't hate me because I'm dedicated.) I prefer the Broadway route because it affords me a view of the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company clock tower, the Chrysler Building, and the Empire State Building. But anyway, Fifth Avenue it was, and I regretted it almost immediately.

The problem was that I just had to look across the street and see a homeless guy sitting on the sidewalk with a dog. So of course I couldn't continue home without crossing the street to give the guy a dollar. Because, yes, I have an extremely soft (nougaty and yielding, like the center of a Three Musketeers bar) spot for animals who are companions to homeless people. Regular, garden variety, run-of-the-mill homeless people? Nah. But park a dog at a homeless guy's feet or show me the guy snuggling two kittens against his threadbare jacket, and there I am.

And there I was. So I stopped. Instantly I recognized the guy. It was Eric, whom I'd met last October. He still had the "Hungry Jew" sign and the shopping cart. But in place of the baseball cap he wore a dirty white yarmulke.

I put a dollar in his cardboard box. "Thank you, pretty lady!" he said. Pretty sweaty lady with her hair atop her head, looking exactly like the drawing at the top of this page (minus the necklace).

Like an idiot, I said, "I remember you from last year!"

That, of course, was an invitation for conversation, because Eric is garrulous. He told me how he'd left the city in November and returned in March. He told me the story of how he saw a Staffordshire Terrier (one year and five months old) advertised in Loot and travelled to Brooklyn three days ago to buy him for $100, and how he wasn't able to get a cab ride back into Manhattan with such a big dog but he was able to get the dog onto the subway. And how, that very day, some guy offered him $600 or $700 for the dog, whom he'd named Sun. "No way," said Eric. "I couldn't do that."

Although there was a rather generous serving of beans, rice, and kibble in a bowl by Eric's side, Sun was chewing on a dirty white fleecy mat. "I don't want him doing that," Eric said. "I sleep on that. What he really needs is a chew bone." I told him I may have an extra one at home and if I passed by some other time, I'd bring it. I had plans today, I said. As if I had to explain why, quite possibly, it wouldn't be today.

Somewhere along the line, Eric asked me for more money. I lied and told him I only had $20s (big spender). "Could you get me something from the store, then, rather than give me money?" he asked. I asked what he wanted. "Two diet sodas and a quart of milk."

"What kind of diet soda?" I asked. "And what kind of milk? Skim? Whole?"

"Two Diet Cokes and any kind of milk," he said. "A quart."

So I did it. I did it because I hoped the dog would get one of the Diet Cokes and some of the milk. (I bought whole. I spent $3.50, using the last three singles that I pretended I didn't have in my wallet when Eric asked if I could spare some more money.)

I walked back to Eric and his dog, and handed Eric the bag. "Thank you so much," he said. "Thank you."

"Well, I have to be going," I said. "I'll see you some other time, if you're still here."

"OK," he said. "And thank you again." He indicated the soda and milk. "About that chew bone ..." he said as I turned to leave. "Could you bring it by today? And if you do, could you make it before 3:00?"

It is now 3:34. I have been inside since coming home this morning. It may be because it's raining and the sun is not out, at least not the one in the sky. The one on the sidewalk, with his shabby companion, may still be.

Taxi gets a new meaty bone every Saturday (behold the xylobone!), and I know he wouldn't mind donating one from his "vintage" collection. Meanwhile, as I sit here thinking that I'm teaching Eric a lesson that "Beggars can't be choosers", I still feel like running down Fifth Avenue with a bone for Sun.

fresh-baked at 03:34 PM
Jodifreeverse #2

Below is some very moving, very tender free verse. For an explanation as to the method of its creation, I gently direct your attention to my first Jodifreeverse entry. Not that works of art require or need explanation, of course.

Feel the art. Experience the art. Be the art.

Interpret it as you will.

Here is the art:


Because the results would happen
if, next week when
I had
my computer!
that does but I was asking
me? to be positively ragged.
So great. clothes and then use Listerine...it
Lasts Longer The
last day
alive consisted of
a guy
any
attention to go, out Have a iced
coffee on one on this city is that
is something
nice cold soda pop directly from our
class. and a hat
pulled over her
so.


"[A]nd a hat pulled over her so." Stunning.

Note:  "Have a iced coffee" is illiterate, yes, but please, the meaning goes deeper than what is on the surface. Poetry, like life, is not perfect. I, like you, am not either. Embrace it.

fresh-baked at 02:03 PM
Friday, 20 June 2003
R.I.P. 20 June 2003

No, in real life I do not wear blue pants with a purple shirt and matching headband.  The socks, though ...  yes.

All I can say is I hope I don't die in my sleep tonight (knock wood) (please) (thank you), because I'd hate to think that my last day alive consisted of a hideously uninteresting and not at all amusing comedy of errors, including my gym being closed when I was planning to go, my site being "down" for several hours, and my ordered-in dinner tasting like the bag it came in. (I didn't eat it. Instead I had a container of Stonyfield Farm O'Soy raspberry soy yogurt with a sprinkling of Almond Oats Zoe Flax & Soy Granola Cereal.) Life is so unfair!

But whether I live or die, I will be overjoyed knowing that Johnny Depp's face will be the last one I see tonight. I just hope he doesn't let me down on 20/20. That would be too much to bear, but only fitting given the tenor of the rest of this day.

fresh-baked at 09:31 PM
Thursday, 19 June 2003
Animal Husbandry

Some judgmental, provincial townsfolk looked down their noses and called me kooky when I went to a prom with Taxi. At least I didn't marry him. (He didn't ask. Typical, isn't it, ladies?)

fresh-baked at 07:04 PM
Intolerant

It is not because I am lactose intolerant that I don't "do" dairy. I don't eat cheese, drink milk, or indulge in ice cream because dairy products just nauseate me. Perhaps it's psychosomatic, or maybe I'm just psychotic, but the point is, I don't like dairy, so I don't "do" dairy. Plain 'n' simple.

I had been using dairy half and half in my iced coffee, trying to trick myself into thinking that if I didn't really think about it, I could just pretend it wasn't in there. But of course I thought about it. And thought about going the plain black route, which was not a very appetizing option. So what was a girl to do? Turn to soy, of course. So I did, in the form of creamer, because regular soy milk, like dairy skim milk, just didn't provide the sexy creaminess that is so very important to me.

The coffee I drink is usually Red Sea blend from Whole Foods. Made at home. I avoid Starbucks like the plague that it is (I have mentioned that here and here), even though there is one just down the block and another around the corner and another in my closet. There may as well be one in my toilet, because the likelihood of my drinking their scorched swill is about as likely as ... well ... never mind.

But yesterday I caved in. I was with someone other than myself, and it was her choice. So I followed her into one on the Upper West Side (with a view of the intersection where I saw Alan Alda several weeks ago) and approached the counter. I won't get into how the other customers were obnoxious, oblivious, overwrought jackasses. That's just a given. But I will touch on one tiny thing that pisses me off like there's no tomorrow, which is something I wished on the guy behind the counter when I ordered my drink. I not only wanted there to be no tomorrow for him but no 5:46 p.m. That thing, ladies and gentlemen, is incompetence.

My order was this: A 'tall' iced coffee with soy milk. Not only did the guy look at me like I just said, "Yes, I'll have the pl3fr9*yk-2J{c on whole-wheat pita, please ... and a side order of your sister's spleen!" but he just stood there gaping at me as if I said it in Ubby Dubby.

"Soy milk?" he said. "We don't have soy milk."

"Your sign says you do," I said, directing his dumbstruck attention to the board just behind and above his head.

"I don't know ..." he said, and started to ring up my very complicated order.

"Well, I only want the coffee if you have soy milk." Blank stare on his part. Fingers hovering above the cash register keypad and then pressing something on it. Somewhere in all the excitement, a plain black iced coffee appeared on the counter between us. "In other words, if you don't have soy milk, I don't want the coffee."

The heads I grew now numbered a staggering 14.

The coffee on the counter between us was embarrassed. It looked up at me plaintively. Shuffled its feet. Looked down at its hands and sighed. I don't want to disappoint you, Madam, I could almost hear it say politely and without confusion.

After about ten minutes of confusion — the details of which I will not include because even as I remember them now, I want to run up to 67th and Columbus and do bad things to everyone involved (Note to FBI: I'm just kidding. Kidding.) — I had my tall iced coffee with soy milk. I felt a little sorry for it for not being anywhere close to what I make myself at home. It wasn't its fault that Starbucks' coffee blows and the whole episode left such a bad taste in my mouth that it even overpowered the burnt taste of the coffee, so I didn't insult it to its face. Or insult the employees of Starbucks to theirs. I have some standards, after all.

The whole exchange was just so replete with incompetence. If a business is going to offer something, is it so unreasonable to expect that the employees know what's being offered? It's a good thing the Starbucks employees I encountered yesterday weren't the brain surgeons I assured them they didn't have to be (not to their faces, no, but to my friend, who witnessed most of the excitement for herself), because I'd hate to see what would happen if, next week when I go into the hospital for a simple lobotomy (I get one every few months, like a haircut; my brain just keeps regenerating, like a starfish), I'm afraid I'd come away without my appendix. (Which would only be fitting, given that an appendix is about as useless as the Starbucks employees.)

So now when I never return to a Starbucks again, it will not be just because the coffee is wretched and I prefer to support small businesses. It will also be because I am incompetence intolerant. And I do not "do" incompetence.

fresh-baked at 01:56 PM
Wednesday, 18 June 2003
Tooth Talk

Because I don't have comments on this site, readers are forced to communicate with me by either accosting me on the street and being promptly ignored, climbing on my fire escape and attempting to interrupt my frequent chai-and-meditation sessions, or sending me e-mail. Here is part of a fun exchange I had this evening with one reader, a former "regular" commenter and now an avid e-mailer, in response to this afternoon's poll.


From: xxxxx
To: Jodi
Sent: Wednesday, June 18, 2003 10:34 PM
Subject: Re: You're so pretty!

I floss, use an electric toothbrush and then use Listerine...it takes me 20 minutes a night to do all the stuff. But, I think I may be compulsive!


To: xxxxx
From: Jodi
Sent: Wednesday, June 18, 2003 10:40 PM
Subject: Re: You're so pretty!

xxxxx, that does sound a little compulsive and excessive. But it is better than being repulsive and abcessive.


And with this, dear readers, would-be commenters, and brave e-mailers, I bid you a fond Good Night. Remember to brush and floss your teeth. Or put them in a glass and soak them. Just heed this witty 'n' wise sticker that used to grace the mirror in my sister's bathroom: IGNORE YOUR TEETH AND THEY'LL GO AWAY.

fresh-baked at 10:49 PM
Tell the Tooth

Some people clean their apartments before their housekeepers arrive. Some people "do" their hair before going to their stylists. Some even perform a "dry run" pelvic examination before going to the gynecologist.

But what about the dentist? No one really likes going to the dentist. Not even if he's dreamy, like the one in the bellbottoms who had Marcia Brady swooning ("Imagine. Me. Mrs. Marcia Dentist!"). So what about pre-dental appointment practices? Do you brush, or do you brush it off? Fill me in.


Tell the Tooth



Do you brush your teeth before you go to the dentist's office for a teeth-cleaning?

Yes. Of course I do. Are you saying there are people who DON'T?

No. Why should I? That is THEIR job.

Yes, but only if I have eaten, or drunk coffee, or smoked a cigarette, or, well, not to be GROSS or anything, but, well ...


View current results

fresh-baked at 12:35 PM
23rd Street Wilderness

Approach with CAUTION!

This thing almost bit me this morning! I tell you, I've never been more scared in all my life.

This city is very dangerous!

When I got home, I did a little research, and found that it was just a case of mistaken identity. I feel bad, though, because now I have to release the pair of these that I finally "broke in".



fresh-baked at 10:47 AM
Tuesday, 17 June 2003
Leave it to me

I just bumped my head against the sharp side of a meat cleaver by mistake (46 times) and now something's oozing — nay, gushing! — onto the floor.

Is that bad?

fresh-baked at 11:17 PM
Where the Boys Are

122 West 17th Street

Who:  Boys
Where:  Y

fresh-baked at 06:13 PM
Monday, 16 June 2003
Hair Care

In high school, there was a girl (I'll call her "MJ") who sat in front of me in whatever classes we shared where we were seated alphabetically. MJ was a gymnast with very long dark brown hair that reached her waist. I used to fantasize about how somehow a huge wad of Freshen-up gum (the kind with the squirty center) or Crazy Glue would accidentally get stuck in it, just below her ears, and there would be no option other than to just take a huge pair of shiny silver scissors and shear that sheaf of hair. I, of course, would be the one wielding the scissors. In one hand I would hold the hair taut in a ponytail (perhaps pulling it a bit harder than was necessary; I'd need a good grip, after all, yes indeed I would) and with the other I would lop it off. It would not be a neat cut. It would take several tries, because the hair was so thick. And the results would be positively ragged. So sad for MJ.

And so happy for Jodi.

It wasn't that I hated MJ. Not yet, anyway. It was only ninth grade, after all, and the beginning of the school year, so everyone from the different middle schools was just getting to know each other and didn't know who was who yet. MJ didn't know I was one of them there smart girls, but I did my homework (smart girl that I was) and learned that she was a gymnast. And supposedly one of the best around.

By mid-year of ninth grade or so, MJ was unaware that I had grown to secretly hate her for her gymnastic abilities, her waist-long hair, the attention she got from the studliest 14-year-old in the class, and what she called her "wardrobe". Every day she wore something different — she had every color of Gloria Vanderbilt corduroys! — and I imagined her standing in front of a huge armoire/wardrobe every morning, its doors sliding open effortlessly, and smiling at an incredibly long row of outfits all lined up perfectly, evenly spaced and already ironed. I used to keep a special page in a notebook where I would log everything she wore, just to see if there were any repeats. (There weren't. At least for the duration of my observation.)

So by mid-year, oblivious to my hatred, she turned to me and said, "I'm thinking of cutting my hair. What do you think?"

What did I think? She was asking me? Well, of course she was. She still considered me something of a friend.

"I don't know ..." I said, pretending to consider it. "Your hair is so great."

"Well, I've had it this way forever, and I get sick of it. It takes forever to wash, and I always have to put it up for gymnastics ..."

"So what are you thinking of doing, then?" I asked. "Going really short? Getting rid of the bangs?" Wearing the same pants twice? Giving up gymnastics and getting really really fat?

"I was thinking of shoulder-length or above!" she said.

"Maybe like Dorothy Hamill?"

"I don't think that short. But definitely much shorter. What do you think? Tell me honestly. Will I look stupid? Will it be a huge mistake?"

Of course it will, I thought. You are your hair. Yes, you have the great clothes and the gymnastics. The gorgeous boy. But the hair, well, MJ, that's what truly separates you from everyone else. And everyone knows that boys love long hair.

"I think you'd look great with shorter hair. It's time for a change. Especially with gymnastics and all, it'll be a lot easier to take care of!"

The next Monday she came into school with her new, shorter 'do.

The hair just glanced her shoulders. It had more "body". It was bouncy. It was shiny. It improved her performance on the balance beam. It tripled her wardrobe. It made the gorgeous boy stutter. It even brought out her eyes. And everyone was quick to tell her so. Including me.

I wondered if anyone else was secretly disappointed that she looked great. I wondered if anyone else was hoping to enjoy a a delicious little snack of schadenfreude (tasty with onion dip). I wondered if anyone else was hoping she'd walk into class crying with a hat pulled over her head and an ugly pair of pants, and the beautiful boy and her balance beamability suddenly would not be hers to have anymore.

There is a "lesson" to this story somewhere, but damn it all if I want to acknowledge it.


P.S. At the ten-year reunion, she looked all right. The hair looked the same as it did that Monday morning in 1978. But I was thrilled to see that her outfit was positively matronly. (And no, she didn't marry the gorgeous boy from our class.)

fresh-baked at 07:14 PM
Sunday, 15 June 2003
Dad's Day

No one said it had to be your dad whose day you'd be celebrating today. So if you hate your dad or you don't have one for whatever reason or you think your dad is already loved by enough people and he won't notice if you don't pay any attention to him today, I suggest you go out and spend some time with someone else's dad instead.

Go on. Pick a random guy who looks like he'd enjoy corny jokes and bagels with cream cheese. Pick a guy who looks like he might be good at fixing stuff. Pick a guy who looks like he might open his wallet and press a twenty into your hand to buy yourself something nice (because he's so addled that he doesn't know that it takes at least ten times that much to buy something nice because you don't live in Nowheresville, U.S.A. the way he does but on the cutting edge in a chic, metropolitan city!).

Pick a guy, any guy. If he's well-dressed, then that's a bonus, but if he's kinda shabby that's OK too. Just make sure he could quite possibly be someone's dad so you don't make too much of an ass of yourself. (You'll know if the guy you pick is someone else's dad because he'll tell you you're making an ass of yourself. See how it all works out!?)

Have a fabulous Father's Day!


P.S. If your own actual dad told you he liked the tie, he was lying.

P.P.S. I wrote this entry using my dad's computer! Isn't that neat?

fresh-baked at 02:38 PM
Saturday, 14 June 2003
The Life

It is raining. Rather hard. Sometimes it is thundering. I am reading a book (BOOKS NOT BLOGS — my new bumpersticker) and chatting on MSN Messenger with one of my favorite people. Pretty soon I will be watching a bad movie thanks to Movies On Demand. I will probably have a nice cold soda pop directly from the can.

And you want me to "blog"? You've gotta be kidding.

Have a satisfactory, if not sterling, Saturday.

fresh-baked at 05:04 PM
Friday, 13 June 2003
Dog Run

The latest targets of my disgust and abhorrence are the cretins who "walk" their dogs while riding their bikes. And I'm not just talking about a slow pedalling kind of bike ride, so slow that it's a wonder the bike and rider can remain upright. No, I'm talking a fast pedalling kind of bike ride, the kind that uses the bike for actual transportation or a "workout". The kind that is way too fucking fast for any dog to keep up with. The kind that says, "I'm an arrogant, inconsiderate, me-first, screw-the-rest-of-the-universe, inhumane piece of shit."

You are not killing two birds with one stone, you thoughtless bastard. You are not walking your dog. You are literally running him into the ground. There is no way he will be able to relieve himself in any way this way. He won't be able to relieve himself the way a real walk would enable him and he won't be able to relieve himself of the maniacal galloping that you, thanks to your supreme inhumanity, have forced upon him.

Yes, I know dogs love to run. But not for sustained periods of time where they can't stop when they are winded. Not when they are forced. Not when they have no choice but to do so lest they wind up with mangled, bloodied stumps for paws or become part of the pavement. (And don't even think about writing to me to tell me about dog races and how cool they are and how, man oh man, those dogs sure can run and they love it!)

If you want to use your bike to get from here to there, fine. Do it. If you want to use your bike for exercise, fine. Do it. But for the love of dog, leave yours behind while you do so.

fresh-baked at 08:11 AM
Thursday, 12 June 2003
Gregory Peck

My favorite actor of all time, Gregory Peck, has died.

I was just thinking about him yesterday, and wondering how he was doing. I was thinking about how my sister, mother, and I have all agreed that he was one of the best-looking men we'd ever seen. And he was one of the only celebrities I would have liked to meet. One of the others was Audrey Hepburn. She was the only celebrity whose death immediately moved me to tears.

Until today.

And just this afternoon, before reading this news, I saw that a remake (from the '80s) of Roman Holiday, one of my all-time favorite movies, starring Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn, was on TV. I wondered about Gregory Peck again. I was thinking, again, how wonderful it would be to meet him.

I don't believe in "heaven", but if I did, I would hope that Audrey Hepburn would welcome him up there and climb on the back of a Vespa, and the two of them could ride together, high above the streets of Rome, on a never-ending holiday.

fresh-baked at 02:54 PM
Wednesday, 11 June 2003
Cut the Shit

You know what I never want to know about you? Other than the details of your medical history or what you dreamt last night or how drunk you got last weekend?

This: What you did in the toilet (or wherever you deposited whatever came out of your body after it finished doing the digestion thing).

I also don't want to know what your baby did in his diaper. I especially don't need to know what color it was.

And it doesn't make it any less vile if you call the stuff "poo", "poopie", or — and this one I must close my eyes to type — "dookie".

That is all.

THE END

fresh-baked at 04:15 PM
Tuesday, 10 June 2003
Trading Places

A couple of months ago, I used this photo in another entry that subsequently was lost (remember the drama/trauma?). I said some rather cruel (but not unwarranted) things about clowns and tacky figurines and even said that the little ceramic dog couldn't redeem this particular figurine. I may have mentioned that I felt a little bad for the dog, because he didn't ask to be included, but I'm not too sure.

So anyway, I've realized lately that I may have been a bit too harsh. I may have been too quick to judge. To paraphrase an old proverb, I shouldn't judge a man until I've walked a mile in his clown shoes. Or at least stood in them, motionless, in a store window. So that's where I'll be all day tomorrow. If you happen to pass by (the store is somewhere on the west side of Fifth Avenue, in the mid-20s), please just avert your eyes and go about your merry way. And don't bother pricing me; I think the items in the store are only available "to the trade". (Besides, you really couldn't afford me.)

The clown will be taking my place tomorrow. Doing what I ordinarily do. I just hope that after Pilates, he has the good sense to buy me all sorts of good stuff with my Banana Republic coupon (20% off! and it expires tomorrow!) and take advantage of the big sale at Macy's. And I also hope he has better taste in women's shoes than he does in his own.

fresh-baked at 08:55 PM
Monday, 9 June 2003
Me Hatee

"Me likee".

When you like something, please choose something classic, along the lines of "I like it." Or even the slightly off-beat, off-kilter "It, I like."

But this "Me likee" thing? No.

Just because Carrie Bradshaw says it on "Sex and the City" doesn't mean you have to say it too.


By the way ... Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick need special deluxe extra-crispy beatings for the cutesy schtick they tried to pull off on last night's Tonys. I know they're supposed to be some sort of darling couple, gee whiz golly, but they can't hold a candle (or an audience) to Marc Shaiman and Scott Wittman (winners for Best Original Score, "Hairspray"). Them, I like.

fresh-baked at 10:30 PM
Perfect Match

I have no need for matches (I buy only solar-powered incense and candles, and nothing smokable is allowed in this apartment), but that doesn't mean I don't like to pick up a pack on my way out of a restaurant. Matchbooks make great gifts for the kids.

Last week, after enjoying yet another one of our multi-hour lunches, my brother and I each pocketed (well, he pocketed and I pursed) a pack from Montparnasse. Sure, we liked the wide pack and the design, but we realized, that just like with people, it's really what's inside that counts:

What's beautiful about this gimmick is that it not only recognizes but outright acknowledges the real purpose of matchbooks and makes the whole phone number "score" a lot cuter. (And let's face it. Everyone likes "cute". It's just so ... adorable.)

We can only hope that during these exchanges, no one dips into the realm of the woefully uncute, and says something truly soul-shrivelling, such as (a) "Come on baby, light my fire"; (b) "Speaking of 'close cover before striking', what do you say you and I get under close covers?" or (c) "You sure are smokin', girl", all of which guarantee that the object of your lust won't be your lucky strike but that you will, of course, strike out. (Unless, of course, the lust-object is an absolute cretin.)


P.S. If you do pick someone up in a bar — any bar, not just the one at Montparnasse! — please heed the Montparnasse matchbook cover and BE SAFE.

P.P.S. Warm French bread. Crusty warm French bread. (Fuck that Atkins Diet merde.)

fresh-baked at 03:52 PM
Sunday, 8 June 2003
Face Off: The Results

Although I didn't put an "official" closing date on the Face Off poll (you have to pay for premium service to enable that function, and I just don't have that kind of coin!), please allow this post to serve as Official Notice that the poll is now CLOSED.

You do not have to send a self-addressed, stamped envelope (SASE) to get the results. I will just tell you. It is, after all, Sunday, and I'm feeling very loving, giving, and magnanimous. (Never mind that you can just read the results for yourself online, you lazy, no-good ne'er-do-wells.) I will also tell you how I voted.

The winner, with 75 of the 145 votes (51.72% of the total)*, is ten-dollar pretty boy Alexander Hamilton. (You can figure out how many votes twenty-dollar hunk Andrew Jackson got by applying a very complicated mathematical formula that I won't divulge. There is, after all, only so much I'm willing to do for you.)

Hamilton also happened to be my choice. He has a certain Paul Newman look that appeals to me. And no, I did not stuff the ballot box so he would win. I only voted once. I am, after all, and above all, honest. (Like Abraham Lincoln. Who, by the way, although a nice enough President, was not good-looking enough to be included in the competition.)


Side Note: My dear friend, the inimitable Mad Genius, took more than these fine fellows' looks into consideration. Said MG, "I had to vote for Jackson. Sure! They are both hot and hung. Jackson just buys you twice as many trinkets!" MG, apparently, can be bought.


* A margin remarkably similar to that of the last season of "American Idol"!

fresh-baked at 05:59 PM
Saturday, 7 June 2003
Bearing Your Feet

I blame yoga and all sorts of other feel-good, let's-get-in-the-groove, life is beautiful and so are our bodies and souls, New Age sort of whatnot and whynot hooha that's been wafting over — nay, seeping into — this big ball of gas and magma and dogma and YoYo Ma we lovingly call Earth. I blame all of that and oh so much more for the hideous proliferation of bare feet that I see airing themselves at the gym.

As if it's not bad enough that I have to catch a glimpse of twinkle toes blithely flitting across the floor en route to their downward-facing-dogged pursuit of nirvana and spiritual well-being, I am now being forced to see them bared on the actual gym floor, throwing their weight around where there are plenty of weights to fall on them. Yes, it seems that proper footwear — or any footwear at all — is too burdensome for some of these souls' soles, and toes are being sported in all their pasty, pudgy glory.

Further, the feet and attendant toes are being massaged and coddled lovingly by many who use the mats for a variety of yoga-inspired stretches, including, for reasons that continue to elude me, backbends and handstands. All usually executed in the middle of a mat, for all the world to enjoy. Because everyone else who is not bending or standing (i.e. posing) needs to enjoy the splendor of these stretches. Yes, the splendor of dirty, blackened feet (sounds like a Cajun dish, oui?). The charm of a sweat-blotted crotch.

Please, people, if you insist on expressing your free-spirited bliss with the Universe, please limit it to the removal of your shoes. I'm not thrilled with that, but it doesn't completely repel me. Your toes, however, do. If you want to bare your souls in the comfort of your yoga class, then by all means, go ahead and do so. But don't bear your soles elsewhere. Please. Enough. The only time bare feet are acceptable in an indoor public venue, other than in the actual yoga or martial arts studio, is in a swimming pool. And even then, I think someone ought to invent swim-socks.

But this footloose and fancy-free nonsense? No. Get away from me. Shoo.

fresh-baked at 05:50 PM
12 Steps

I don't have to walk a mile for a Camel!

This morning, a few steps from my building's front door, I found evidence of someone's funfest last night. I can't tell you how jealous I was to discover that while I was inside enjoying the tastiest Chinese food this side of the Great Wall, some other lucky chuck was on the other side, outside, having himself one fabulously elegant time.

I always suspected I was missing out on something great, but now I finally have proof. (Eighty proof!)




P.S. This reminds me: My mother, who has been smoking for at least 31 years, quit two weeks ago, "cold turkey", and has not had a cigarette since. (She has, however, oddly and appropriately enough, started smoking turkey. A fowl habit indeed.*)


* Shut up. You love it.

fresh-baked at 04:49 PM
3.1415926

If you are in the Toronto, Ontario area, please feel free to stop by Kelly's house for a nice slice (or piece) (whatever) of hot apple pie. She's taking it out of the oven as we "speak". She didn't bake it herself, but it's from a nice orchard and it's fresh. (She has good coffee, too.)

fresh-baked at 04:20 PM
Friday, 6 June 2003
Elsewhere

I think you should look at this if you want or need a little titter or giggle (or an all-out guffaw, if that is your wont) to break up your very busy workday.

Because I can tell from my STATS (ugggh) that you're looking for diversion here. Which means you're really not that busy. Which means you have time to check out what I directed you to, above.

It's not as witty as Family Circus, but sometimes you have to get out of your comfort zone and expand your horizons. Trust me. I know. Oh, how I know.

fresh-baked at 10:29 AM
Thursday, 5 June 2003
Xylobone

Every Good Boy Does Fine!

Taxi exhibits fine taste in music!

fresh-baked at 11:16 AM
Raindance

Apparently my raindance (it's more like a striptease, actually) was quite effective, because my dream of almost non-stop rain has finally come true. I don't know how long it's been going on (I don't keep detailed weather records and I don't think it's worth researching on the internet) (feel free to investigate on your own, if you are so inclined, and proudly email me with the results), but the last time I think we saw blue skies and a happy yellow sun babysitting this city was last Thursday.

Now, ordinarily I really dislike (not hate, but close) talk about the weather, but because this is an "extreme" case, an aberration, I suppose it doesn't bother me as much. The talk, that is. The rain, of course, doesn't bother me at all. In fact, I invite even more. All I can say is Bring it on! (I never actually say that in real life. Unless, of course, I'm referring to the movie of the same name starring my beloved Eliza Dushku.)

Feel free to hate me for wishing this rain upon the land. You already hate me for being beautiful and thin and fabulous anyway, so why not?


P.S. Unless you yourself are four people, please do not use an umbrella that could accommodate a barbershop quartet. Thank you.

fresh-baked at 08:11 AM
Wednesday, 4 June 2003
Sugar Baby

The other day, on a very crowded subway (the 4, if you must know), I was standing next to a baby in a stroller. (Yes, she was accompanied.) Her slobbery gushy pink mouth was making much work out of a very thick rope of wet red licorice that she gripped tightly in her little cocoa-colored left hand. She looked up at me, and, seeing me looking down at her, raised her sticky hand to offer me what she had.

Whoever it was who came up with that saying about taking candy from a baby obviously wasn't very thorough in his research. That incident clearly proved that you don't have to take it. They'll just give it to you.

(Never mind, by the way, that I was a bit puzzled as to why a kid so young would be eating huge candy with such abandon. But hey, I suppose it's better she do it now, when she only has four teeth to rot.)


P.S. She also had Combos in the little tray attached to her stroller. She had one in her other hand, and offered it to me too. I must admit I was tempted. Very. (It was gushy, sticky, and gummed-up, but still. [I don't "do" cheese, but I do occasionally indulge in cheez.])

fresh-baked at 07:31 PM
One Word, Three Times, About Another

Foodie

No. No. No.

fresh-baked at 03:18 PM
Key

Answer Key for Mr. Pearson's Eighth Period Exam:

  1. A
  2. C
  3. B
  4. B
  5. B
  6. C
  7. E
  8. True
  9. True
  10. True
  11. True
  12. False
  13. 1778
  14. 1492
  15. 1963
  16. flotsam
  17. purple
  18. trophy wife
  19. Piltdown Man
  20. carpaccio
You are on your own for the essay portion. (Sorry!) Good luck!

(To be safe, at 2:30, just before eighth period commences, this entry will be converted into a photo essay of the ladies' auxilliary bake sale.)

fresh-baked at 01:44 PM
Busted!

Commiseration Crying in the rain

If you love me, you will buy me this stove, please. Abe Lincoln?

fresh-baked at 01:09 PM
Tuesday, 3 June 2003
Believe It Or Not!

The splendid tofu concoction featured earlier contained only one tablespoon of canola oil.

How did I do it?

I'll never tell.


shhh  
Pssssst!!!
It contained two cups of freshly-liposucted leg lard from a generous donor!
And a can of 10W40 motor oil!

fresh-baked at 08:40 PM
Jofu!

See what I made? Yes, that's right. I made it. I know that comes as a complete shock to those of you who like to fantasize that I am incapable of doing anything in the kitchen other than supervising the putting away of groceries and stirring up a big glass of iced coffee. That just shows how little you really know about me and my very very private life.

Almost au naturel, but not quite.  Oh ... like YOU look pretty without your lipstick and mascara? All dressed up and pretty as can be!

And just like with people, I refuse to be in the company of the unattractive. Clothes don't make the man, and plates don't make the food, but it sure doesn't hurt if everything and everyone is downright stunning. To wit:

Don't be jealous.

fresh-baked at 12:00 PM
Monday, 2 June 2003
Feather Weather

Madison Square Park

Hey! What're these crazy, madcap kids up to?


  

I haven't the foggiest. But at least they weren't blithely wasting condiments, like these nincompoops from last year!

fresh-baked at 07:16 PM
Spotlight!

Look! This fabulous website (this one, the one you're reading) is one of the Weekly Highlights at Geek Philosopher. (No doubt you have already noted, in my sidebar, the very prominent button proclaiming me as a "Pick"!)

I am honored. And I am blessed with the additional honor of having my "piece" next to a nice photo of Mr. Keanu Reeves (a "piece" in his own right) (do not say, "A piece of what?"), which certainly sweetens the deal. Not that it needs to be sweetened. I mean, this is like sprinkling sugar on a baby's bottom.

Yay!

fresh-baked at 06:13 PM
Not so amusing after all

Santa Claus is not always jolly!

Strange, because just this weekend I was thinking about rollercoasters and how I don't think I want to go on them anymore because I'm afraid of falling on my head. And, if not falling on my head, then messing up my hair.

Either way, it's not good. Or pretty.

fresh-baked at 03:24 PM
Sunday, 1 June 2003
Give A Dog A Clone

Original photo of Idaho Gem, the world's first cloned mule, is from the New York Post

Taxi says, "I guess I must've heard wrong. But this is OK too."

fresh-baked at 05:36 PM
Test of Endora-nce

How much "Bewitched" can one girl possibly watch?

Apparently not enough.

TVLand is having a two-day "Bewitched" marathon this weekend, and I am very proud to say that I have seen more episodes so far this weekend than I had seen "in toto" prior to yesterday morning, when my participation in the funfest began. However, none of the episodes I have seen thus far have included Dick Sargent, the second Darrin, so my experience is not yet complete.

I am glad it hasn't stopped raining all weekend. This way I don't have to feel like I should have been outside instead, enjoying some scrambled tofu al fresco, doing tai chi in Madison Square Park, or helping the DOG pick out the perfect pair of reading glasses at yet another New York City street fair.

And now, if you'll excuse me (and you will) (because you're polite like that), my iced coffee and I are going back out to the living room to see if we can see a little Darrin Stephens #2.

(I'm not even going to get up out of this chair, though. I'm just going to wriggle/crinkle/twitch my nose and see if I can transport myself that way.)


P.S. I don't like Dr. Bombay.

fresh-baked at 02:30 PM