All right. I'm letting you have a say again. You have all day today (and perhaps throughout the weekend, if I'm feeling particularly game [!]) to guess what activity this guy is dressed for (other than success!):
Please do not disappoint me like you did in responding to last Friday's fun free-for-all, where so many of you submitted the same answer, e.g. a variety of a fortune cookie. Clearly your imaginations did not run as amok as I would have liked. If they had, at least one of you would have guessed, correctly, that it was (and still is) an extreme close-up of Clara Barton.
Although you disappointed me on a grand scale, I still do appreciate your participation and wholeheartedly encourage it. Try to do better this time, though, all right?
Behold ... Lola! ... my friend Cameron's four-month-old Dachschund:
It's a shame no one loves her or stops to admire her on the street:
And here she thought, "Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets"!
To fully appreciate the magnitude of Loladorability, I suggest you click on the photos!
You don't have to try very hard for me to hate you. That whole thing about "innocent until proven guilty" doesn't apply here. I hate you until you give me a reason not to.
If it is your goal for me to never get beyond hating you, all you have to do is one thing. And actually, you don't even have to do anything. You have to say it. So you can be lazy and just lie on your sofa like a canister of kaka as you say it. And that is this:
Is that a ________ in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?
That's aaaaaall you have to say. Those 15 words (assuming you fill in the blank with just one word).
And here you thought you had to join my gym and, like, take off your shoes and socks and stretch with Dynabands for me to hate you!
Don't you love me for making it all so much easier? (And cheaper!)
Water's important. We all know that. It does a lot of good stuff. And as any dieter or health-conscious person will tell you, it works wonders to suppress the appetite. I offer as proof the following Before and After shots of Trinity Water:
Notice how the After bottle prettied itself up with a new hat to reward itself for a job well done and to celebrate its new slim 'n' trim figure.
"Believe it or not," Trinity said with a laugh and a wink, "now I feel like the liter of the pack!"
Not to be outdone by Trinity, Poland Spring announced today that it would follow in the lesser-known brand's footsteps and try to shed some of its water weight as well. Take a look at these two Before photos:
Poland Spring was steadfast in its refusal to be photographed head-on and insisted I photograph it from what it considered to be more flattering angles. "I've just got too much chug-a-lug in my jug!" it said. "What's a poor gallon to do? A liquid diet may be my only hope."
Good luck, Poland Spring! And remember: a pretty hat awaits!
If you think I post a lot of food photos, well, let me tell you ... this evening as I was searching through my folders looking for a fun non-food photo that would keep your ocular systems sharp and your minds spry and at the same avoid stimulating your gurgling stomachs more than you can handle I came across so many platesful of outrageously luscious lunches whose gorgeous full-color two-dimensional likenesses have never been shared here. But don't pout. It's not like I'm hiding anything from you, no. It's not like those photos hide evidence that I secretly indulge in mouth-watering butterfly shrimp, beef Wellington, turkey tettrazini, or osso buco. Not at all. It's just that I'm a lady, and everyone knows a lady never shows it all.
Unless she's this one:
I think you'll agree that when it comes to this generously equipped lovely standing guard outside Mimi Ferzt, no one needs to scramble and shout, "Me! Me, first!" There's more than enough for everyone!
The weekend was such a whirlwind. Social engagements, paparazzi, movie premieres. Flashbulbs, limousines, fisticuffs. It all becomes too much after a while. A blur. You lose sight of quite a lot in all the mayhem, bedlam, and scramble. But one thing that remains constant is lunch. No matter what else happens, I know I can rely on lunch to ground me and keep me sane.
Here is what did the trick this weekend:
Vietnamese Stir-Fry Rice Noodle
with Five Spice Tofu Rolls
Gobo, 24 April 2004
"But wait, Jodi," you say, concern furrowing your brow. "I see the noodles, but where the hoohah are the five spice tofu rolls? I think you were gypped!"
That's what I thought too. Believe me, if I wasn't such an easygoing girl, I would have been livid and demanded to know why I was being victimized and ostracized and why my five spice tofu rolls were being held hostage. But as it was, I gently suggested to the waiter that the tofu rolls were missing in action. He gasped and said, "You're right!" and told me he would bring them to me right away. I told him I would take them to go, so I could add a little coda onto the fun later that afternoon. So here they are:
And if that wasn't excitement enough for one Saturday afternoon, I also indulged in this:
You have not lived until you've sucked a big tapioca bead, about 1/2" in diameter, through a straw just wide enough to accommodate its girth's ascent to your eager mouth. You don't know pure pleasure until the moment the bead reaches the top of the straw and you suck ever so gently to guide it between your lips and hear the joyous little *pop* the bead makes. Trust me.
But the fun food wasn't just limited to Saturday, no. Today's lunch was delicious too. And pretty! Take a gander:
Hiziki seaweed, brown rice, black beans,
and oh, who knows, really
Village Natural, 25 April 2004
Macro my words (oh, LOL!), it was fantastic. Gwyneth Paltrow and I winked at each other knowingly as our plates were placed before us.
And I then I took the subway:
Where did she go? She'll never tell!
I don't have time for games, people. But you do. So why don't you take some time to play this one and guess what the above image is. Your guess may be wild or it may be "educated". That's up to you!
The first person to guess correctly wins a special prize: my undying, eternal admiration for three minutes.
Anyone who guesses incorrectly but whose creativity impresses me wins just that: the knowledge that I was impressed. And believe me, that's a prize that's not easily won.
Now, get to guessin'!
If only you'd emailed me today, you would have known that I wasn't feeling well all afternoon and spent the bulk of it alternating between reading a book and indulging in a rather deep sleep where I dreamt I was the only brunette Brady sister and was ostracized more than Jan ever was because this meant that I ruined the sibling symmetry. (Pointing out that little bespectacled, blond cousin Oliver could help rebalance the scale did nothing to endear me to the rest of the family, and even Alice refused to acknowledge me.)
I was feeling so intensely under the weather (or above it, given my superiority complex) that I didn't even use my two tickets to paradise.* You know the bloom is off Jodi Brady's cheeks when she can't even muster the luster to strut down to the new Bloomingdale's in SoHo for a special "happening" the day before the store's official opening to the general public.
If we'd Instant Messaged each other today, you and I, this is what we would have said:
JodiFan4U: SoHo, Jo?
Tofuju: No go.
JodiFan4U: Jo! No!
Tofuju: No show.
JodiFan4U: Oh no!
JodiFan4U: Yo! Jo?
Tofuju: AUTO RESPONSE: I am napping!!!
But you didn't write. You didn't care. If you had, I would have shown my appreciation for your concern by presenting you with the two tickets when you came over to my house with an arsenal of things to make me feel better. Except you would have brought chicken soup, thinking it would be cute because you know I'm Jewish, and you would have even joked about it being "Jewish penicillin", and then I'd have to hate you not only for that limp reference but for the chicken soup because really, if you knew me at all, you'd know I don't eat chicken and consider thin brothy soups a waste of time.
It would have been the thought that counted, of course, but I would have wondered what you were thinking.
So we all missed out. No go a-gogo! Whoa!
* If you are prompted for a username and password at the New York Times site, use these, which I created just for you: Jodiverse (username) and prettyjodi (password). See? I can be very helpful when I want to be!
All right, there's no delicate way to say it, so I'm just going to come out and say it: I watch American Idol. I figure everyone needs a vice, and since I gave up diet soda (it's true!), I need something to fill the void.
So, having said that, please indulge me while I address the shocking results of this week's competition. If you watch the show but haven't yet seen last night's episode, you may want to blur your eyes at this point and just scroll down the page until you get to pretty photos of this past weekend's lunches. If you don't watch the show and don't give a fuck and/or hoot, I invite you, too, to enjoy the food photos.
I was out last night, indulging in a roll of chewable Spree while others around me enjoyed their own vices, so I didn't watch the show (mostly fast-forwarded) until this morning. Although I had not yet enjoyed any liquid stimulants (either down my throat or injected into my veins), the results woke me up as if I had.
Last night delivered the biggest "shock" of the season (discounting, of course, the fact that either of the Jo(h)ns ever made it onto the show at all, let alone the Top 12). The three best performers of Tuesday night "divas" all received the lowest number of votes. Although I was thrown for quite a loop (and believe me, throwing me for a loop is a difficult task to accomplish), I was thrilled to see the Three Divas squirming and realizing they are not the most amazing people on the planet.
After much breath-holding and hand-holding, it was revealed that this week's loser was ... Jennifer Hudson.
Although I'm not her biggest fan, I must say she has been quite impressive the past few weeks. This past Tuesday, she did a "bang-up" job but was way too over the top for the song she chose. This week was, after all, devoted to Barry Manilow. "Weekend in New England" is a rather wistful song and she played it like the line "And when will I see you again?" was a life or death question demanding an immediate answer. Still, that didn't warrant her being booted from the show.
I wasn't thrilled with LaToya London's performance, which, although perfectly lovely, bordered on scream-y at times. Still, she did an admirable job as always, and also didn't deserve to be in the bottom three. However, her winking at the camera last night nauseated me, as most winking tends to do.
Fantasia Barrino, a/k/a Macy Grey Jr., although equipped with quite impressive pipes, rankles the fucking hell out of me. When she hugged Jennifer, after the final announcement was made, and said, through big droopy tears, "You're my American Idol!" I decided she needed to be beaten with an even larger stick than I'd already selected for her. I was still feeling a bit nauseated over the whole Bring Out the Baby stunt from Tuesday night. (If you were getting a snack at the end of the show, you missed seeing Fantasia's baby being brought onstage. "Oh, as if she needs the Baby Points!" I had screamed. Yes, screamed. But apparently the baby is a jinx. A jinx!) Fantasia should never be allowed to speak. She should just do her thing, whether it's being all funkytown or not (her rendition of "Summertime" was brilliant the week before), and then clamp her mouth shut. Nothing good ever comes of allowing Fantasia to have words flow from her lips without a melody behind them.
Diana DeGarmo and Jasmine Trias were good, but forgettable. In fact, I can't even remember what I thought was good about them, other than Jasmine's long-awaited deflowering. Eh.
John Stevens managed to take a catatonic song like "Mandy" and lull it into a full-blown coma. The best thing I can say about his performance is that he did not snap his fingers to the song's "beat". Which is laudable, since neither he nor the song has one.
And last but certainly not least is my usual favorite, George Huff. However, I may have to start rethinking, which is something I don't like to do, because the burden of thinking about this at all is almost too much. Listen. Ordinarily I find myself involuntarily smiling whenever I look at or listen to George. But the last couple of weeks are leaving me with no choice but to think the recent madness of King George may be his undoing. Indeed, I can't even remember what song he sang on Tuesday not because of any madness on my part but because his rendition was so unrecognizable that I didn't know what it was in the first place.
So there you have it. All in all, a raging disappointment. As for next week, all I can say is that someone had better bring out a much cuter baby.
It has been suggested by a certain brother of mine that I should stop showing my food so much here on my world-famous website. This, coming from a person who, at 42, can still be counted on to show me a "train wreck" inside his gaping maw. However, since it is the nature of sisters to defy their brothers, I will continue to feature my food as often as I like. At least the stuff I display here is not pre-chewed and is delightfully free of saliva (at least my own, since I cannot vouch for what goes on behind the scenes at restaurants).
So without further ado, I present some particularly pleasing food that passed through my lips in recent days.
CRISPY SOLE FILET
Crispy vegetarian fish seasoned in fresh herbs
and lemon. Served with steamed asparagus,
yellow squash and sweet corn mashed potatoes.
Red Bamboo, 16 April 2004
Salt and Pepper King Oyster Mushrooms
Green Tea Noodle with Broccoli and Smoked Beijing Style Seitan
Gobo, 17 April 2004
As for you, dearest brother Bix, kindly keep your mouth shut!
P.S. I may continue to use "Jodeats" for all entries exclusively devoted to food, so do not get confused. Or I may not. It is your duty, however, to continue to not be confused.
After much internal struggle and a heated debate with myself that at times had come to fisticuffs and a rather juvenile bout of vicious name-calling, I have come to a conclusion regarding a certain subject that has caused me many a sleepless night. This issue has plagued me for longer than some of you have been alive, so you can imagine the relief I feel now that I have finally made up my mind and the insomnia that this topic has foisted upon me can, at long last, come to a peaceful end.
The mindbender was this: Does it bother me more when a man carries a too-small umbrella or when he carries an oversized "golf" umbrella?
The conclusion is this: The latter, a/k/a the oversized "golf" umbrella.
You see, in general, I cannot take umbrella-toting men very seriously. Perhaps in England, a chap can get away with using a bumbershoot without appearing prim, but here in this country, I have never been able to accept as masculine a fellow cowering under a spindled tent on a stick.
The men I find most endearing are those who do not own their own umbrellas but who instead, on the rainiest of days, can be found rushing down the avenue with lovely floral automatics sporting one or more broken spindles, obviously their wives's castoffs that were never tossed so they could perform as "emergency" or "backup" umbrellas. Of course, these fembrella users are the very men who regard umbrellas as something too "gay" to actually buy for themselves.
Men whose umbrellas are too small to adequately shield them from the onslaught of rain just annoy me because they look like those big 20-something post-boys who ride tiny bikes that look like they're one step away from a banana seat, handlebar streamers, and a brrrrrnnnng!-y bell activated by a jaunty thumb trigger.
But the oversized golf umbrellas? Well, their offense is a bit more involved. Not only do they project an air of "I am such an important man that I deserve (and have earned the right, damn it!) to take up not only my own space on the sidewalk but that of anyone attempting to pass me or anyone approaching me", but they also imply that the user is a golfer. [I will not offer an in-depth explanation why golf rankles me; just accept that it does. (This loathing does not extend to miniature golf, of course. Any sport that involves small pencils and the possibility of a windmill deserves nothing but respect.)] And not only do they play golf, but it is such a vital part of their existence that they must play it even in weather that demands the use of an umbrella designed specifically for the game.
Of course, there are exceptions. My friend Daniel, for instance, owns a non-collapsible, grey (British spelling in homage to the bumbershoot) umbrella with a curved handle and manages to pull it off with such unmistakably masculine panache that you almost forget it is a ladies's umbrella.
Most men, however, would do better to eschew the umbrella altogether and just dash athletically through the rain, raindrops a-fallin' on their heads, and hope that pretty young things offer them a place under theirs.
And if you don't agree with me, you are all wet.
So the temperature is "unseasonably" warm today, just like it was yesterday. It is July in April, and by god, everyone in the city is up 'n' out 'n' about, shuffling up, down, and across Broadway, showing off what should be kept covered, baring what should be hidden until it has time to see more sun or more activity than slouch-lounging, invertebrate, overstuffed with Pringles, on the overstuffed sofa watching reality TV. Bulbous hips and gelatinous guts painfully pressed to overflowing atop the breath-stopping waistbands of too-tight jeans. Thighs shuddering cellulite. Triceps flapping like flags in the breeze. And who can ignore the overdose of toes. All of it overexposed already. I wish it would snow.
I must come clean.
"Stop tripping over that cord when you vacuum," the Bed Bath & Beyond copy chides or predicts. Obviously their copywriter focused on the bland obstacles facing ordinary users of this sort of equipment. I suggest that when an individual logs onto a website, a more personally tailored paragraph greets her instead. To wit:
Never shred, fray, or otherwise destroy another cord again, Jodi, you inept (but beautiful!) jackass! Why don't you just hire a housekeeper already, anyway, and be done with it? You can barely empty the dishwasher without suffering an aneurysm. You don't know how to hold a broom. Oh, and blowing dust off of bookshelves hardly constitutes dusting.[**] Who do you think you're kidding?
In other news, the vacuum cleaner is blue and quite lightweight. I am quite lightweight too, but no longer blue, now that I can vacuum in style! I have to wait until tomorrow to do so, though, because the battery pack is charging. As for me, well, I'm all charged with anticipation!
P.S. I'm off to read the little booklet now. I love the little booklets.
* Kudos to Bed Bath & Beyond for the speedy delivery service. They said they'd be here between 8 and 11 this morning, and at 8:10, the vacuum cleaner was in my apartment!
** Speaking of dusting, the Micro Fiber™ Miracle Cloths shown under "Related Items" on the BBB website are fantastic. When I remember to use them, I save a lot of valuable lung power that is put to better use screaming while I unload the dishwasher.
Nine days ago, I posted a very important poll in which I posed a difficult question. As of this writing, 149 votes have been registered. The results are as follows:
Did I touch the paint?
No - 22 (14.77%)
Yes - 127 (85.23%)
What does it all mean? It means that 85.23% of those who responded have no idea how much value I place on clean hands. And it means that 14.77% of those who responded can give themselves a big hand for having at least some idea.
I am so touched that you think you know me. But you see, you do not. I knew it would turn out this way.
So yet again, you are wrong, and I am right. And that, friends and foes (and foes who delude themselves into thinking they are my friends, and faux foes who really are friends!), is something I can always bet on.
Note: That poll is officially CLOSED. So don't go running over there to vote "right" now.
Because I promised the food-lovin' funsters over at Lunch is Fun that I would share photos of my fabulous April 14 lunch, here is a li'l look-see:
Both enjoyed at the outstanding Candle Cafe.
Now you can see why lunch really is fun!
I hate when people, after relating a story, say, "Oh, you had to be there." That is a cop-out meaning, "I do not possess the pizzaz to convey the proper tone of my singular experience" or, simply, "I am a poor storyteller." I also hate when people's photographs do not portray an accurate account of the events that transpired and inspired the taking of the photos in the first place.
I think the following three photographs speak volumes for my Tuesday night out with, among others, two of my favorite people not only in New York but all the world.*
I will not disclose the locations where we indulged in this debauchery. I share my days with you, but not most of my nights. Still, I am confident you will agree that these photos make you feel like you were there with me and my brilliant friends. Even though you were just home cursing the President for pre-empting American Idol.
* Daniel and Kyria, you know who you are.
Eighteen long days ago (minus the one hour that was stolen from us thanks to that no-good ne'er-do-well, Daylight Saving Time), I was giggling like the teenaged boy I am over a T-shirt worn by a vaguely Jesusesque fellow. Although I said that he, by wearing it, "made my day", that was not entirely correct. Did it make me giggle? Yes. We established that above. Did it make me chortle? I daresay it did. Did it make me guffaw? Well ... no. Therefore, I cannot say, in good conscience, that it made my day.
However, that is not the correction that warrants the attention. This one sent to me via email by a conscientious reader is:
I know you would be loath to spread misinformation, and that is why I'm here to tell you that the shirt was probably for Polygamy Porter, a Utah microbrew.
She attached this as visual proof:
So now I must retract that the Jesusesque fellow even marginally made a portion of my day and replace the notion of giddiness with the hideous reality that he was just another dolt wearing a stupid T-shirt advertising "microbrew". And just when I thought I was finally letting go of my misanthropy!
So insofar as being corrected goes, well, YES, here is one instance where I don't mind saying I was wrong. People are banal!
... Rainier, a one-year-old Greater Swiss Mountain Dog I met a while ago but whose photo I only secured today.
My walk home from Pilates ("Again with the Pilates?") (Yes, again with the Pilates. Twice a week with the Pilates, private sessions, one-on-one, if you really must know.) (And you must.) could not have been more perfect. Precipitation and a pup. Rain and Rainier.
Wet 'n' woof, indeed.
P.S.  Check out the handsome face in closeup!
Note: This dog photo, and many others, enjoys a good home in my Dogabout gallery.
Oh, and in case you're wondering if my new camera, like the old one, is going to supply you with a super-sensational smorgasbord of luscious lip-smackin' lunches, here is the answer to your question:
The proof is in the pudding! Or in the tofu! (I'm just wild about saffron.)
P.S. Saffron's wild about me.
My "old" water-damaged camera arrived home today in a body bag via Federal Express. If it were alive, it would ask me why I didn't think it was worth repairing for $200 less than the cost of a replacement. I would tell it that no one would take its place, that it was my first digital camera and therefore I would never forget it. Although it is no longer alive, and its lens cannot see me anymore, I tell it anyway.
I will never be able to throw it away. That would be too sad. It would actually make me cry, if you must know the so-called "god's honest truth". Anthropomorphism is alive and well.
This is why I still have every portable CD player I've ever bought, no matter how cracked or broken or hopelessly damaged. This is why I have an entire family of Asics GEL running shoes the 2060s, which were phased out to make way for the 2070s, which were killed off for the 2080s, which are now lying dormant thanks to the 2090s.
I never buy anything new just to have the latest model. I am not a trendoid. I do not have to be the first on my block to have whatever is "in". In fact, I don't even have a DVD player. If something I have wears out, as in the case of the running shoes, well, yes, I will upgrade to the latest and greatest model, but only if it serves me well or suits me.
So that's the way I consider my new camera. Although it's an upgrade from the old one, it's not the absolute latest of its type. It is 4.1 megapixels as compared to the 5.0 model that came out around the same time. And believe me, the new camera is already nervously looking over its shoulder, biting its fingers, and steering clear of any and all water bottles.
But I assure it that it needn't worry. It's not going anywhere. Except everywhere, with me.
A recent information-hungry computer user found my site using the following search string:
I have a hunch he did not find what he was looking for here. Because I believe that if you have a healthy relationship, anything you can say to your dog, you can say to your wife.
However, since I am very accommodating, I would like to address this internet traveler's needs, and hereby invite you, dearest readers, to supply the elusive "things" for which he was searching. Just imagine how cool it will be when someone forwards you a mass-mailing email containing an enumerated list of these items and your contribution is among them.
That's right: I'm asking you to leave comments that respond to that search string. Since some of you really seemed to dig the April Fool's Day funfest, I decided to allow you another opportunity to sparkle 'n' shine. Please make sure to do your sparkling and shining by Saturday night, though, because I will be closing the comments at that time. (Plus, by Saturday night you should be out sparkling and shining and NOT perusing my world-famous website.)
Search String Cheese will be an ongoing feature on this site. At least that's what I am saying right now. But who knows. Tomorrow I may wake up (or may not, if I die in my sleep, like that prayer hints at) (knock wood) and decide it's poppycock and yank the whole cock, poppy and otherwise, out from under you. But for now, it's here, and, yes, it's queer, so get used to it. And get to it.
If you have not already voted in my very important poll, please do so! I will be analyzing the results sometime this week and need your input.
A while ago, a non-Jewish acquaintance told me, with more than a smidgeon of bragadoccio, that he liked matzoh.
"I really do!" he said, pausing for dramatic effect. "Oy! Sometimes I buy it even when it's not Passover!"
He looked at me, eyes shining, as if I should be impressed by his huge of leap of faith.
"What a putz," I thought. "What's next? Is he going to get down on one knee and tell me he adores gefilte fish?"
In retaliation, I pulled a large foil-wrapped Easter bunny out of my LeSportSac, snapped its ears off, and crammed them into my mouth, not once taking my eyes off of his.
He dropped the matzoh and took to the streets, screaming.
Revenge is sweet!
After the pageant, "they" drained Miss Oakdale's 2004's brain into a pint-size decanter. They were amazed they could extract even that much thought fluid, given that the girl didn't think very much, and when she did, none of the thoughts were very original and thus didnít require any juice to fuel them.
So they drained. Added water. Sweet'N Low. A dash of red food coloring (brain juice is not a pretty color on its own). And served it to all the girls at P.S. 112 who were doing "way too good" at math and science.
It worked like a charm!
* * *
#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"
#10: 100 - "Taking the Plunge"
Last night I attended the screening of Auntie Mame, one of the most delectable movies ever, with this plaid-clad lad and this one. I couldn't have asked to be sandwiched between more wondrous boy bread. Although we pretended I had to sit in the middle to break up the plaid shirt theme, I know they wanted me between them so they could have an excuse to reach between my knees for the popcorn.
In keeping with the materteral* theme of the evening, after the movie we headed over to Le Zie** for manly portions of pasta, because the popcorn, jellybeans, and chocolate cherry cordial eggs we all gorged ourselves on didn't quite put each of us over our goal of at least 10,000 calories consumed in a three-hour period. (Along with the rest of the sweets, this sweet boy also brought Peeps in the most beautiful shade of blue, but we didn't get to them. They sat quietly in their bag. Yes, that's right. They didn't make a ... well, you know.)
Since I know you've all been hungering for a fabulous food foto, here is my fettucini with mushrooms***:
It was an absolute ball! (But not Lucille Ball. Please. Give me Rosalind Russell or give me death.)
* Look it up.
** "Le Zie" means "the aunts" in Italian. (See, I don't make you do all the work.)
*** Yes, my new camera arrived. On Wednesday!
UPDATE (18 April 2004, 8:04 p.m.): The poll is now officially CLOSED!
Wake up! C'mon!
Listen to this and get the Led out!
(I will leave this "classic" here until Saturday morning, so you have until then to rock and/or roll courtesy of me.)
Although yesterday's gyno-a-gogo was an absolute blast and went off without a bitch, the examination didn't provide all the excitement. After all, party favors, or shwag as we celebrities like to call it, are the incentive to go to the party in the first place. And just like with any other party, I didn't leave this one empty-handed.
A recent trip to a "regular" doctor yielded two particularly well-whittled tongue depressors that I believe are made of the finest teak this side of a Connecticut poolside lounge chair. But since yesterday's appointment was gynecological, the booty wasn't as bountiful. Large swabs tipped on one end with a bulb of cotton, while certainly a hoot in the examination room, lose something in the translation and transition to a home environment. Individually-wrapped blood collection kits make my blood run cold. (Aside: They do make excellent Hallowe'en treats. Try it. Say "Prick or eat!" to the kids this October and see how their little hands reach for the kits instead of the Smarties.) And although I, like many gals, covet nothing more than a stainless steel speculum, I would prefer to be the first to take it around the block. "Used" may be cool for cars, vintage clothing, or books, but this is one item I recommend buying "fresh".
This doctor's appointment was such a hoot on its own that I didn't really care what the party favor was. The memories I'd take away would last a lifetime, whereas a cotton swab would (or should) only last a fleeting moment. Still, I couldn't have been more excited with what I took home. Look:
Throughout the examination, when the doctor would ask how certain things felt as she prodded 'n' poked 'n' kneaded, I simply pointed to the chart and then to my own face and made her guess! After all, this may have been my party favor, but I wasn't doing her any.
If ever anyone had any doubt as to whether I'm a girl who knows how to have a good time during a Jewish holiday, today I put any and all doubts to rest. I am no spoilsport. I am no killjoy. No soy un aguafiestas. Even though I don't celebrate Passover, I still managed to have matzo' fun.
How did I do it? What did I do that made today different from any other day? I went to the gynecologist! I figured if Moses could part the Red Sea, this was the least I could do in honor of Judaism. I'm big on symbolism.
This was my first visit to this doctor. I was nervous, of course, and eager to make a good impression. I figured, hey, she's Jewish, so she probably has a decent sense of humor. Not like my experience at Planned Parenthood in Philadelphia many years ago, where the student doctor, a skittish girl named Kina, didn't get it when I said, upon hearing her name, "Oh! As in 'rhymes with ...'?"
This afternoon, I decided to make the doctor feel more at ease between my knees by introducing a little Jewish humor.
As I slid down to the edge of the examining table, I said, "Here's lookin' at Jew, Yid!" in my best Humphrey Bogart voice.
"Please stop laughing," she said. "I can't get a proper smear if you don't hold still."
"Did somebody say shmear?" I said.
"Please just relax," she said.
"What're you doing down there?" I said. "Are you playing 'hide-the-matzoh'?"
"OK, we're all done," she said, turning off the bright white light and snapping off her gloves. "Everything seems to be in order." And then she left the room before I could ask if she noticed a reduction in "yeast infections" during Passover, given the adherents's avoidance of leavened bread.
I guess I should have expected this, though. I should have anticipated that my jokes would have passed right over her head. It's only appropriate!
So tonight's the first night of Passover. And you know what this means, don't you? This means that for, like, an entire week, Jews are not permitted to eat anything leavened. Cakes, pies, cookies? No thank you, gentle gentile friends. Bread, pretzels, pot pies? No can do. Rugelach? No. Pancakes, waffles, biscuits? Nope, nope, and nope. Our own signature bread the bagel? Absolutely not.
Of course, this stuff is permitted if it's made with, like, matzoh meal or somethin'. Still, I'm sorry, but a brownie made with matzoh meal is just too farfel-fetched for me to wrap my brownie-lovin' brain around. And since I'm a baker's granddaughter, I don't accept anything other than the highest quality baked goods.
If I actually participated in Passover and played by its rules, today would be the day I'd be running all over Manhattan, to all the best bakeries, to get my fill before sundown ... jamming my cake-, pie-, and bagel-holes (and no no no, don't be an asshole and send me mail about other holes) full of all the leavened goods I could get my hands and mouth on. But since I don't celebrate, I don't have to pass over anything for the week that the real Jews will be pretending they wouldn't kill a little goy boy for his Ring Ding.
I'm so rebellious, in fact, that this evening at sundown, I will be sifting an entire five-pound bag of flour directly into my mouth. See, it's either my way or the Yahweh!
My god. I just woke up ... and here it is, 6:32 a.m. on Apriltober 51, 3018! But not to worry: I'm the best-lookin' 1,055-year-old in all of Newyorconnecticut!
Did I miss anything?
Oh no! I'm late for Pilates!!!
I can barely contain my excitement. Even Tupperware, if it were so inclined to contain my excitement, would fail. This is not to say Tupperware is not a fine product. I am sure it is.
So why am I excited? Is it because I am going out tonight with my three chattiest, cattiest, hottest, immodest gal pals to a club so trendy and exclusive that even we won't be allowed to swagger beyond the swagged velvet ropes and will have to satisfy ourselves (oooh!) with merely staggering by them hours later in a boozy floozy stupor and giving the doorman the finger instead of the handjob that would've gotten us through the door hours earlier?
It's because today I finally ordered my camera! It will be here by mid-week. Which means that very soon I will be able to resume showing you how brilliant my life is rather than just telling you!
Try to contain yourselves.
Kidz! Just a little note to let'cha know that you still have until the end of today to leave comments to yesterday's post. So don't delay! And don't be shy! I will not bite you. I have had enough blood today.
Now, go on and comment! Sign my GuestMap! Leave your mark!
I love you all.
Whatever I do, I like to do prettily. My dad says, "If you're not going to do it right, don't do it at all." I say, "If you're not going to do it prettily, don't do it at all." You'd be amazed at the activities I manage to perform prettily. You have never seen someone scrub grout with more panache or change a tire with more élan.
"That's absolute tommyrot," you're thinking. I know.
And you know what? You're right. You see, I don't scrub grout (uhh, manicure) and I don't have a car (uhh, city). But I assure you that if I did grout-scrub or tire-change, I'd do so all fresh as a daisy, without a hair out of place, and while smiling prettily. (I would not, however, whistle. Whistling is right up there with gum-chewing and public nose-blowing and nail-clipping insofar as unacceptable behavior is concerned.)
Today at the gym, when I was on the second "leg" of my cardio-a-gogo running for a joyous hour after riding the bike for an equal amount of time I banged the back of my left hand, just above the wrist, on the tray that held my mp3 player. I didn't think much of it until I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a flash of red. Where was that stunning sanguine streak coming from, I wondered. And then I looked down and saw rivulets of the prettiest blood you'd ever want to see, just streaming down my hand. I gasped, not out of shock, but at the sheer beauty.
I did not want to interrupt my run (come on, I was at the 51-minute mark!), so I did what any red-blooded American would do: I sucked my own blood. Which only made it bleed more. So I sucked again. (This is fast approaching Penthouse Forum, isn't it. Oh yesss.) And, yes, it bled more. After about a dozen more sucks, I pressed my right forefinger over the scrape to impede the bleeding, which helped only as long as I left the finger there.
I covered my left hand with my right and continued running. I only removed the hand long enough to scratch my lip, but that was long enough to see that underneath my hand was a bit of a mess. Still, I had only three minutes to go, so I pressed on. Prettily.
At long last, my run came to an end, and I got off the treadmill. I went into the restroom to perform surgery on my gaping wound. I looked in the mirror. And there, staring back at me, was a fingertip-sized smudge of blood, on and above my right upper lip. I looked positively savage.
But savages are pretty, aren't they?
P.S. If I drink my own blood, does that make me non-vegetarian?