Although you may scream for ice cream, I assure you I do not. Therefore, please do not include me as part of the "we" who does indeed scream for it. Please note, however, that I may "yay" for sorbet, but only on those occasions when I'm feeling particularly generous and festive.

Well, the mass merchandising style slicksters are at it again. Trying to foist something old on us and tell us it's "new". "Everything old is new again," I suppose, but the latest style they're promoting isn't even old. In fact, it was just here last year, and I believe it was being touted as fresh and inspired then too.

What is it, you're wondering?

Cropped pants.

Yes, the same short pants that are unflattering on a wide range of women. They're back! Even though, unfortunately, they never left!

This is reminiscent of the good old days a year and a half ago, when Gap victoriously proclaimed, "black is back".

Amazing, the great lengths to which they will go to make something dull seem oh so fresh. The moderately-priced clothing buying public's memories, apparently, are about as short as the pants they're trying to sell. Or maybe Gap is just selling their customers short.

Either way, I'm not buyin' this crop.

It has come to my attention, via the rumor mill, the tabloids, and several rousing rounds of "whisper down the lane" (or whatever the kids today call this classic game), that there are "facts" circulating about me that are not only completely without basis in fact but which leave me in a less than flattering light. And although I look fantastic in any light — including, but not limited to, halogen, candle, black, or even fluorescent — I must object to anyone spreading rumors about me that besmirch my good name and the reputation I have worked so hard to maintain after my last bout with some particularly aggressive ne'er-do-wells and rabid paparazzi in the late '90s. (We all remember the scandal. Don't make me repeat it.)

So without further fanfare, I'll just cut to the chase and cut loose five of those misconceptions here on my award-winning world-famous website. To wit:

1. I never, in response to the question, "If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where's the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?" answered, "Up his ass, for the time being, and believe me, he'll be feelin' it tomorrow, oh yeah!"

2. The "affair" between me and Georgie Porgie is absolute blatherskite. In fact, I not only did not allow that flush-faced, chubby-cheeked, limp-lipped liar kiss me, but I made him cry by kicking him in the crotch of his short pants. 'Tis he, friends, and not the girls he kissed, who is the real crybaby.

3. I did not make a delightful frittata out of Humpty Dumpty and had nothing to do with his unfortunate fall. Someone of his sizeable girth should have known better than to sit so close to the edge.

4. I did not tell Little Jack Horner that he pulled the plum out of his ass and not out of that pie. (However, I still stand by what I've said about where his thumb would occasionally wander.)

5. I did not have to tell Polly to put the kettle on three times. She exaggerates. And quite frankly, her tea is bitter.
   

He was only about 3/8" long.
I drew him larger, to show exquisite detail.

I saved this little guy's life tonight! I wanted to take his picture, but, well, you know, of course, I'm still sans camera. You should've seen how he waved his antennas at me when he knew he was safe. And heard my cheers.

Oh, and if you think I'm kidding, you don't know me at all.

A great big round of applause, a wink, and an appreciative thumbs-up to the slightly built, slightly Jesusy fellow at the gym this morning wearing a white T-shirt emblazoned on the front with what appeared to be fleshy, flushed ladeez and the words POLYGAMY PORKER.

You, young man, made my day. And before noon!

P.S. This joie de vivre was balanced by the sight of filthy-bottomed feet waggling during unsuccessful handstands in the yoga studio. Balance, in all things, is key.

Well, I'm back on the hate-wagon again ... and lovin' it. My bile was riled at the gym this morning, and all it took was seeing someone's face contorted as if in the clutches of constipation while he was doing the lat pulldown machine and seeing someone else doing really fast jumping jacks.

So that's good news.

In other news, I received the repair estimate from Canon regarding my camera. The cost to repair is $168.37.

This would be bad news if I did not have the option to upgrade to a camera with a few more megapixels. And of course by "upgrade", I mean buy a new one. But I do have the option and I'm takin' it. And soon will be takin' fabulous fotos once again. And puttin' a "g" on the end of predicates!

So I guess this means there really isn't any bad news. Which is good news! Oh, LOL!

I don't know. I just don't know anymore. Things haven't been getting under my skin or on my nerves quite as much or as often as they had been. I can offer no reason why and I really do not want to delve into my delicate psyche or id or ego or superego or whatever or wherever is responsible for keeping the brain and mind in check and in line.

This is scaring me. After all, I enjoy writing about things hateful. I get a kick out of wanting to kick people. I do not want that to change! I have no desire to write of cherry lollipops and sweet baby bottoms and the lickability of either or both. I do not want to write about the charming smiles of tourists and how I want to take a family of four on a tour of the city that the dad of the "troop" will document on his prized videocam and watch with great fondness with the gang once they return to their comfortable midwestern ranch-style house. I do not want to succumb to the allure of poetic reverie about the newness of spring and the buds on the trees and inside young girls's blouses and young boys's pants. I do not want to give up bitterness and darkness for sweetness and light.

But somethin's gotta give. It just has to. And it will. I can taste it. It is my hope that sometime tomorrow the pink cotton candy swirling inside my head will be replaced with something as insidious as black licorice. The kind you spit out into your hand as soon as it touches your tongue.

I do not want to surrender. However, if I am not back spewing tales of hate and vengeance by this time tomorrow night, assume the worst.

Since I still do not have my camera, I am forced to draw the highlights of my days rather than capture them photographically. The above artist's rendering is a representation of what I witnessed just up the street from my chic city dwelling this afternoon. Notice the menacing look in his eyes (I have left them undisguised for purposes of identification) and the threat in his stance. If any of you are policemen, please contact me via email so I can tell you where to pick up this reefer reeker.

I give to you, this: Diversion!

I am tempted to tell you I am responsible for its creation (check out the URL!), but I cannot take credit. And since I do not have the desire to find out who is, I will just give credit to the person who brought it to my attention: my A #1 grrrrlfriend, Kyria!

She says she found that page by "accident", but I know she was Googling my name and is just too shy 'n' coy to admit it.

Enjoy!

When I used to ride the train into Philadelphia with my mom, oh so many years ago — back in the days when smoking was allowed on SEPTA's commuter trains — old signs prohibiting spitting still appeared on some cars.

"Do people need to be told not to spit?" I asked. She told me the signs were vestiges from an earlier time when spittoons were actually used as repositories and not as novelty planters for silk flowers or places to keep spare change.

I found this offensive. I could not believe people had to be told not to expel private fluids on public transportation. But still, as offended as I was, I was willing to accept that there was indeed a time in the sepia, daguerreotype past where men in hats engaged in the leisurely pastime of spitting as a matter of course.

Quite a few years later, it seems that spitting has reemerged with a vengeance. What happened? When did it become commonplace, and therefore seemingly acceptable, for people to spit in public?

I must be completely out of touch with the trends, because, silly silly me, I thought the practice was outdated. I thought spitting went the way of spats, the horse and buggy, and Prohibition. I thought it was a practice that we civilized modern day types, in this enlightened new millennium, sneered at as an oddity of another time, such as bearded ladies. Alas, I should have known better, given that bearded ladies can be found today in any highly ethnic neighborhood in most major metropolitan areas. I know I've seen my share.

So apparently spitting has made a comeback. Spitting is in. I see it all the time. People do it while standing on the subway platform, watching the dark tunnel for the approaching pinpoint of light that indicates the train is on its way. They do it on the sidewalks, while walking arm in arm with the person with whom they privately exchange spit. They do it without thought, without pause, and without self-consciousness. They do it like there's nothing to it.

And although we would expect that men would be the ones doing the bulk of the expectorating, I must say that women are not exactly eschewing the spew. All too often I'm seeing the so-called fairer sex doing their share, with the same casual oblivion exhibited by the men.

It all makes me so mad, I could just ... well, never mind.

I ate pretty food, I did.

I passed pretty places, I did.

I saw pretty dogs, I did.

So much prettiness, so much beauty. So many opportunities to capture ephemera with my camera. But the camera, alas, was not with the lass. As you know — or should know, if you love me enough to visit me on a regular basis (and by visit, I mean here on this site, not in real life, because in real life you know I would just let you ring the buzzer until your finger went numb) — my camera is out of commission. At least temporarily. (And here is where you cross your fingers, toes, eyes, and everything else that's crossable.)

Some girls take their dogs everywhere. They parade them around town in stylish shoulderbags or totes, some specifically designed for this purpose. Since my dog is too large to cart around even in an oversized military-issue duffle bag, I take my camera everywhere instead. It is a constant in my life. On the very rare occasion when I don't have it with me, I feel as if I have neglected to brush my teeth or go to the gym. In fact, any handbag I carry must be large enough to accommodate the camera. This rules out any attempt I may make to emulate Jackie O, but that's the sort of sacrifice I make for my art. You can imagine how empty and lost I feel without it.

So, gentiles, tell me: is this what Lent feels like?

Something is clearly wrong with me. Yesterday on my way home from the gym, I wore my earphones. I never wear earphones anywhere but at the gym or on long train (not subway) rides. But yesterday I stood on Broadway with the Flatiron Building just behind me, the Empire State Building a few blocks away, straight in front of me, and the Chrysler Building in clear sight up ahead and to my right, all city noise obliterated and my head full of the song I mentioned the other day*. I will not share the very private thoughts I had, but I will tell you they were lovely.

Then, this afternoon, I found myself humming cheerily on my way down into the subway, and, once on the train itself, regarding the other passengers with a sense of humanity and love that I thought was merely the province of yogis and people lacking the intelligence to realize that people just plain ol' blow. Not only did I regard the group of retarded folk who entered the car with an appreciation of their innocence and a respect for their unique place in the universe, but I didn't even punch the curious tourist next to me who gawked at the slackjawed Asian girl and wondered aloud, "How can you tell when a Chinese kid has Down Syndrome, anyway?"

Could it be, I wondered silently, that my brain was one of the ones switched in the laboratory I discovered last month in the apartment below? (I never did tell you what I found. Perhaps one day I will. For now all you need to know is that brains were switched. There was smoke and wires and lightning bolts everywhere.) Was my misanthropy replaced by ... anthrophilia**?

And then I got off the subway and came up onto the street, where someone spit a huge gob of disease onto the sidewalk not a foot away from me. Mere seconds later, two tons of attitude butted into me without so much as a mumbled apology. A man shaped like a pear pushed his Bosc girth through a doorway without holding the door open for anyone behind him (e.g. me).

"What a gentleman," I said. And then let loose a stream of vitriol that let me know that all was right in my world.

Lovely.

* Although I said I would only leave the song up through the weekend, it is still there so my mom will have a chance to listen to it. Mamacita, when you have heard it, please let me know so I can take it down.

** I made this word up, so don't go looking it up. And don't ask me what it means. If you can't figure it out, you don't deserve to know.

Thank you, Kate's Joint, for coloring my world, as follows:

• Beans:  Black
• Rice:  Brown
• Collards:  Green
• Grapefruit Juice:  Pink

And I, of course, was blue, because I did not have my camera to show it all to you.

So I will show you a cool clock 'n' door combo from last weekend instead:

Lafayette Street

If my camera cannot be revived, I will be seeing red! (And shellin' out some green!)

I just had a tasty and pretty late lunch/early dinner (linner? dunch?) at Candle Cafe. Ordinarily I would present a few stunning shots of my food for you. You know that. You've seen it before. You've even, I daresay, come to expect it. (You're so predictable.)

But today, friends, foes, and foodies (yes, I hate that word), you are out of luck. You see, my stunning Canon camera — the one that produces the luscious, mouth-watering, full-color food photos you've come to know and love — is not functioning right now, and has not ever since it managed to get wet the other day thanks to a leaky water bottle with whom it was snuggling in my stylish messenger bag. Tomorrow it is taking a vacation to the Canon spa to see if it can be rejuvenated. Since the water was not of the salt variety, the representative (Hi, Ricky!) thinks it should be all right. So we shall see.

In the meantime, however, I am sobbing. Crying. Wailing. But not too close to my beloved camera. Tears, after all, are salty. And that is a sort of poetic irony that I just cannot abide.

The best things in life are, in a word, simple. And, for a limited time*, free.

This is proof.



*You have until the end of the week to enjoy this song here.

Update (2:46 p.m.):  The artist is Israel Kamakawiwo'ole.

"Hello, My Name Is _______."

We've all seen 'em. Those red and white (usually) name tags that people proudly parade around in at conventions, reunions, seminars, or anyplace else where it's imperative that everyone know everyone else's name immediately so they can avoid the awkwardness of actually having to ask.

Well, I fucking hate 'em. With a red and white hot passion. Aside from the fact that they have the potential to damage fabric (if backed with adhesive) or actually ruin it (if the pin-on variety), I just have no respect for them. I have no patience for the immediacy they afford. No tolerance for the laziness they encourage. I have nothing but pure loathing for the chummy camaraderie that instantly arises when two chuckling strangers greet each other with, "Hello ... Victoria!" and "Hello ... Kathy with a K!" Or, in situations where the participants are a little rebellious, "Hello ... Mud (oh, I get it! that's good!)" and "Hello ... King ... whatzit ... Kamayamaya?"

A few years ago, I found myself in a situation where name tags were passed around and we were instructed to print our names on them and affix them to our shirts. Everyone did as they were told. Everyone took great care to neatly print their names on the tag. It was like being in remedial kindergarten, except without the brainpower and naptime. (It was, after all, an acting workshop.) Everyone proudly placed their tags above their hearts. Everyone, of course, except the one girl who looked around in disbelief at the docile activity surrounding her, and, with raised eyebrow, muttered, "No way. This is so fucking gay." (That girl, kids, was ... Shanen Doherty*.)

At the end of the day, about eight hours later, one of the guys painstakingly removed the tag from his shirt and smoothed it onto the inside placket of his jacket, taking tender care to make sure it stayed in place.

"Why are you saving that?" I asked.

"So I'll have it tomorrow!" he said, pressing the name tag to make sure it didn't budge.

"You had it on all day today, though," I said.

"I know," he said, "but this is for tomorrow. How will we know each other's names if we're not wearing tags tomorrow?"

"Part of an actor's job is to memorize lines," I said. "Remembering names should be a snap compared to that. Shouldn't it? Or, if you don't remember, you can always, oh, I don't know ... ask."

"Where's your tag?" he said.

"It died," I said.

"So. What's your name?" he said.

"See? You can do it," I said. "My name is Jodi."

"Hi, Jodi!" he said. "But how will I know your name tomorrow if you're not wearing the tag?"

"Believe me, you won't have to worry about that," I said. I took the balled-up workshop "literature" from my pocket and tossed it into the trashcan by the elevator.

As I got into the elevator, he said, "It was nice meeting you, Jodi!"

The doors closed before I could respond. Which was a good thing. Because already I'd forgotten his name.



* Not really. 'Twas I.

*   *   *

Previously:
#1: 100 - "Food For Thought"
#2: 100 - "Mammu"
#3: 100 - "In A Pickle"
#4: 100 - "Meet Me"
#5: 100 - "Use Your Noodle"
#6: 100 - "Dental Gross"
#7: 100 - "Cold Cut Heart"
#8: 100 - "Sour Grapes"
#9: 100 - "Knitwit"

I am a no-nonsense kind of gal. I do not like when people beat around the bush, although I like to giggle behind my hand at that phrase. I like a direct approach. If two plus two equals four (and most of my research is leaning toward that conclusion), then I want you to break it to me quickly. Just tell me.

I do not like making a big production out of simple tasks. If I want to chop an onion (and boy oh boy, do I), I will just pull the saber from the handy sheath attached to my belt and chop it. I will not dig through the cabinet in search of the food processor.

I do not like to do things that require too many steps. If a recipe calls for more ingredients than I can recite in one breath, I'm not going to use it. This, of course, assumes I cook, which causes me to laugh so heartily that I am left breathless and thus unable to gasp out the name of even one ingredient. If somehow I turn into an alcoholic, I'm just going to have to live with the consequences, because I will not be very happy with a 12-step program. (Besides, I hate anything that calls itself a "program".)

So you get the point. I am beating around the bush (teehee) to make the point that I do not like to beat around the bush. Feel free to call me a hypocrite.

A while ago I was chatting with someone who works in the yoga studio that is unfortunately situated in the same building that houses my apartment. I told him that as much as I don't like seeing people toting around their mats, I could certainly understand it because it's rather revolting to use mats that other people have used. He thought he was assuaging my disgust by telling me, "Well, here we wash the mats once every two days or so."

Hmmm. Once every two days or so. Once ... every ... two ... days or so. The studio offers how many classes a day? Come on. I know they're popular classes, because I can hear the collective chants here in my apartment. (Does that also mean they can hear me yelling for them to shut the fuck up?) So how many sweaty backs, dirty feet, damp asses, oily noses, and chapped lips come in contact with the absorbent surface of the mats? And aren't the mats used on wooden floors that are trod upon by scores of bare feet or shoes that have just come in from the less than spankin' clean streets and far from sparklin' sidewalks of New York City? (The streets here, dreamers, are not paved with gold.)

"When you think about it," (and again that's quite presumptuous), I said, "these people may as well just lick each other's asses. I mean, one person uses the mat in an 8:00 class and her sweaty ass is all over the mat. She doesn't wipe it down after she's done, and replaces the mat in the pile. Someone in a 9:00 class takes that same mat, and during the course of the class, her face, and, by extension, her mouth, is bound to be pressed onto it. As she's focusing on, like, her warrior post, she licks her lips quickly because she's sweating. So essentially, isn't she licking the 8:00 student's ass-sweat from her lips?"

He looked at me as if to say, "Omm."

I suppose this sort of situation is related to the "six degrees of separation" or Kevin Bacon phenomenon. I call it "eliminating the middleman".

I once worked in an office where a certain woman lawyer was known for her practice of not washing her hands in the rest room after performing other activities that render it an absolute necessity. This woman, whom I'll just call "K", kept a glass candy jar filled with loose M&Ms on a shelf in her tastefully appointed office. The candy was there for whomever wanted it. And many did, including K herself. But how many of those who indulged, I always wondered, realized that, by putting one of those M&Ms into their mouths, they may just as well have "gone down" on K?

Here's the progression/procession: K pees. She wipes. She does not wash her hands. She puts her hand in the M&M jar and jostles up a handful of the mix, thus depositing a bit of her snatch into the snack. Someone else comes along. We'll just call her "W". That person puts her hand into the candy jar, rustles up some M&Ms, and pops them into her mouth. W's fingers have just touched the same candy on which K's fingers have just lingered. Therefore, K stuff is transferred to W's mouth.

When you get down to it, W is really just going down on K.

This morning, Shana curled up on my chest and caressed my face with her soft, tender paw. I kissed the pad of that paw. The same paw that, earlier that morning, I heard digging in and scuttling through several inches of kitty litter. So, knowing my own penchant for completing a task in the least possible number of steps, and applying my own theory of eliminating the middleman, I may as well have just stuck my lips into her litter box. So I did.

And then I licked a doorknob that my freshly washed hand had just touched, to wash out my mouth.

Simplify, simplify, simplify, I always say.

As you may have noticed, I like taking fun food fotos. I like to share what is on my plate, if only photographically. And I like the way the other people in the restaurant (discounting my dining companions, who by now are used to me bringing out the camera and documenting my dishes before eating) react. Their bemusement always amuses me.

The reactions, however, do vary. Restaurant workers in places where I am a regular know by now that I photograph my food and look on with smiles and laughs. Others barely even notice anymore. Yet others look at me as if I am photographing something that either should not be photographed because it is underage or cannot be photographed because it is the food equivalent of Dracula. Still others act as if I am stealing the food's soul. Or, worse, the restaurant's recipe.

On Friday, Kyria and I had lunch at Gandhi. I memorialized one of our lunches there, here. This time I took two photos, one of each dish we ordered. We went about our lunch in our customary merry fashion, gabbing about shoes and bras and giggling about boys and macramé like gal pals tend to do. I thought all was well.

After we were done eating, Kyria told me that the waiter was furious when I was taking the pictures. I did not even know he was around when I did it. Ordinarily I do wait until the waitperson leaves the room, out of a sense of propriety and respect for the food's privacy. After all, even though saag paneer has a great body and looks gorgeous in a shimmery evening gown, it does get a little shy when I tell it to "make love to the camera".

I was a bit taken aback. The saag paneer and mushroom saag cooperated. In fact, they were the ones who asked me to take their pictures. I was more than happy to just eat them without such formality, given that I already had a photo of the mushroom dish from my previous visit. However, this fellow acted as if I were publicly photographing the results of a particularly spinachy autopsy. I wish I had known earlier of his fury, so I could have gently reminded him that he was the one who creamed the spinach in the first place.

*   *   *

As it turns out, the photos did not come out very well at all. I even considered not using them here. But because I am a spiteful girl, here they are:

 
Saag Paneer and Mushroom Saag

Corporate drone-clones, packed blue shirt to blue shirt, dark pants to dark pants, in the darkened West Village bar, glasses with third drinks grasped in right hands, left hands free of wedding bands, all elbows bent at the same precise angle, cheering on their blue-clad brothers who shout karaoke under the glare of a white light in the desperate hopes of bagging one of the low-rise jeans-clad sorority sisters whose hip-flesh spills over as readily as the martinis do out of their tilted glasses. I want to take the scissors that created these paper dolls and cut them into snowflakes.

Inspired by Wednesday night, spent supping and sipping (club soda! with lime!) with Kyria.

 
  
  
West 24th Street

This morning when my cat, Shana, skulked into the bathroom, I said to her, "Hello! And how are mew? Where are you from? Are you from Kittentown? Yes, you are. Yes. You. Are. And where is Kittentown? At the intersection of Cute and Cuter!"

And then she slit my wrists before I could do it myself.

Please be advised that if your age exceeds the number of fingers on one of your hands, you are never, ever, under any circumstances, permitted to handle a fork in the barbaric manner pictured above. Of course, this assumes your hand is host to the customary number of fingers and not a freakish, unsightly aberration caused by Mother Nature or your mother, JoJo Jumbohand's, tragic prenatal drug habit.

Please make a note of it.

On a leisurely walk along East Tenth Street this weekend, I saw this:

It was one of two of its kind. One was situated on either side of a short walkway leading to an apartment building.

Peaceful enough, yes? Wide-eyed innocence, oui?

No(n).

Apparently it was a staring contest showdown:

I tried to enlist the assistance of this referee — or should I say rufferee! — a few buildings away, but he could not have cared less and pretended he had better things to do:

Despite what you might think, I am not a fan of violence, so I walked by like it was just another sleepy, brunchy Sunday in New York. I turned a blind eye to the animosity behind these stony eyes. Sometimes it is best not to get involved.

I have about as much to say about this year's Oscars as I had to say about last year's.

Still, a few disjointed notions (and I promise, nothing about Renée Zelwegger's inability to open her eyes beyond slits):

• Amazing, how actors can't think of anything to say if they don't have words assembled on a piece of paper for them.

• Astounding, how Sofia Coppola could remain in a coma-la what with all the hoopla surrounding her.

• Remarkable, the contrast between the class and humility exhibited by Blake Edwards and the obnoxious buffoonery displayed by Jim Carrey, who introduced him.

• Adrien Brody looks like a deformed David Schwimmer.

• Billy Crystal does not realize that vaudeville is dead. Or that he needs a brassiere.