I'm prettier than you are.
Thursday, 31 October 2002


Just be careful. That's all I'm saying. Not everyone's nice.

And stop looking at me like you've been gypped. I don't give out treats unless I get a trick first. Or unless you turn one. Something like that.

So go play a little candy game/quiz thing.

And don't go knockin' on Jodi's door. She's not there.

P.S. Yes, I live in the "Big Apple". So that just adds to the hilarity and makes it extra crispy delicious, oui?

fresh-baked at 11:42 AM
Wednesday, 30 October 2002
Mischief Night

#$%@ KIDS!!!

fresh-baked at 11:40 PM
In Celebration of "Hump Day"

Slow down. Forget about Hallowe'en for a minute; forget about the parties, the parade, the candy, and the fact that your kids may as well just wear feet-pajamas with a cheesy ol' plastic mask tomorrow night given that no one's going to see their costumes anyway underneath the puffy down parkas, mittens, scarves, and hats.

Just slow down. Breathe. Have you noticed? Today is Wednesday. "Hump Day" as some people insist on calling it. So celebrate with this elegant accessory, especially appropriate for the occasion!


P.S. Penny-pinchers: Amortize the cost! This delightful item can be worn with any Hallowe'en costume, for years to come.

P.S.S. Makes an excellent stocking-stuffer.

Thanks to the inimitable Mad Genius for the link!

fresh-baked at 02:00 PM
Tuesday, 29 October 2002
Linky-Dinky Writer

Yesterday I sent my fabulous (and hunky) friend Christian a link, and he saw fit to include it on his site today. I'm honored.

If you love me (and you know you do), you'll do him the great honor of gracing his site with your presence. He's funny as all fuck. And as we all know, all fuck is pretty damned funny.

So go on. Prove your love. Get outta here. And go over there.

fresh-baked at 03:04 PM
Book Schnook

So I just finished a book yesterday that I had in my possession for three weeks. In fact, I still have it. It's due back at the library today, along with two others that I have yet to read. Yes, three weeks ago I took out three books, ambitiously telling myself I would read one a week (I've recently been upgraded to "educable"! How I love Sylvan Learning Center!). Yet it took me until yesterday to complete one.

My project for the day is to read one of the other two. In its entirety. I am proud to say that I am up for/to the challenge. I daresay that I hope to not only complete a second book but to — now sit down, because this is a lot to handle — start the third.

I'm a little scared, though. The first of the three books really, well ... how do I put this without making anyone cry ... well, it ... sucked. Blew. Bit. And otherwise was just not good. At all. And no, I will not divulge its title or its author. I will only say that her last name begins with an "H" and that it is a book of short stories, published in 2001. So armed with that arsenal of information, you should have no trouble at all finding it on Amazon.com, bn.com, or atrociouslytritetripethatremindsjodiofcrapshewasforcedtoendureinacollegeshortstoryclass.com.

I don't know why I felt compelled to finish the book when it caused me interminable anguish. I don't know why I continued past the second story when the first made me groan miserably and bleed copiously from the ears. I just felt sorry for the book, I guess. And the black and white photo of the author, on a page at the very end of the book, well ... she looks like such a nice, decent person. Too bad her book fucking sucks.

So I'm off. I can't wait to see what Nancy Drew discovers today!

fresh-baked at 12:32 PM
Method Actor

So I suppose there was a method to her badness?

Whine? Oh ... nah!

fresh-baked at 08:10 AM
Monday, 28 October 2002
"Hungry Jew"

"No Jew should go hungry," I say as I hand Eric four quarters and point at the scrawled "Hungry Jew" sign propped up by his feet.

He thanks me profusely, and smiles with his entire face. Blue eyes, decent teeth. Messy dark brown hair spilling out from beneath a baseball cap. Navy blue sweatpants, zipper sweatshirt, and sneakers.

"Kosher Food Needed," his second sign says.

The signs are why I stopped in my tracks at the corner of 19th Street and Fifth Avenue. The decent conversation is why I stayed for about half an hour. We have a lot in common, Eric and I, aside from being Jewish. Wandering Jews.

He loves my hair.

"It did come out good today, didn't it," I say with a laugh. "But it could use highlights, don't you think?"

"It's beautiful the way it is," he says. "You are absolutely gorgeous."

He hopes the man in my life treats me like a princess. I tell him he does. He tells me I deserve it, that he would treat me like a queen too if he were able.

He can't believe that not only did I stop to give him a dollar but that I am staying to talk to him for as long as I am.

We talk about quite a lot in a half hour. We talk about how obnoxious people are. How people are shallow and selfish. We talk about Mayor Bloomberg and agree that his voice grates on our nerves.

He wants to have coffee with me. I tell him I'll pass by again sometime this week and bring him coffee. We can talk again sometime soon. I'm on Fifth Avenue a lot.

"No," he says. "I'll buy you coffee. If I'm lucky, you'll sit with me on a bench and talk to me again."

I want to believe him. I want to think he really is down on his luck. I want to believe him when he tells me he is a songwriter and has a CD. I want to believe him when he tells me he has been on the radio in Alabama, where he is from, and where he hopes to return once he gets enough money for a bus ticket home.

I want to believe him, but I don't know if I do. I think I do. He tells me that in 1984, in Malibu, California, he woke up and found Paul Newman giving him a blowjob. I even want to believe that.

fresh-baked at 02:40 PM
Playing Catch-Up

So what's the deal with this "Ketchup" song? Is it "The Ketchup Song"? Or just "Ketchup"? And why all the commotion?

I haven't heard it. So I have no idea what all the hubbub is, or if, indeed, it warrants the hubbub.

Am I missing anything, other than an opportunity to pun away to my heart's content with all sorts of condiment-related hilarity?

fresh-baked at 10:51 AM
Sunday, 27 October 2002
Cold Hard Truth

Well, I did it. I took the plunge. I threw my robe to the floor, caution to the wind, and myself into the shower at approximately 5:05 p.m. EST, and, as I shivered like a scrawny, doe-eyed toddler abandoned on an orphanage porch on Christmas Eve, I faced the cold, hard truth:

I would rather be a slimy-skinned, stringy-haired, maggot-covered mess than endure the taunting, jeering leer of a cold, merciless shower.

If this ever happens again, I'm going to follow my cousin "Gundarva's" lead.

Tomorrow I purchase a paring knife.

fresh-baked at 05:24 PM
Cold Shower

Guess what? The water in the apartment is barely warm! In fact, it's not even lukeperrywarm. Or tepid. It's cool. The water, that is. The situation, however, is not cool. The situation blows. The situation is pissing me off. In fact, not to be crude or anything (I am, after all, still a lady), but the water isn't even piss warm.

What this means, then, is that I can't take a shower. I refuse to stand underneath a stream of not-even-close-to-warm water and shiver my way to cleanliness. So here I am, après-gym disgusting, hunched over my keyboard, wrapped in an oversized leopard-print terry robe and big fat fuzzy socks to which dog hair insists on clinging. Hair in strings around my head. Scowling. Filthy dirty girl. I may as well just start "surfing" for porn now, so I'll need a cold shower.

It's this logical problem-solving technique that got me where I am today.

And please don't suggest I take a shower at the gym. The showers there have wavy-glass doors that provide not a modicum of modesty and actually make the shower-taker look less than svelte. No way.

Porn, here I come!

Happy Birthday!

fresh-baked at 11:10 AM
Saturday, 26 October 2002
A Golden Oldie

No, "golden oldie" does not refer to me! I suppose that today, on my 21st birthday, I am closer to being an oldie than I was yesterday. But given that I'm no closer to being golden-haired today than I was yesterday (until that big bucket of peroxide that a cartoon nemesis suspended over the door tips over when I leave the room and showers my pretty little head with peroxidy goodness), I suppose I'm more of an oldie than a blonde.

But "golden oldie" isn't really about me. It's about an old entry I wrote, waaaaay back in August — a piece of which I am particularly fond and which is especially appropriate for today. So (re)read it, in honor of the occasion.

And speaking of pieces ... have a piece of strawberry cake, baked by Zuly for yesterday's party!


P.S. Even though the party didn't make it to the glamorous parquet floor Ballroom yet (note I said "yet" — but I am not making any promises!), it still happened in the fabulous chat room throughout the day. It was out of control! Yeah! Those brownies were, like, crazy!

fresh-baked at 08:49 AM
A Golden Oldie

No, "golden oldie" does not refer to me! I suppose that today, on my 21st birthday, I am closer to being an oldie than I was yesterday. But given that I'm no closer to being golden-haired today than I was yesterday (until that big bucket of peroxide that a cartoon nemesis suspended over the door tips over when I leave the room and showers my pretty little head with peroxidy goodness), I suppose I'm more of an oldie than a blonde.

But "golden oldie" isn't really about me. It's about an old entry I wrote, waaaaay back in August — a piece of which I am particularly fond and which is especially appropriate for today. So (re)read it, in honor of the occasion.

And speaking of pieces ... have a piece of strawberry cake, baked by Zuly for yesterday's party!


P.S. Even though the party didn't make it to the glamorous parquet floor Ballroom yet (note I said "yet" — but I am not making any promises!), it still happened in the fabulous chat room throughout the day. It was out of control! Yeah! Those brownies were, like, crazy!

fresh-baked at 08:49 AM
Friday, 25 October 2002
Chat's Where It's At!

OK, so that's bad grammar and poor usage. But who cares? It's my birthday tomorrow, so I plan on abusing the English language until I turn 21!

A few of us hipsters are in my fabulous chat room tonight. I am only going to haul this thing out for SPECIAL EVENTS, so you may as well take advantage of its limited availability.

Come on! Mingle!

fresh-baked at 09:26 PM
Chat's Where It's At!

OK, so that's bad grammar and poor usage. But who cares? It's my birthday tomorrow, so I plan on abusing the English language until I turn 21!

A few of us hipsters are in my fabulous chat room tonight. I am only going to haul this thing out for SPECIAL EVENTS, so you may as well take advantage of its limited availability.

Come on! Mingle!

fresh-baked at 09:26 PM
It's what's inside that counts!

Here's a little special something for you.


Let your mouse linger over the pretty brownie for a second or so. Ordinarily I wouldn't tell you what to do, 'cause I know you're smart 'n' all ... but after you eat the brownie, you may not have your wits about you. Or something like that. Anyway ... enjoy!

fresh-baked at 04:31 PM
The only thing missing is ...

wired hanger

fresh-baked at 11:51 AM
Hanging Around

Well, it looks like there may not be a party today after all. And no, it's not because I'm panicked and curled in a fetal position underneath a bare folding table in the dark, humming "Ring Around the Rosey" to myself, slowly twisting what's left of my hair into uneven braids. You see, the thing is this: I have images to upload and "pop-ups" to effectuate, and, well, my computer seems to want to just "hang" whenever I close any sort of dialog box or pop-up window.

So unless someone can help me figure what the FLYINGMOTHERLESSFUCK heck is going on with this GODDAMNEDFUCKINGBULLSHITCOCKSUCKER silly computer stuff (Is it XP? Internet Explorer? Something astrological? A full moon? A hex?), well, there will be no party.

It's my party and I'll curse like a truckdriver if I want to.

Just an empty Ballroom with a "live chat" feature (check that out, at least), where you will find me sobbing gently, cake frosting smeared all over my teary face, hugging a stuffed one-eyed, tattered unicorn and a Barbie doll whose hair I pulled out and onto whose plastic body I've scrawled "bad words" on all the fun parts with a magic marker. Rocking back and forth and softly singing "Happy Birthday to Me" in a minor key.

fresh-baked at 08:58 AM
Thursday, 24 October 2002
Pre-Party Nervous Breakdown

I'm plotzing. Yes.

You see, what I really fear is that the shindig is going to blow. And suck. And stink. I fear it will be like one of Mary Richards' parties, where there's not enough food or something and everyone stands around with thumbs up their asses (their own asses, not anyone else's -- remember, this is a party and not an orgy, kids), and Mary (or Jodi, in this case) winds up fretting in the kitchen, wringing her hands, and crying to Lou Grant (a life-size cardboard cut-out of Ed Asner, in this case).

You see, I fear it will suck because I know about this much about designing web pages (I can set HTML tables about as well as I can set a dinner table, i.e. "The fork goes where?") and virtually nothing about "Flash" or anything else that would give a web page any sort of dynamic interactive participation, or whatever the hell they call it.

I suppose what I'm trying to say is this: The so-called party isn't going to come with "bells and whistles" that you could find on another site. It won't dance, it won't sing, it won't include an embedded MIDI. It won't blink, it won't wink, it won't scroll. It won't jump up and down. It won't do the fucking hokey-pokey. It will, in all likelihood, just be a simple black background (no wood panelling, as I had thought would be jauntily hilarious) with a delicious buffet and a, uh, gift table. And when I say "table", I don't want you to expect some sort of image map that makes a fun sound whenever something is clicked. No, it'll just be clickable static images.

So anyway, there you have it. Jodi, apologizing in advance for her lack of party-planning skills. She is the hostest with the mostest when it comes to the word thing, but when it comes to the web-designing thing, well, that's another story that she can't even start to write or approach.

Maybe what Mother really needs is to run to the shelter of a little helper.

Beg me to keep the party thing alive ... before I wind up crying in the bathroom and refusing to come out, even though I'll be wearing a fabulous palazzo pantsuit and have my hair done up all pretty and stuff.

Tell me I can really turn the world on with my smile. Tell me I'm gonna make it after all. OK?

fresh-baked at 08:47 AM
Wednesday, 23 October 2002

Today I walked down to Sperone Westwater, a gallery well off the beaten path, deep in the bowels of the Meatpacking District, to view the latest New York installment of Belgian artist Wim Delvoye. Delvoye, as you may recall, was responsible for the truly shitty (in only the most literal sense) "Cloaca" — a huge, hilarious representation of a digestive system that I saw at the New Museum in March.

Once again, he moved me to unabashed guffawing. This time, the hilarity came courtesy of "Gothic Works", which included nine stained-glass windows combining erotic and medical X-ray imagery, X-ray photography, and bird houses. Because I know you're more than just a little curious to see stained-glass images that incorporate schlongs and blow jobs, I've included a few photos here that I managed to surreptitiously take when the Pratt students (they arrived shortly after I did) and gallery staff weren't looking. Look long and hard, and you'll see what I saw.


My day also included, among other activities, a fantastic lunch al fresco; an upbeat conversation with an astonishingly attractive guy named Josh about his Wheaton Terrier, Oscar (the dog was even cuter); a few fabulous Banana Republic purchases; and this, which made me laugh just as much as, if not more than, Wim Delvoye's work.

Ahhh, how I New York! (And whimsical dicksuckle art!)

fresh-baked at 06:33 PM
Tuesday, 22 October 2002
My Gift to You

Have fun with this!

fresh-baked at 04:32 PM
Committed: Update, Part Two

I know you're all starting to get a little giddy already, in anticipation of my appointment with Tony tomorrow morning. I know you're chuckling because you knew I wouldn't follow through with my brilliant alternate approach to the situation. (All right, maybe you're not chuckling. Maybe you're just sneering. Mocking me and calling me a jackass for not just saying "No" in the first place. Right?)

Well, I hate to break it to you, my little darlings, but ... I cancelled the appointment on my way out of the gym this morning. Yes. I did. When I asked the girl behind the front desk if Tony was around, I was thrilled to learn that he was with a client. "No no no, don't disturb him," I said, with a studiedly casual wave of a hand. "I'll just leave a note."

What a relief. I was as thrilled to leave a note for Tony as I am when I return a phone call to someone I've been avoiding and get their answering machine instead.

Here's the work of literary genius I left, in my draftsman-perfect block printing:






And of course I dated it at the top and scrawled a little picture of my face next to my name, the way I do with almost everything I write (including my law school application and requests for parole).

I was very proud of myself for only discarding one attempt before telling myself the note was "good enough". Very pleased, indeed, that I didn't compose eight drafts (Do I say "I'm sorry" or not? Yes? No? Yes? No? Yes! Even if I'm not sorry? Yes! Why? Just because! Just write the fucking thing, you moron! It's not a thesis!), and then copy the best one onto a clean, unrumpled sheet of paper carefully removed from the little notebook I carry with me at all times. No, instead I felt a grand sense of satisfaction when I boldly tore the sheet from the notebook and handed it (with a bit of a flourish and an adrenaline-perky "Thank you very much!") to the girl behind the desk. But not before neatly folding it in half and carefully printing TONY on the flap, complete with a straight-mouthed, non-smiling "smiley" inside the "O".

She probably took one look at that "O", crumpled the note into a little ball without even reading it, jammed the thing into her backpack, and then maniacally cackled to herself a few hours later when she pulled it out and tossed it into a trashcan on Broadway at the end of her shift.

So I'm going have to tell Tony anyway. Directly. Tomorrow morning at 5:58. To his face. Thus, the note was moot.

I suppose I should be thankful I didn't write eight drafts.

fresh-baked at 04:17 PM
Potluck Blog Party!

Yeah, you have to click on it for details!

fresh-baked at 12:04 PM
Monday, 21 October 2002
Site Note

My hosting company is performing the final step of its network upgrade today, starting at 8:00 p.m. PDT. That means you have about three and a half hours to gorge yourself on my words before they clear the table for an hour or two.

However, if past experience replays itself (and keep your fingers, toes, eyes, and everything else that's crossable, crossed that it doesn't), this may mean you won't be able to get back onto my site until sometime next week, or whenever Madonna's new movie "Swept Away" comes out on DVD — whichever comes first.

Now go. Gorge. Just make sure to chew thoroughly. I don't do the Heimlich.

fresh-baked at 07:28 PM
You do the wrath

Rocket science! + Brain surgery! + Hmmm ...

+ the voice of reason = Ignorant fucking slobs! = Here's the real trash!

fresh-baked at 03:30 PM
Sunday, 20 October 2002
Mama Mia!

Yay!  She's wacked, but she's the best!
Happy Birthday, Mamacita!

Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday dear seriously insane but still adorable Mo-o-o-om-m-myyyy
Happy birthday to you!

fresh-baked at 11:37 AM
Save a Life!

All you have to do is knock wood. That's all. I jokingly mentioned "a relative's death" in my first post yesterday, and realized a moment ago that I didn't knock wood.

Not like knocking wood really works, of course. Remember?

But still.

Wood. Knock it.

Four times, please — twice with each fist.

Many thanks, from me and my relatives.


fresh-baked at 12:37 AM
Saturday, 19 October 2002
Committed: Update

Yes! Already I have an update to the preceding post!

No, I haven't gotten out of the commitment.

I've decided to try a completely different approach, though. I don't know why I didn't think of this sooner.

Here I thought I had to come up with a way to remove me from the equation, when all along the focus should have been on Tony! Rather than finding a way out for me, I will find a way to permanently remove him from Equinox (murder, crippling injuries, blindness, cast him as the lead in a new Broadway musical). My problem will be solved!

So I suppose this means I must either hire a hit man, find a way for Tony to contract glaucoma, or start crackin' on some lyrics. And quick!

fresh-baked at 11:53 AM

I hate when I commit to something and then immediately regret having made the commitment. Invariably, when I make plans, I instantly feel trapped, and my brain starts scrambling feverishly to come up with an excuse to get out of what I just agreed to do.

Yes, this just happened. Yes, I just agreed to do something I don't want to do. And yes, already I'm dreading it. I can't even believe I entertained the notion for a nanosecond, let alone allowed my name to be entered into a Palm Pilot, thus making the commitment official.

Tony, one of the newer trainers at the gym (he still wears the purple Equinox T-shirt, which is akin to a college freshman beanie circa 1953), one of the trainers to whom I actually speak (yeah, give it time and I'll hate him too, don't worry) and with whom I once, in a rare moment of garrulous magnanimity, discussed my workout "philosophy" (pause to vomit here, please) ... well, Tony asked me if he could use me as a sort of guinea pig to try out some new exercises he wants to incorporate into his client training. The session would be free, of course, and he needs to try this new stuff with someone who's in really good shape, pays attention to form, and has "body awareness" (yes, that last phrase actually came up during the discussion I mentioned earlier).

"Sure," I said. And then, as if that wasn't enough, I added, "Absolutely!" Exclamation point visible.

"I won't make you do anything embarrassing," he assured me.

Uhhh, just doing this is going to be embarrassing, I wanted to say, but for some reason, Jovial Jodi laughed heartily.

"Just so you know," I said, "I'm not going to do anything that's not an organic movement. I won't do anything unnatural like run sideways on the treadmill or scuttle across the floor on my hands and feet like I've seen other trainers doing with their clients. I also won't do plyometrics." I explained to him that I will not jump due to sesamoid problems suffered in ballet class (yes, it's actually true).

As it turns out, that's precisely what Tony had in mind. So I thought I had an out. I thought he'd say, "Never mind, then," and go about his way, and I would be relieved of the duty to which I'd just committed myself.

But no. He said, "Well, I have other stuff in mind too, so that won't be a problem."

"Fuck you!" thought JoDemonSeed. "I don't want to do this! This is so very wrong! I don't want to do it! No! No! No!"

"Great!" said Jovial Jodi.

So now I'm in his Palm Pilot. I'm "down" for 6:00 a.m. on Wednesday. And now, of course, I'm filled with dread. Now I'm going to obsess about this appointment until it occurs. And of course I'm trying to think of a way I can get out of it.

But even though I've entertained semi-believable excuses such as a sprained ankle, an extended business trip to another city, or a relative's death, I now realize that there really is no way out. Sudden blindness just won't cut it, either. Therefore I must either start working out at the other branch of Equinox to which I belong or leave the country permanently.

Or, when Tony approaches me on Wednesday morning at 6:00, act like I don't know what he's talking about, and then ask him to remind me. When he tells me how we agreed to this on Saturday morning, I will put on my best quizzical face, and then chuckle, a smile of realization playing upon my amused lips.

"Oh, now I see what the problem is!" I'll say. "You talked to my twin!"

What do you think?

Uggh. It won't work. So I'm only left with my usual way out.

At the beginning of our session (I'll act all gung-ho, of course, so he won't suspect my planned ruse), I will have an epileptic seizure (grand mal), complete with mouth-frothing, eyelid-fluttering, and limb-flailing.

Ahhh. I knew I'd come up with something!

fresh-baked at 10:59 AM
Friday, 18 October 2002
Ensemble Piece

I know this comes as a complete shock, but I am not what you'd call a "joiner". I don't belong to any sort of association, club, organization, or guild. The only activity I do that involves the participation of others is a once-weekly mat Pilates class at the yoga studio downstairs — a class that usually consists of just me, the instructor, and one or two other people.

I have never been a big "communal" person, and I'm definitely not a "team player". A few years ago, when a diminutive "boss" relieved me of my obligation to work in his office, he cited as one of the reasons the fact that I was not a "team player". (I told him that I refused to play on a team that had such a lousy coach ... but that's another story for another day.)

When I was eight, I joined the Brownies. But of course the Brownies were wasted on me. Not only did I hate the other little girls, but I loathed, detested, abhorred, and otherwise hated the crafts. I didn't understand why anyone would want a tambourine made out of two flimsy paper plates filled with dry beans. I don't know what words I used back then to express that something fucking sucked, but I know I uttered them under my breath the entire time I was stitching those two paper plates together with colorful yarn.

I sucked at selling cookies. I dreaded going from door to door trying to sell those things. In fact, either I've repressed the memory completely or else I didn't do it at all, because I have no recollection of actually doing it. I'd like to think I managed to sell at least one box to the people who lived on either side of my house, but I really don't think I did. No, I earned the coveted Cookie Monster patch the only way I could: by having my father take them to the office and unload them on his co-workers.

So why did I join the Brownies at all?

Do you really have to ask?

For the uniform, of course! I mean, who could resist the traditional Brownie uniform? The brown dress, brown belt, ankle socks with the impish Brownie emblem on the turned-over cuff. The pins. The troop number patch. The ... the ... the ... beanie. Ahhh, that beanie!

How many hours of stomach pains and dread could have been avoided had I just confessed to my parents that all I wanted was the outfit? Yes, all I wanted was the outfit, to wear in the privacy of my own bedroom, where I could gaze admiringly at myself in the mirror. Alone!

You see, with me, it always comes down to the outfit. I don't hike (yes, your second shock of the day), but I have a cute pair of hiking boots that I used to wear with shorts and a denim shirt when I wanted to fancy myself the outdoorsy type. I don't ski, but I like to envision myself in a fabulous ensemble: form-fitting, somewhat shiny black pants/leggings; sleek black turtleneck; cobalt blue hoodless jacket with a silver-buckled belt cinching the waist; furry black headband pulling my hair off my rosy-cheeked face. (Boots? What boots? My leg is faux-broken and in a cast, and I am propped up in a cushy chair in the lodge, by a roaring fire, sipping hot chocolate and nibbling on chocolate chip cookies. I am also attended to by a stunning ski instructor who would rather adore me than be out "on the slopes".)

You know, right now, I think I'd join a ski club and endure a long bus-ride (!) up to some ski resort somewhere, just so I could wear that outfit. (I'll need boots to wear, though, pre-faux-leg-breaking!) When and where are we meeting?

P.S. Now I want a brownie. No, not this kind ... this kind! Care to join me?)

fresh-baked at 03:21 PM
Who's the Crumb???


What the — !?

Who the — ??!?

Where the — ?!!?!??!

No! No! NO!!!!!

Oh, this is great! Just great! I had something really fabulous for you today. Something as scrumptious as it was gorgeous. (Not one of those raging disappointments that looks better than it tastes.) Something absolutely exquisite!

So where is it!? I don't know. That's what I'd like to know. I took it out of its box an hour ago, when I got back from the gym. Ran back here to do a few things. When I returned to the kitchen ten minutes later, it wasn't there! It vanished!

It's gone. GONE! And all that's left are the crumbs you see.

This is beautiful. Just fucking beautiful! I'd like to know where the hell it is, and who took it. And why!

Bobby? Cindy? Greg? Marcia? Peter?


Who's the greedy, filthy, selfish slob?

I'm waiting ...

Well, I'm sorry, everyone. I don't know what to tell you. I really have nothing else here to offer. So please accept this, with my apologies.

fresh-baked at 08:33 AM
Thursday, 17 October 2002

It's all so very hush-hush!

I just received a fantastic offer via e-mail. Apparently the sender has an impressive inventory of "High Profile Domains for Sale!". And here I thought all the good ".com"s were taken. Was I ever mistaken!

Just take a look at some of the gems he's willing to surrender:


If this guy can proudly offer those, then I really should stop being so protective of the fine crop of domain names I recently acquired during a madcap late-night domain name buying bender. Here's a partial listing of the beauties I'm willing to relinquish:


Once I make this offer available to the general public via a vigorous e-mail campaign, I anticipate a deluge of responses. However, I am offering all of you first dibs on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. So please don't hesitate. Act now! You won't be sorry.

fresh-baked at 04:03 PM

Dear SissyFuss:

Just because I spoke to you on one isolated occasion does not mean we are buddies, bosom or otherwise. I'm sorry I ever paid even the slightest bit of attention to you. Believe me, if I could take it back, I would.

I have dubbed you SissyFuss in honor of the most vigorous portion of your Olympian workout: the part where you increase the incline of your treadmill to a quad-busting 3%, grasp the hip-level bar in front of you, and then lean forward and press into it not as if forcing a two-ton boulder up a mountain but as if nudging a two-gram pebble up a molehill.

Your workout, Sisyphean effort included, is, without a shred of an iota of a doubt, an absolute fucking waste of time. Why do you even bother dragging your meatless carcass out of the house every morning pre-dawn? Indeed, given the rate of speed with which you move your scrawniness around the gym floor, I figure you'd have to leave your apartment (four blocks away) at 3:00 in order to reach the gym by 6:00. Believe me, you'd expend more calories sleeping for those three additional hours than you do during your entire sleepwalk of a workout.

Every morning you approach the row of treadmills clad in what appears to be an expensive black nylon jogging suit. You drape a white towel around your translucent neck in anticipation of the copious sweat that your half hour, 1.9 m.p.h. walk cannot possibly produce. Occasionally you wrap it quite securely around your neck and tuck it into your barely unzipped jacket, thus creating a very fetching terrycloth ascot.

Yesterday morning you were crestfallen when you tiptoed up the stairs and found that your preferred treadmill on the end was already occupied. However, when you craned your periscope neck and realized that the one to my right was free, you dashed (or what, for you, passes as dashing) over and stared at me, slackjawed, in disbelief of the serendipity. You turned to me as if to say something, but I continued to gaze straight ahead at my own unfazed expression reflected in the mirrors that line the facing wall.

You entered your information into the treadmill's panel -- a proud 1.9 m.p.h. -- and then, within mere seconds, started jabbing the air with flaccid arms half the size of mine, weightlifting gloves encasing feeble fists that hoist weights about as heavy as soup cans. You watched me increase the speed on my panel. Every time I adjusted my speed, there you were, peeking first at the panel and then looking up at my profile.

Perhaps, SissyFuss, you haven't heard of this really cool thing the kids these days are calling peripheral vision. Y'see, I can see you watching me. Do you not know that when you duck your head, chin into your concave chest, and turn your face toward me, I can actually see you focusing on my ass? When you turn to your left and stare at my profile, I can see you. I can see you. I. Can. Fucking. SEE. You.

You may also want to rethink your brilliant strategy of pretending to stretch those burning hamstrings at the top of the stairs that you know I'll be passing in a few moments on my way to the mat area on the other side of the floor. You may also want to reconsider doing pushups anywhere near me on those mats, because believe me, when I see that you can barely complete five before your quivering stick-arms collapse, and that your range of motion is about three inches, it doesn't take a whole lot for my imagination to make the leap from gym mat to bedroom.

It's not just that I run four times as fast as you do, or do at least five times as many pushups (and not those pathetic girlie ones either) as you, or lift more weight than you, that makes you so damned unappealing. I mean, yeah, that has something to do with it. Because as much as I don't care for hulking walls of muscle and brawn, I do like a man I can imagine picking me up and carrying me over a puddle. I mean, hey, even a strong girl likes to feel protected.

No, what makes you truly unappealing is your quiet yet apparent desperation. You reek of it more than of the sweat you don't work up. Perhaps if you parlayed all of the energy you waste trying to get me to acknowledge you into actually working out, I wouldn't have to ignore you. As far as I'm concerned, you're just another pathetic pebble-pusher. And I much prefer a boulder approach.

fresh-baked at 08:29 AM
Wednesday, 16 October 2002

27 October 2002

Dearest Readers:

Thank you all so very much for the lovely gifts and the surprise party yesterday! You really got me! The Four Seasons is absolutely exquisite, isn't it?

Actually, the biggest surprise is that you knew what to get me at all! I mean, I don't even have an Amazon Wish List! I suppose you knew, though, just from visiting my site so faithfully, that a $50,000 gift certificate to Banana Republic would make a perfect gift. But how did you know about Armani? (Please don't worry. I think I can find something nice for $150,000!) And Tiffany? (I know someone who got something simply darling for $100,000, so there's no need to apologize!)

Thanks, too, for the check. And thank you for demonstrating your elegance by presenting it to me without fanfare and in a size that will easily fit into my wallet. Usually when one is bestowed with a check of such a generous denomination, the presenters feel the need to blow it up to a size that is both unwieldy and cartoonishly embarrassing. I appreciate your discretion.

Once again, thank you for everything. You're the bestest.


fresh-baked at 11:13 PM
Tragic Carpet, Part 2

Remember this?

Well ...

Elegant! Apartment 3F


fresh-baked at 01:19 PM

Yeah. So it's raining. A lot. And it's windy. Quite. They're calling it a "nor'easter". You can just call it windy rain. Don't say "nor'easter". It sounds retarded. Better yet, don't talk about the weather in the first place. We all know it's raining. We all know it's windy. Think of something better to talk about. Don't be so obvious. Don't make me hate you.

Or at least talk about how much you love the rain and how you wish there were a parade, or softball game, or carnival/fair/fest today that it could rain on and ruin. Or how you wish it were a Saturday and someone's wedding would be ruined. That'd be worth talking about.

I know I'm "supposed" to feel sympathy/empathy/compassion for the poor brides and grooms and all the attendant schmoes when the Big Day is a big wash, but I don't. I really groove on knowing that they won't be able to stand up and wave through the open sunroof of their rented white limo, or take that romantic chariot ride around Central Park, or have their pictures taken on a grand lawn somewhere. I love knowing the white train of the bride's dress is bound to be sullied (just like the virginal bride later that night! teehee!) along the hem and her hair is destined for frizz and cowlicks. I like knowing that there will be tears.

But won't it be poetic, that they'll do their crying in the rain?

How pretty.

Enjoy your day!

fresh-baked at 09:41 AM
Tuesday, 15 October 2002
Never Say Never

Last night I did something I never thought I would do.

No, I didn't sleep in a tent. No, I didn't scale the Empire State Building using only dental floss and a fork. No, I didn't chant downstairs at the yoga studio. And no no no, a thousand times NO, I did not cook.

(I did iron, but that's not what I'm talking about either.)

What I did was this: I walked out of a show. Yes, I did. And not during intermission, as I did a couple of years ago when Lily Tomlin's tired old act failed to elicit the slightest amused chortle from me. No, I walked out during an act. But I assure you that my remaining in the theater would have been ruder than leaving it, because I reached a point last night where my sighs were becoming more and more audible and my squirming in my seat more and more frequent that I feared that at any moment I was just going to spring to my feet and yell, "Stop it! Just STOP it! End the fucking TORTURE!!!!"

Only once before have I truly felt the urge to leave a show mid-performance, and that was "Taller Than a Dwarf", a horrendous Matthew Broderick/Parker Posey vehicle that stalled shortly after it started and then quickly coughed its way to a sputtering demise well before the end of the first act. Still, I stayed for the entire performance, even though I easily could have left during intermission. I figured, hey, we paid enough money for our tickets, and we'd gone through hell to get up to New York (this was when we were still living in Philadelphia), so we were going to watch the entire show if it killed us. Which it nearly did.

But last night, there was no excuse or reason for me to stay. Last night I only travelled a few blocks to see the show. Last night I only paid $5.00. Last night I easily could have left during the break. But I didn't.

Last night's show was presented in two parts. It was (supposedly) a comedy show. The first part was a two-woman effort that wasn't brilliant or hilarious; nevertheless, it was somewhat engaging and occasionally made me titter. I didn't guffaw once or even truly laugh, and there was no danger of incontinence. But that was all right. I wasn't expecting anything amazing, so I guess I got what I paid for. It was only the second part of the show that was the bomb. (And no, kidz, I don't mean "da bomb".)

Don't ask me why I felt compelled to stay for the second part. I don't know. My first instinct was to just leave, along with a good fraction of the audience, but I thought, "Well, maybe I'll miss something. Maybe they're saving the better part of the show for last." So I stayed.

And immediately wished I'd left when I had the chance.

The second part consisted of two guys, probably in their 30s. It was all improv. Or at least I hope it was. Because it would be truly pathetic to think that the tripe I witnessed was actually scripted. I will not go into detail about the so-called performance, because, just like with fried liver (or, of course, tripe), it would surely taste even worse regurgitated than it did when initially consumed.

So for the next forty minutes or so I watched, in ever escalating dismay, and in complete silence, what was perhaps the most unfunny comedy I have ever witnessed. These two chumps insisted on beating a horse that was dead as soon as it left the gate. And not only did they beat it, but they chopped it, minced it, sliced and diced it, and then ground it to a coarse powder.

Somewhere during the third or fourth "skit", I found that my silent sighs were morphing into outright audible groans. I knew I had to leave. I didn't care if the two schlubs included my desperate exit in their act. I didn't care that I had to climb over quite a few pairs of jumbled legs in order to free myself from the misery. I didn't care if, upon my exit, I would be force-fed liver, cottage cheese, aspic, and Jello 1-2-3. I was outta there.

And at long last I was.

Now, as you may recall, at the end of June, I railed against the people who dared to leave the ballet during the curtain call. As I said then, "You were just given something beautiful, you cretins. You were presented with an exquisite two-and-a-half-hour gift. The least you could have done was hang around for two-and-a-half minutes to thank them for it." So yes, I did remember that as I made my decision to leave last night's show. But then again, what I was given last night was not an exquisite gift. It was the equivalent of this.

fresh-baked at 09:01 AM
Be-Itching Hour!

Ever have one of those nights where you lie in bed and everything just starts ... itching? Almost immediately? And no matter what you do, you just can't get it to stop? You scratch and you squirm ... you toss, you turn, you flip around feverishly in an attempt to stop the itch, just stop the itch, stop the itch stop the itch stoptheitchstoptheitch, stop the motherflyingfucking itch???

I think my skin is literally trying to crawl off my body. Either that or those millions/trillions/jillions of mini-microscopic itchy bastard bugs that they say coat our bodies and our eyelashes are removing my skin, inch by itch, and tomorrow when/if I wake up, I'll go to pinch myself to see if I was just dreaming the itchfest, only to find my fingers, mere bones, squishing around noisily in a gushy, bloody pile of viscera and mismatched pajamas.

And now I will attempt to get back to bed before I reach the point of no return. Or else I'll be a wicked (b)itch on wheels in the morning.

fresh-baked at 12:38 AM
Monday, 14 October 2002
Outta site

As if it's not bad enough that that Karyn cretin has her (in)famous website (no, I will not link to it again) where she begs for people to "help" pay off her $20,000 credit card debt, there is a whole host of others following in her Manolo Blahnik footsteps.

For the so-called record, I don't give the usual fuck/rat's ass/hoot what their causes are. I. Don't. Care. I don't care if it's a starving baby in a country no one's ever heard of, a family that wants to come to the United States, a woman who has 14 children and nowhere else to turn. I just don't care.

While the "cyber-begging" itself is certainly obnoxious, what I find perhaps just as wretched are the people who, for whatever reason, are trying to promote this garbage by posting comments on my site in response to my original "Save Karyn?" post. Comments that include a link to the "cause" they're promoting along with a wry little note such as, "Can you believe that Karyn girl? My favorite one is __________. Check it out! It's unbelievable! But you've gotta admit, it takes courage!"

At least five or six different "causes" were linked to in my comments, including one that was added today, supposedly by the wife of some guy who, for whatever reason (again, I don't care), is in deep debt.

Well, as of this afternoon, I have deleted every comment that included a link to yet another pathetic begging site. And I will continue to delete every comment that includes one. I refuse to allow my little "oasis" (someone used that word to describe my site a few weeks ago, and I thought it was quite sweet) to become a dumping ground for this detritus.

You know what? There's something these people can give me. It's called a break. A big fat fucking one. With a cherry on top.

fresh-baked at 04:06 PM
Sunday, 13 October 2002
Look, Schnook

Ok, so now's your big chance, big fella. Your date's gone to the ladies room, so now you can stare at me openly, without trying to pretend you're just looking around for your waiter so you can pay your bill.

As soon as I entered the restaurant, you stopped listening to her and turned your attention toward me, you sly fox you. You gave me the once-over at least three times as I was led to my table, and your girlfriend was clearly oblivious to your distraction because she was still happily chirping away and laughing.

As I approached your table on my way to the ladies room, you revealed the depth of your suave and oh so discreet sophistication. You stopped slouching, nodded your head ever so slightly toward me in acknowledgment of the secret bond we shared, and displayed the broadest of smiles just as I passed. You laughed heartily. You were a regular bon vivant.

But now that your adoring date is in the ladies room, you're smiling broadly at me. Staring boldly. You even sort of winked.

I would go into the ladies room and tell the girl who's reapplying the lipstick that makes her lips the most kissable, who's bending over to rearrange her tits in her bra to make sure her cleavage is droolable, who's about to go into a stall and insert a diaphragm — but who am I to interfere?

You fucking schnook.

fresh-baked at 05:56 PM
Saturday, 12 October 2002
Sweet Nostalgia

How many Saturdays have found me curled up on the sofa, daintily sipping a glass of iced coffee, watching "K-9", awwwwing Jerry Lee (the dog) and secretly lusting after Jim Belushi? And how many times have I stopped mid-enjoyment to think, This movie is from 1989, so there's no way Jerry Lee is still alive. Even if he were only like two years old when this movie was made, there's really no way. The dog's dead.

So of course for the next 15 minutes or so I'm obsessed with the fact that the dog that I'm admiring and awwwing and cheering is now dead, and probably has been dead for some time. And then I tell myself to stop thinking about it, which means that I obsess further.

This happens every time I watch a movie that is old enough for most of the people appearing in it to be dead by now. Last weekend I watched "The Women", and found myself thinking, "Sixty-three years ago. All of these actresses: dead. That horse Paulette Goddard's straddling (lucky horse): dead. Norma Shearer's two dogs: dead. Yep, everyone's dead, with the possible exception of that obnoxious little snip who plays Little Mary. Just say she was 12 when the movie was made ... that'd make her 75 today. She may still be alive!" (A mandatory mad dash back to this room, mid-movie, to consult imdb.com proved otherwise; the actress died in 1968 of a heart attack at the age of 42.)

I don't know why I do this, and I don't really care. But it is eerie, indeed, to think, as I'm watching something really old, that everyone on the screen is dead. And that everyone else is dead too, all the way from the director down to the key grip (whatever that is).

What I don't realize, while I'm doing all of the age calculations in my head and lamenting the passing of some pretty good actors, is that the actors I'm suddenly mourning actually lived off-screen after the movie ended and, in many cases, had successful careers that continued beyond the filming of the movie I'm watching. I forget that the actress may have been in her 20s when she made the movie, and that she could have lived well into her 70s. I just picture her dying at whatever age she was in the movie ... falling dead away, in beautiful dramatic black and white, her final words uttered with perfect diction in that old-fashioned finishing school accent a la Elizabeth Taylor or Katharine Hepburn.

But lest you think I'm morose (and I am, but so what?) or obsessed with death, well, I can switch it off almost immediately by concentrating on something else that compels me to make yet another mad dash back to this room for more information. And that is this: the Consumer Price Index. Because just as quickly as I'm mired in thinking that, hey, that dog is dead, and Joan Crawford is dead, and the costume designer is dead, I can immediately pull myself out of the bog by wondering how much that peignoir set that went for $250 in 1939 would cost today.

By the way ... take a guess. (And no fair doing the calculations on a "tool" you find on the internet.)

fresh-baked at 09:42 PM

When talking with someone on the phone or chatting with someone via one of the messenger services, or even when actually in someone's company in the flesh, what's the proper way to tell someone that he or she is boring the living flying fuck out of you? Is it rude to just start snoring? Or pretend someone is knocking at the door — even if you're standing on a street corner? Or to tell the soporific drone that you think you hear your mother calling you, even though she's been dead for a decade?

Just wondering.

fresh-baked at 04:12 PM
Friday, 11 October 2002
Back in the Black

The signs in GAP's windows proclaim that black pants are back.

Bluefly.com heralds black as the "shade of the season". Indeed, it declares, "Black is back."

Just one question: Where did it go?

Every "season" we hear yet again that another ambitious color has toppled black. Black is out. Brown is the new black. Red is the new black. Burnt sienna is the new black. And, a la "Funny Face", pink is the new black. And every season I roll my eyes and wonder just whom they think they're kidding.

So what's the deal now? Could it be that ... black is the new black?

fresh-baked at 05:48 PM
Pro Schmoe

Since when does the fact that someone gets paid to do something make his effort or work product any more significant than that of someone who does the same thing without monetary compensation? Since when does the word "professional" mean that the person who is one has the right to look down his nose at the person who is an "amateur"?

I have a few friends who are dedicated photographers. Their photos are gorgeous. It's obvious that they didn't just point a disposable camera toward a monument during a whirlwind six-day tour of 19 European cities just for the hell of it. No, they take special care with subject, composition, and narrative. Their photos are more than just garden variety.

But since they don't receive money for their work, and in some instances have no real aspirations to do so, many people label their efforts as a "hobby", on par with such stuff as building a ship in a bottle, making boxes out of popsicle sticks, or performing any activity that involves the use of a glue gun, yarn, and glitter. That doesn't really get my goat (or my sheep, llama, or yak). What does is this: When people with professional expertise dismiss the amateurs' efforts because they don't know the "technical" side of the activity.

One of these friends (we'll call her "Tina") recently got up the nerve to show several of her photos to a client who is a professional photographer. The photographer immediately asked Tina all sorts of questions that left her head spinning. One of the things she asked about was aperture. Tina was down-to-earth enough to admit to this client that she doesn't know her aperture from a hole in the ground. The client sniffed derisively and thus deemed Tina's photographs as illegitimate and unworthy of further discussion.

"She thinks I don't know what I'm doing, just because I don't know the technical terms," Tina said. "Maybe I don't know how to describe what I do, but I do know what I'm looking for. I just feel my way through it."

Another friend, "Nancy", admits that she would love to know more about photography, but that she is having a blast just taking photographs of everything that catches her eye. Nancy has a fantastic sense of composition and an eye for color. Every time I see one of her photos, I know there is a story behind it. I'm sure there are more technical terms, but I don't care.

"Yeah, but I don't really know what I'm doing," she says. "I just see something I like, and I take a picture of it."

Still, her photos are no mere "snapshots". As we say here in the land of the truly lofty, "She knows her stuff!"

So what if she doesn't know what an F-stop is? I don't know what it is either. As far as I'm concerned, the F-stop is somewhere on Sixth Avenue. It takes me where I want to be, and that's all I need to know. Just like Tina's and Nancy's photographs take them where they want to be — locked in a moment that they felt worthy of preservation, for whatever reason. Need they know more?

So why do people who are paid to do something feel the need to put down the efforts of others who are not paid to do it? Is an actor who is struggling to make it in an off-off-off-Broadway production, working for nothing but the sheer love of acting, any less of an actor than someone who receives millions of dollars for making a less than memorable movie? Is the painter who sets up his easel on a corner of Union Square, capturing the scene in watercolor, any less of a painter than someone who has somehow managed to get his work shown in a gallery? The same can be asked of writers, singers, musicians, and anyone else who isn't paid to do what he loves to do.

I wonder if the supercilious snoot who looked down her nose at Tina's work ever heard of a little-known schmoe named Vincent Van Gogh.

fresh-baked at 12:39 PM
The Hostess with the Toastest

This morning the gym's café odors included a delightful melange of bacon, pan-fried fish, and cinnamon toast — a trio with all the appeal of Jack, Chrissy, and Janet.

But don't worry, kids. Today's Friday treat does not include any item from either of those frightful menages-a-trois. Enjoy this delicacy instead:

Savor, don't gobble!

Enjoy it with some of this -- not the horrendous, gluey, completely unacceptable corn syrupy variety, a la Mrs. Butterworth. (Damn that woman and her obsessive need to perch herself on the breakfast table and spew out her homespun wisdom!)

If you need anything further, please do not hesitate to let me know. (Yes, the "computer problem" was just a ruse. I was really upgrading myself. Don't I look fabulous?)

Bon appétit!

fresh-baked at 08:51 AM
Thursday, 10 October 2002

Listen up, kids. I'm about to say something remarkable and completely out of character, and chances are I may not ever say it again, so you'd better tattoo this date on your bicep, or bookmark this entry, or take a "screencap" of this page and save it as a big ol' "jpg" and print it out on a pretty piece of colored paper to hang up on your bulletin board.

The thing is this: Not everyone sucks!

Yes, if there's one thing I've "learned" (gee whiz, there's a lesson to be learned from every experience, isn't there, Mr. Brady!) from the past few days, it's that although many people do continue to suck, blow, and otherwise aggravate every scratchy wool fiber of my being, well, there are some wonderful exceptions. People I have never met in the flesh (except perhaps in dreams) (and no, I will not name names) (and besides, I said perhaps) sent me very sweet, sympathetic email messages; several people offered their assistance even though they admitted their computer knowledge was limited; and a handful with computer expertise offered to lend a hand, even if figuratively, via the telephone, email, comments, and instant messaging services.

I would go on and on about Shawn, but I won't. At least not here. Suffice it to say that he made me laugh even when I didn't think I could. And he helped me more than he will ever know — not just with the technical stuff, but also with his incredible patience when I lost my own. He plodded tirelessly through boring behind-the-scenes computer garbaggio. He was more understanding than I would ever be. But I won't go on and on. No. Not I.

And a special "shout out" (I will never say that in real life, by the way) goes to Derek from West Virginia, the best tech support person I have ever encountered at Dell. This evening when I called for more help, I was prepared to kick and scream, and to curse so viciously that even those of you in Alaska and Australia could hear me. But thanks to Derek, I was spared a stroke, and I think my computer system was spared further hardship.

If you hear someone singing "What A Difference A Day Makes" tomorrow morning around 5:15, you'll know that everything is just dandy. And If you don't see some sort of delicious breakfast refreshment here on my site by 9:00 a.m., the only song you'll be hearing will be a funeral dirge.

P.S. Peppy, fresh, joyful entries to resume shortly. Expect lots of soft-filter pictures of my cherubic, freckle-faced four-year-old son posing in front of a big wooden building block, holding a baseball mitt or clutching a teddy bear. And, of course, the usual rainbows and unicorns and poetry.

fresh-baked at 10:04 PM
Wednesday, 9 October 2002
My Heroes!


I'm free!

A million jillion thanks to Chad and Shawn for so gallantly rushing to my rescue.

Everything is fine now. But it still doesn't hurt to knock wood.

UPDATE, 9:25 p.m.: Apparently the wood I knocked was veneer. The problems are back. I'm reminded of the Robert DeNiro/Robin Williams movie "Awakenings". A flurry of excitement ... and then nothing.

fresh-baked at 03:27 PM
Tuesday, 8 October 2002
Ransom Note

Dear Faithful Readers:

Everything is fine. I am being treated well. My captors are very nice.

I am safe. I will be kept out of danger as long as you comply with their demands:

  • a non-expirable Macy's gift certificate in the amount of $1,500,000

  • one foot-long Italian hoagie (a/k/a "sub" or "hero") with oil and no mayo, small bag of WOW! chips

  • one smoked turkey on rye (with seeds) with romaine (NO TOMATO or mayo or I die) and stoneground mustard, small bag of Baked Lays (barbecue)

  • one toasted "everything" bagel piled high with Nova lox, a shmear of cream cheese, and a slice of Vidalia onion, with pickled herring on the side

  • One case of Diet Mountain Dew

  • One 2-liter bottle of Frank's Black Cherry Wishniak soda

Leave everything at the northwest corner of 34th and Fifth Avenue at 8:00 this evening, or you'll never see me or my site again.

P.S. Also bring me a big iced cofffat8798oeiogualueiyeuyHELPdaiufpdufpuMduapfudufPLEASE;dkfjadf;akfj9d

fresh-baked at 06:18 PM
Monday, 7 October 2002
A trying XP-erience

Don't worry. Nothing horrible has happened to me. Just my computer.

You may have to survive without me for a while.

Feel free to lament this tragic turn of events in my comments.

And now, I'm off to slit my wrists. It makes a nice accompaniment to banging my head against the wall.

P.S. If you want to reach me directly, please use the trusty ol' tofuju@hotmail.com email address.

fresh-baked at 10:00 PM
Sunday, 6 October 2002
Stiff Upper Lip

I woke up this morning with a stiff upper lip. Sounds sexy, doesn't it? Well, I assure you it's not. The lip looks normal, but it feels tight and chapped. I daresay it even feels a little numb. It is not responding to the tiny dab of Vaseline that the DOG suggested I apply. (I will not tell you what I said about Vaseline. It's too disgusting, even for me.)

This can only mean one thing.

I have scleroderma.

Yes, I have a debilitating disease. No mere chapped lip, this. No mere irritation brought about by hot water or exfoliant or an exuberant scrubbing of my entire face because, for five minutes, I was convinced my face resembled a topographical map of Peru. No, it's definitely something more insidious.

It's either scleroderma, or my top-secret experiments with the teleportation device I developed here in my lab have transformed my flesh a la Seth Brundle and my cat will be batting my corroded lip down the hall sometime later this afternoon.

But I'll be strong. I'll be brave. I'll stare this affliction down, and through the sheer force of my staunch will, I'll ward it off just like I did the lupus, multiple sclerosis, brain tumor, cancer (colon, breast, and cervical, among others), anthrax, appendicitis, jaundice, mumps, diabetes, hepatitis, and tetanus.

In the meantime, though, should I call someone? Or should I just wait until Tuesday, when I go in for my distemper shot?

Either way, I'll keep a stiff upper lip.

Keep me in your thoughts. Thank you.

fresh-baked at 12:49 PM
Saturday, 5 October 2002
Here and There

Ordinarily I don't like to post other people's words in my entries, but these were just irresistible. I won't say where I found them. The person who used them said they were not his or her words either, so I couldn't attribute them to the source even if I were so inclined. I'm just happy to pass them along, regardless of their origin:

"There" is no better than "here". When your "there" has become "here", you will simply obtain another "there" that will, again, look better than "here".

Have a fabulous evening, wherever you are.

fresh-baked at 05:16 PM
Friday, 4 October 2002
Shut Up!

To whomever has been in the yoga studio five floors below for the past hour or so, incessantly chanting and singing, occasionally bursting into out and out warbling, yelling, hooting, hollering, and all other manner of unified vocalization:

Shut. Up. Shut. Up!


Go ho-o-o-o-o-o-mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmme!

P.S. Any yoga studio that serves Hydrox cookies to its clients should not be allowed to take itself so seriously. Shut up.

fresh-baked at 11:08 PM
Take a Break

You need a break. It's the time of the afternoon when you really want to nap in the file room.

Well, someone's busy groping someone else in there right now, so you'll just have to go here instead.

Have fun!

Make Mommy proud!

(The permanent link can be found under "Jodiverse+" in the sidebar. Access it via "For the Refrigerator".)

fresh-baked at 03:14 PM


Help! Someone!

I have an Emergency Domestic Situation!

No, I'm not being beaten about the head and face with the closed fists of a man who says he loves me and that this is the last time he will ever do this to me.

No, there's not an electrical fire in the kitchen and I don't know whether to put it out with water or baking soda or a box of cereal or just run out of the house, flailing my arms, hoping to flag down the nearest handsome fireman.

No, my adorable four-year-old son is not jumping up and down like a fucking miniature maniac on a plastic squeeze bottle of chocolate sauce in our white-carpeted living room. (The Stanley Steemer commercial that depicts that horrifying scenario will eventually cause me to suffer a stroke and/or aneurysm. Or cause me to find that kid and force him to lick the carpet clean with his tongue.)

My problem is worse. Far more serious. Far more pressing. I don't know what to do.

What is causing me so much chagrin? What is making me drop to me knees, shake my fists up to the heavens and down to the hell(s?), and plead with a higher or lower power to "please help, oh please, I'll do anything you say!" if only I can be relieved of my burden?

This: The drawstring came out of one my favorite pairs of yoga pants!

Can anyone tell me how to put it back in? Do I use a hanger? A knitting needle? Telepathy? Chocolate sauce?

Any McGyvers out there who can help a damsel in entirely too much distress?

fresh-baked at 01:41 PM
Buon Giorno!

Yes, at long last, it's here. Friday. You need something more than just the pedestrian cup of coffee. You need cappuccino! And you need it served a gorgeous cup and saucer. (Yes, even the more macho among you could do with a little aesthetics from time to time.) So here you are.

Look at the elegant heart-shaped design in the steamed milk!

As you indulge in this creamy concoction, you may wish to recall the model wannabe poseur loseur who slunk into my old place of employment oh so many years ago.

Just make sure you don't gulp it down as if it were the swill that your less fortunate co-workers are throwing down their gullets like so much bad medicine. Indulge it, and yourself. And when they rush by your desk with their crappy coffee in styrofoam cups that's burning their hands, witness you luxuriously indulging in the finest of beverages in the most gorgeous of cups, and scoff at your elegance (jealous bitches, all of 'em!), offer them a hearty, passionate "È Venerdì!" ("It's Friday!").


fresh-baked at 08:55 AM
Thursday, 3 October 2002
Wedding Hells

This past Sunday as I was going through the section of the New York Times that contains all of those annoying wedding announcements — a weekly ritual that never fails to leave me screaming, "I am never reading this shit again! These people all need beatings! I hate ALL of them! I want them all to be divorced in two years! And what's up with this one's hair anyway???" — I noticed a familiar name.

The name of a former, uh, "flame". Or beau. Or suitor. Or whatever the hell you call someone you went out with a few times, who said he really liked you, had a blast with you, thought you were gorgeous and sexy and witty and fabulous, but who insisted on being a douchebag and chasing other, less gorgeous/sexy/witty/fabulous skirts around town.

Anyway, his wedding announcement was in the paper, along, of course, with that of his wife/bride. However, only her photo appeared. Just a little rinky-dink snap of her face. (I won't say what I think of her looks. I won't mention her white-bread, pearls-and-angora-sweater, sorority girl, hello-I-have-a-trust-fund appearance. I mean, I really hate to judge a book by her blond cover. I do.)

Well, apparently I'm not the only person who thought, "Oh, that's a really good sign. Now there's a marriage that's going to last a lifetime!" because last night, after Chad (my personal assistant, of course) and I were on MSN Messenger well after 11:00 p.m. discussing something that needed our immediate attention, I watched David Letterman. Turned it on just in time to see that he was showing wedding announcements from last week's Sunday NYT and commenting on whether or not he thought the marriages would last.

Every annoucement he showed contained two ridiculously happy people smiling for the camera. And each of these marriages, Letterman pronounced, would last. The last annoucement he presented was the one for my ex-whatever and his new bride. And he made the same comment I made (evidence, of course, that I am too big for my "blog" and simply must have my own late-night talk show). "The guy can't even show up for the picture. Yeah, this one's really going to last!"

Of course, I wish "C" and whatever-her-name-is all the best. I wish them love and good fortune and many many unicorn- and rainbow-filled moments of light and laughter and spiritual unity. I wish them every happiness in the world. I just want what's best for them. And I just hope, for the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi's sake, that true love cures impotence.

Mazel tov!

fresh-baked at 12:00 PM
My own comment

Listen. I am thinking of doing away with the comments on this site.

Sometimes it seems like I have a "dissertation" section instead of a comments box. I'm beginning to think that people come here to hear themselves talk rather than to read what I write.

I love feedback, but it seems like people are using my space as their own personal soap-boxes.

Many readers don't ever leave comments. Only a small fraction of my total readership does. Some of the "silent" readers send me personal email telling me they like what I write or adding a few extra sentiments. I encourage them to leave comments, but they say they don't feel comfortable doing so, and that's cool. I can certainly appreciate that.

So I know it is "ironic" that I should be asking this of you now, then, but fuck it, I want to know, so I'm asking: What do you think of the "no comments" idea? (And don't say, "No comment" in an attempt to be be funny.)

Really. I want to know.

fresh-baked at 10:46 AM
Wednesday, 2 October 2002
I think I love you ...

... so what am I so afraid of?

P.S. I'm afraid that there's no cure for this.

Special thanks to Mad Genius for bringing this to my attention.

Bonus: I'll save you the trouble of downloading the song. Here it is.

fresh-baked at 04:37 PM
Young killing Young

An eye for an eye.

A life for a tooth?

You're only Young once, you little fucking bastards. For robbing this man of his life, I hope you grow old in prison.

At some point, however, I would like your daily outdoor recreation to include a baseball game and snow-shovelling. And when the other inmates are handed their bats and shovels, I hope they use them not in the manner for which they were intended but in the same way you used them on your victim.

You don't need sense knocked into you. You need the life beaten out of you too. But not completely. I don't want you to die as a result of the debilitating injuries you receive. I want you to live — crippled, beaten, maimed, and broken. I want every step you take to be so painful that it takes your breath away, and every breath you take to be so excruciating that you are reminded every day of the life and breath you so viciously beat out of someone else.

fresh-baked at 08:06 AM
Tuesday, 1 October 2002
Early Bird

It's a WORM.

Yep. I've been gettin' me lots o' these.

Worms, that is.

So I want to thank everyone who has been so vigilant and dedicated to making sure I meet my self-imposed curfew. You do it because you care. You do it because you love me. Or you do it because you want me to love you. Well, whatever your reason, whatever your rhyme, whatever however whenever yeah yeah yeah, I appreciate it.

Because of your diligent vigilance (or is that vigilant diligence?), I am now back on track -- as opposed to being out of whack. Back on the old tried-and-true schedule.

Early to bed? Yep!

Early to rise? You got it!

Healthy? Ohh yeah!

Wealthy? Uh huh!

Wise? ¡Absolutamente!

So thanks for your help, my pets. (You know who you are.)

And although the more depraved among you occasionally succeed in luring me into post-11:00 p.m. Instant Message debauchery (it's all just so shameful!), I still manage to rise pre-dawn, while you worms are still sleeping.

Catch you later!

fresh-baked at 09:22 PM
I hear ya, Shakira

I must confess that I am, as of this morning, in love with Shakira.

This morning I happened to see her video for "Objection (Tango)" on one of the TVs at the gym. My first reaction was, "Who is this bimbo-bombshell I'm going to have to hate?" So I actually pulled my headphones out of my CD player mid-"Aquarius" and plugged them into the little box on the stationary bike so I could hear what the ass-shakin' chick on the screen sounded like.

"Surely this mama's a-shakin' and a-shimmyin' because she can't sing to save her life," I thought.

But hey, I was wrong! (And I can say that without lapsing into "Jodzie" mode!)

So listen for yourself. And forgive me if this song has been out for, like, a month already and I've just "discovered" it. So I'm a little behind the times, all right?

I think I'm going to go out later and buy the eight-track!

fresh-baked at 08:55 AM