I'm prettier than you are.
Saturday, 30 November 2002

I hate blondes.

There. So now you know.

If you know me in real life (and statistics show that only .023% of you do), chances are that at some time you've heard me rail against corn-silk blondiosity. If you're my mother (and statistics show that only one of you is), you've been bestowed with a pretty poem entitled "Ode: To Be A Blonde". If you're Loni Anderson, then you have my apologies sympathies.

When I was younger, I wanted to be Marcia Brady. I wanted to brush my long blond hair 100 times a night too. I wasn't jealous of Marcia the way Jan was, though. In fact, I was also jealous of Jan if only because of her long blond hair. (That girl couldn't dance to save her life!) I couldn't understand why she would want to hide it beneath a hideous wig that made her look like a brunette Annie. (If you're not familiar with The Brady Bunch, then you won't get the reference. But no, I will not provide one. Because if you are not familiar with The Brady Bunch, then we have nothing further to talk about, you and I.)

I hate blondes because they don't have to do anything more than just be a blonde to get the attention of the hoi polloi and stupid men. Blond hair is the equivalent of big tits. Of course, most blondness is artificial and manufactured. As are most big tits.

Not that I even like the hoi polloi. Or want a stupid man.

Or blond hair.

Or big tits.

But you know what I mean. If you're a brunette (or other non-blonde), that is.

P.S. No "stupid blonde" jokes, please. Even if you're a blonde and thus consider yourself exempt from censure, I still won't be amused. Really.

UPDATE, 5 February 2004:  Sadly, my archives were a bit messed up for a few days, and although I managed to restore my original posts, I wasn't able to restore quite a few of the comments. Those you see here are nothing compared to the dozens that people submitted months after this entry was originally posted. It's a shame, really, because there were some really dazzling doozies among those dozens!

fresh-baked at 05:00 PM
Oh Bitch. You Worry?

OK, so I had a whole storyline (sort of) I was going to do, and it was going to be a lot of fun. It was going to be a takeoff on "Clue" (the game, of course, not the movie), and I was going to call it a "Jewdunnit", and it was going to turn out that Roberta Flack killed me softly with her song in the conservatory (no, not really). It was going to be great, it was going to be marvelous, it was going to be ... well, a lot of things ... but ...

My light was snuffed out on the first day of Hanukkah, and it was symbolic and all kinds of poetic. It could quite possibly have been construed to be a little political too, but, well, you would know better given that I despise politics and haven't read a newspaper since 1974.

But then I realized something: You don't want creativity. You don't want innovative, conceptual whatnot and whozit. You just want me to talk about Turkey Day and Black Friday and my teen angst. You really just want this.

Happy now?

Did you worry that I was really gone?


fresh-baked at 03:07 PM
Friday, 29 November 2002
Where Were Jew?

No two are the same ...

fresh-baked at 10:54 AM
Thursday, 28 November 2002
For My Refrigerator

My disowned son, Leo, drew me something pretty for the Thanksgiving holiday!


I'm so proud.

fresh-baked at 11:50 PM
Wanksgiving Statistics

En Route to Philadelphia Area

Number of:

  • People at Penn Station (excluding me and the DOG): 16,422,019
    • Whose deaths I dreamed of facilitating: 16,422,019
    • Who needed to acquaint themselves with soap: 1,800,247
    • Who bumped into me: 13,011,582
      • Whom I directly and loudly addressed as "asshole": 1

  • People on the train to Trenton: N/A

  • People at Trenton train station: 10,822
    • Who stuffed their faces at Roy Rogers: 4,125
    • Whose deaths I dreamed of facilitating: 10,822

At Mom and Dad's

Number of:

  • People at the house (including me and the DOG): 6
    • Whose deaths I dreamed of facilitating: 1
  • Times I described turkey as "carnage": 82

  • Servings of string bean casserole I had: 520

Amount of:

  • Fun I had: scads!

On Way Home to New York

Number of:

  • People at Trenton train station: 7,104
    • Who said to me, "Kiss my ass": 1
      • Whose deaths I dreamed of facilitating: 1
  • People at Penn Station: 521
    • Whose deaths I dreamed of facilitating: 0
      • Whose deaths I couldn't fantasize about facilitating because I was still stewing over the one bastard who said to me, "Kiss my ass" at Trenton train station: 521

Home Sweet Home

Number of:

  • Times I hugged my cat and dog: Still counting
  • Times I've actually given "thanks" for being back here: Still counting
  • Ways I've come up with to facilitate the death of Mr. Kiss-My-Ass: Still counting
fresh-baked at 11:42 PM
Fowl Play

Notes from Penn Station:

  • If you can afford train fare, you probably live somewhere that includes some sort of bathing facility. Unless, of course, the pervasive stench isn't coming from your flesh but from a huge Italian hoagie/sub/hero stashed in your coat pocket as a snack before embarking on your Thanksgiving gorge-a-thon.

  • It's cold today, but really ... a fur coat? Come on. This is not the tundra. You are not Jack London. You are a yenta.

  • You're not going anywhere fabulous. Really. Knock it off. The only trains that are leaving in the next hour or so are not going to any wonderful destinations, so stop pretending you're doing some serious travel. This is Amtrak and New Jersey Transit. This is not the Orient Express. Chances are your destination is some somnolent suburb, where you'll engage in conversation with your family for half an hour before getting into a fight, the food will not come out as great as you expected, the pie you brought will just plain ol' suck, but you'll wind up eating too much anyway (and hating yourself tomorrow), and someone will wind up pissed off in the den ignoring everyone else, and then, at the end of all the excitement and glamour of the day, there'll be dishes to wash and asses to kiss so you can make sure you're invited back for Xmas, the next stop on the holiday tilt-a-whirl.

More to come later (maybe), so check back when you're pretending to nap in the spare bedroom as a ploy to get out of helping with the dishes.

fresh-baked at 04:20 PM
Wednesday, 27 November 2002

I just realized that on this, the eve of Tx-giving, I haven't shared with the public any of the countless reasons why I'm thankful. I mean, everyone else is doing it, and you know how I hate to be left out, how I love to be part of everything and be where the action is. That's just the kind o' gal I am. So from now until the end of the day, I am going to list things for which I am thankful, not in a general sense, i.e. I'm thankful for a roof over my head and shoes on my feet and I'm thankful I'm not ugly, but things that happen today, and at the specific time they gave me reason to be thankful.

Keep checking back, because, as I said, I will be adding to this list throughout the day. (Just in case you weren't "listening", damn you. You should be thankful you have eyes and that you can read.)

Today I am thankful for the following:

  1. 8:05 a.m.: I am still alive. And kicking. (High kicks, like a showgirl.)

  2. 10:02 a.m.: Although I am out of Splenda packets, I have a vast quantity of "loose" Splenda.

  3. 10:03 a.m.: Coffee.

  4. 12:26 p.m.: The conscientious, strapping young buck at Best Buy who not only directed me to the blank videotapes but who walked me there himself, after his co-worker just blithely flung his hand in the general direction of "somewhere over there, I believe" when I asked him first. I am also thankful to myself for describing the first guy to the second as "the guy over there [and I indicated rather precisely] with the long braids who's too busy having the time of his life laughing and cavorting with his buddy to take the time to do his job properly".

  5. 2:18 p.m.: At long last, I have finally weaned the greedy parasitic twin sprouting from my right side. And it's so cute. Already he's asked for "punkin pie"!

  6. 4:06 p.m.: The dry cleaner was able to get that mysterious weird-tasting stain out of my Miles Standish costume. I love same-day service!

  7. 5:28 p.m.: Alexander Graham Bell. Because Morse Code is only effective if the menu you're using to "order in" features a handy alpha-numeric system.

  8. 10:18 p.m.: Not only will I commune with thousands of my brothers and sisters of the Universe at Penn Station tomorrow morning, but I will be afforded the rare opportunity to become better acquainted with quite a few of them when too many of us are shoehorned into a train ill-equipped to handle the load, and standing-room-only takes on a whole new dimension when the husky musky man pressed behind me decides to try out the latest in frottage techniques.

  9. 11:29 p.m.: I am #2 on a Google search for the word "because". Yes, second in a list of more than 88,300,000. I am thankful, in advance, to whomever rubs out the #1 placeholder so that I can rise to the top, the whey I should. (I would make a hideously "un-PC" remark about one JAP displacing another, but that wouldn't be nice. No. It wouldn't. So I won't.)

fresh-baked at 01:08 PM
Quick Question

If you have a pair of stretchy yoga-type pants that you occasionally happen to fall asleep in, and that accidental falling asleep thing takes place in an actual, bona fide bed (the one that is home to the stuffed animal menagerie), and if you wear those pants outside the comfort of your own abode and venture out onto the city streets so clad, does that mean that you are walking around town in your pajamas?

Just wonderin'.

fresh-baked at 10:39 AM
Tuesday, 26 November 2002
Voila! Viola!

You'll never guess who I just saw on the street? Broadway, just south of 18th, on the east side?

Him! What's his name! That ... that ... that ... guy!

I couldn't believe my eyes! I'd seen him on stage recently, with my fabulous and gorgeous new sidekick, where we both ogled his leather-encased thighs and his general Latinosity, and swooned at the way he manipulated his electric violin, but here he was, not two feet away from me — yes, in leather pants, and yes, it was he because I could identify him even with his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, just by his strangely sexy slightly gap-toothed smile — arm in arm with some chick also clad in leather pants ... yet I said nothing!

I have spoken to him in the past, I have exchanged grins with him, and I think even hugged him, but for the life of me all I could think was, It's Juan de Jesus Lickmyviola! Oh my god, it's Juan de Jesus, yes, Lickmyviola! That Juan de Jesus! Lick ... my ...

... viola.

But of course that's not his real name, it's the name we gave him that makes me giggle like a 12-year-old, and by the time I remembered his real name, he was more than half a block away, completely unaware that my head was host to a feverish struggle to remember what the hell his real name was so I could act all cool about running into him on the street.

Instead, the whole way home, I hummed to myself, Juan de Je-su-u-uuuss ... lick ... my ... vi-i-i-o-o-o-laaaa....

Reeeeal smooth.

fresh-baked at 03:20 PM
Snow Way


fresh-baked at 10:00 AM
Bears Repeating

Sometimes I leave comments on other people's sites that I think bear repeating out of context. I present to you three comments I've left in the past few days that were, of course, pertinent to the posts to which they were appended but which I think can stand on their own two feet:

  • I purposely linger in the restroom when I sense that someone's holding out and waiting for me to leave. I love knowing that her bladder is ready to burst and three gallons of pee are about ready to stream from her eyes like tears.

  • Help me. I feel faint. Two of my least favorite words in the entire English language in one post. And not just in one post but juxtaposed into a phrase that makes me retch. "Vaginal discharge".

    Thank god you didn't include my runner-up least favorite two-word phrase of all time: "Sensible shoes".

    We'd be talkin' cardiac arrest, if so.

    I have to lie down.

  • Tofu, of course! It comes in its own box.

    (Yes, that sounds salacious.)

Note: If by "bears repeating" you thought I meant this, you are definitely in the wrong place.

fresh-baked at 08:22 AM
Monday, 25 November 2002
Dear Readers: Miss me? Yours

Dear Readers:

Miss me?

Yours truly,

fresh-baked at 11:22 PM
Ring My Bell

Yes, I was the pert 'n' perky "ding dong" who jubilantly rang the bell this afternoon after receiving excellent customer service at Chase Bank. Thanks, José!

It was all I could do not to swipe this bell, along with another one at from a teller's window, shove them down my shirt, position them just so on my chest, and then run up and down Sixth Avenue dinging my metallic rack, shouting out all sorts of praise for the excellent customer service I received and occasionally inviting passersby to ring my bell.

Ahh, the thrill of the Chase!

fresh-baked at 10:01 PM
Sin is In!

No matter how clean my apartment is — even if I've just spent hours (ahem) scouring and scrubbing and wiping (and crying) getting it that way — I am always compelled to apologize for "the mess" when someone visits. It's the equivalent of spending an inordinate amount of time assembling an outfit and then saying, "Oh, this old thing?" when someone compliments it.

And no matter how much I work out and how amazing I look (and oh god, I do! I'm fabulous!), when someone tells me so, I automatically say, "No no no, I'm a fat fucking piece of shit."

Well, it's got to stop. And it's going to.

The cleaning and coordinating and working out, that is.

Yes, I've decided to just let it all go. After sitting myself down and giving myself a good, stern talking to, I've decided that it's entirely too much effort to maintain my current level of fabulousness. I place way too much emphasis on having a comfortable, warm, inviting home; looking picture-perfect even when leaving the house just to mail a letter; and maintaining a ridiculously healthy, fit 'n' trim body.

So without further ado, I am not only going to indulge in sloth, but embrace it! The possibilities are endless!

However, I must find a way to retain Pride in the face of Sloth. It won't be easy, but I'm up for/to the challenge.

Stay tuned.

Next Up: Greed.

fresh-baked at 08:39 AM
Sunday, 24 November 2002
Two Words

If there's one thing I hate more than the holidays themselves, it's hearing this time of year referred to as "the holidays".

Oh, and I hate "Bah, humbug" too.

Feh. Kaka.

C'est tout.

Pour maintenant.

Good night.

fresh-baked at 11:35 PM

When inching your way along the sidewalk (or pavement, if you will) (or even if you won't) (really, it's up to you) with your cohorts, please be sure that you position yourselves so that all of you form a wall of flesh so impenetrable and slow-moving that no other pedestrians can get past you and your lardian lummoxy lumbering.

Please note that the sidewalk is not, as commonly believed, a public space, but your own private playground, so your absolute oblivion is not only welcome but encouraged.

Bonus: For even more effective clogging, and in order to inhibit anyone else from enjoying their pavement privileges, be sure to take a much-needed, sudden break from your soporific shambling and stop en masse. If you even notice that those whose progress you have prohibited (and chances are you don't) are cursing you and calling you a variety of choice names, give those people only the dirtiest looks. After all, they clearly don't know that the universe does revolve around you.

fresh-baked at 05:07 PM
Saturday, 23 November 2002
Backward Progression

Here are the first few thoughts that entered my mind when I saw this helpful tip on the side of a Budget moving van a few days ago:

Thought #1: "Packing tape, my ass. This is just salacious, damn it. Fabulous!" I immediately pictured this van caked with grime, and some enterprising artistic young ruffian drawing in the dirt, with his finger, a third stick-figure guy doing something even more potentially painful to the hapless guy on the right.

Thought #2: "You know, there's some fucking jackass out there who would actually do that [what's pictured on the van]."

Thought #3: "Will Budget be held harmless against any damages that could arise when some dolt actually does something with packing tape as a result of having seen it depicted on the side of the van? Or does its humorous warning serve as a disclaimer? Is that disclaimer sufficient?"

Thought #4: "I wish the van were dirty right now. And no one was looking."

fresh-baked at 05:15 PM
Friday, 22 November 2002
Lights Out

A few days ago, I had to do without electricity in my apartment for an entire evening. Thus, I was forced to stay away from bad TV and the internet. What was a girl to do? Snack? Eat everything in the refrigerator and freezer before it had an opportunity to rot and/or melt?

I decided to leave the refrigerator and freezer doors shut, to keep their respective cold and freezing intact as much and as long as possible. Because the gas was also turned off, I couldn't salvage anything by cooking it. (There's a joke in there somewhere about salvaging my cooking, but I don't feel like digging around for it.) Visions of heating everything in the microwave danced in my head (sugarplums not quite in season yet) until I realized, brilliantly, that ... the ... microwave ... uses electricity.

So I did what any pioneering Jewess on the prairie does: lit candles and suffered in silence. Tea lights, tapers. If I'd had those wacky birthday candles that automatically relight when someone tries to blow them out, I'd've lit them too and thus I wouldn't have had to worry about entertaining myself for the rest of the evening, given that the candles' fun is built-in.

One thing I didn't want to do, though, at least insofar as illumination was concerned, was light the "good" candles. The fancy candles. The special, pretty ones that I've had displayed in various candlesticks, candelabra, and holders for years. (And no, none of them are shaped like kittens. Don't get me started on whimsical candles. Please.) Waiting, like "good china", for some special occasion.

But what "special occasion"? A romantic interlude with my true love, Johnny Depp? An evening photo shoot conducted by Architectural Digest? Dinner with the Queen? (She does look lovely by candlelight.)

"Oh no, I can't use it," I said, eying the huge candle that would certainly last longer than any of the tens of tealights I was considering.

And then I used it.

And wouldn't you know it ... Johnny Depp appeared!

So the moral of the story is this: Use your "special occasion" stuff no matter what. Don't wait. Any occasion can be special. Isn't that pretty?

Oh, and another moral of the story is this: Don't eat re-frozen Soy Dream.

Oh yeah, and this: Con-Ed blows.

The End.

Fade to black ...

fresh-baked at 10:45 AM
Thursday, 21 November 2002
Type O!

I was just made aware (by yours truly) that in yesterday's entry entitled "Anticipation", I spelled corpse as "corpose".

Please please please tell me you didn't notice.

Don't you love how I have to point it out? Like, if I had a — gasp! — blemish, I would have to mention it before anyone else noticed it.

(I said "if". I am, of course, flawless.)

(Other than that typo.)

fresh-baked at 10:45 PM
The Last Laugh

When you go to a comedy show, make sure you slap your leg (knee or thigh preferred; calf and shin discouraged). Often. And loudly. Clap your hands too. But not as you do for regular applause. Rather, do it slowly and have your hands approach one another from a distance that is longer than your body is wide. Occasionally yell out "Wooo!" because you're just so overcome with joy and are so in the moment.

While you're at it, make sure you laugh at everything the comedian says, not just the stuff he's prepared especially for that purpose. When he greets the audience with a simple "hello", guffaw. When he delivers his carefully planned spontaneous ad libs, don't forget to lean forward from the waist and allow your mouth to burst open as if you've had too much to drink and have to relieve your system of some of that alcoholy goodness.

Wipe your eyes, too. Oh, the tears! And occasionally say, "It's so true, it's so true," and nod your head in recognition. If you're feeling particularly plucky, throw in a "That is so funny!" from time to time for good measure. Because your display alone doesn't quite convey that message.

Tip: If you're an amazingly unattractive woman and this is your one big night out in who knows how long, and you've saved up all your belly laughs and guffaws just for this occasion, make sure you pack a toothbrush in your nylon fanny pack. Because when you and you alone laugh during a lull, no matter how brief, in the laff-a-rama, the comedian will instantly recognize you as that Special Someone he's been waiting for all his life and ask you to accompany him back to his hotel room or apartment after the show is over. (And yes, when he looks out into the audience, he is looking right at you.)

fresh-baked at 06:32 AM
Wednesday, 20 November 2002


This afternoon, for three hours, two women in white lab-type coats emptied 70 ketchup bottles and quite a few ketchup packets onto a blue tarp in an empty fountain in Madison Square Park.

"Why did you do that?" I asked, anticipating some sort of long-winded artistic, pretentious explanation.

"Because we wanted to," they answered, smiling and laughing, and disposed of the tomato-y corpse in a trash can.

fresh-baked at 05:07 PM
Tuesday, 19 November 2002
Cursed Cursors

I ask you: What's so wrong with a standard default cursor?

Why must I be assaulted by all manner of clever cursors running amok on the internet? Why do the people who use them do so?

Why must stuff like this — http://www.lionlounge.com/index.htm — exist? (I don't want to link directly to it, so if you're curious enough, you'll cut 'n' paste.)

And for fuck's sake, stop it with the little sparkly clocks that follow the cursor across the page.

It's not so much to ask. I don't ask for much. (Well, I do, but shut up.)

fresh-baked at 11:01 AM
Romper Room

I always thought there was some kind of special training or program a person had to go through before he could be hired as a personal trainer at a gym. I thought a prospective trainer had to at least know the basics of physiology or body mechanics or whatever it's called when you know the way the various parts of the body work in conjunction with one another. But apparently I was mistaken. Apparently a personal trainer doesn't have to even know his own ass from a hole in the ground. All he has to know how to do is count to 12 or 15 (loudly) and clap his hands.

My gym could save a lot of money by hiring kindergarteners. I hear they'll work for Play Doh and a sip-it box of juice.

And believe it or not, they'd be better mannered.

fresh-baked at 08:48 AM
Monday, 18 November 2002

demon seedIf you know me in "real life", you know I have this "thing" about babies playing with their own feet. I don't think it's cute. It makes me cringe. It's about as "awww"-inspiring as when they take off their own diapers and run around the house, the way the latest Huggies (or Pampers) (I don't know which one) commercials tell me they do.

So I suppose I'm posting this adorable animated gif as a way of punishing myself. I don't know what my transgression is or was, but it must've been a fucking doozy.

fresh-baked at 02:17 PM
Me, Myself, Why?

Why do some people, when referring to themselves, use the business letter closing "yours truly"?

Curious Person: Who was at the party, Desmond?
Jackass: The usual motley crew. Jasper, Caroline, that guy we call Viper, and yours truly.

You know what? From here on out, I plan to refer to myself as, alternately, "best regards", "sincerely", "best wishes", "respectfully yours", or, the ultimate, "cordially".


P.S. "Myself" would not be a proper substitute for "yours truly" in the above example. Just in case you were wondering.

fresh-baked at 08:54 AM
Sunday, 17 November 2002

Listen. If I'm in a "mood" and I say I hate everyone and everything and that I really would love everyone and everything to shrivel up and die or just explode or implode or disappear immediately in a variety of ways, methods, and modes, please don't tell me to smile or cheer up, OK? Smiles are not umbrellas. And that thing about making lemonade? Well, you don't even want to know what I think about that. (Really, you don't.)

Don't chuckle and say it must be "PMS" or "hormones". Don't say it must be "that time of the month" or I must be "on the rag". Don't ask me if I know if there's a full moon or not. Don't ask me what crawled up my ass and died. All of those options are way too banal, trite, hackneyed, and a thousand other words that you can find in your thesaurus.

Don't tell me "this too will pass", because, believe me, I know. It always does. And then it always comes 'round again. I know. I've been there. And back.

Just so you know.

fresh-baked at 09:46 PM
Slice of Life

Should these two fine fellas just be charged with hairy-ass-ment?

fresh-baked at 04:15 PM
Let's talk about sets

I hate "sets". I abhor when things match. I particularly detest earring-and-necklace sets. So prim, so fussy. So unimaginative. You can buy the set; just don't wear the pieces as an ensemble.

Sets just look too careful. Too studied and well-mannered.

I have never bought a "set" of dishes. At most, I buy two of something and "mix and match". Homogeny irks me. As does symmetry.

I once went into a friend's apartment, and above his fireplace, he had two identical sconces, one on either side of four framed pictures (all of the same size) that were divided into sets of two each. Everything was sedately and precisely lined up. It gave me a headache. I had to almost sit on my hands to keep myself from rushing over to the pictures and tilting one so it would ruin the perfect alignment.

I like things hodge-podge. Mish-mash. Pastiche. Patchwork. (I'd say "eclectic", but that word has been tainted by its over(ab)use in desperate personal ads.)

Perfection rankles me. I prefer to be among things (and people) that (who) are off-center, slightly askew. "Off".

Give me Isabella Rossellini and her slightly crooked front teeth. Sophia Loren and her face that, when examined feature by feature, isn't classically "beautiful" but when regarded as a whole is spectacular.

Because "perfect", to me, isn't.

fresh-baked at 03:22 PM
The good ol' daze

Many of you may not know this, but I was a huge internet presence in 1997! That was so long ago that many of you were probably not even born yet!

If you don't believe me, check it out here.

I'd tell you to ignore the frightening background and other garbage, but you just can't.

And yes, the bad design (frames, et al.) was on purpose.


fresh-baked at 02:10 PM
Saturday, 16 November 2002
Anthropomorphism in Action

OMWHFTGTM (c'mon, you can figure it out) (it's pronounced "ahm-hwhift-GIT-um", accent on the third syllable; if placed on the first, it means something entirely different that isn't appropriate for my demographic), I saw a pinkish-orange rose lying in the rain on the wet pavement, its petals splayed every which way like the limbs of a fresh murder victim awaiting a chalk outline. I wanted to take a picture of it, but decided it would be too trite. "Oh, look. It's symbolic somehow, in a way that I can't quite identify. But it's, like, pretty and sad at the same time."

I wanted to take a picture of the Empire State Building in the rain, its hypodermic needle disappearing into the flesh of the fog, but that seemed trite too.

I didn't see any dead umbrellas lying, mangled and twisted, in the street or in any trashcans, their curved handles resembling the necks of strangled ducks hanging in a Chinatown window. I was glad, because I knew that if I did, I would remember that day in the late spring of this year when the umbrella I was carrying blew out one too many times, and I yelled at it, "That's it! I've had it with you!", and before I knew it, I was actually wrestling with it, choking it, twisting its neck until it could no longer gasp, and discarded its broken and bruised body into the nearest trashcan. OMWHFTGTM (the second "T" is different here — again, figure it out), I walked home along a different route, because I knew that if I passed by the trashcan and the umbrella was still in there, I would get all sad and have to rescue it and bring it home to live with the three or four other crippled umbrellas in the front closet.

I was reminded of the chair/stool I found back in January, which every day thanks me for rescuing it, even though its sole function is to hold the throw pillows I remove from the bed before I go to sleep. (Hey, it's still a function. If it weren't for the chair, the pillows would be on the floor, which would definitely piss them off.)

And it all conspired to compel me to "share" this cartoon, which is so "me" I can barely stand it.

I told you I love french fries.

fresh-baked at 11:00 AM
Friday, 15 November 2002
Drop the Baby

When someone has a baby, and another person asks, "What did you have?", why does the mother (or father) say, "We had a baby boy [or girl]!"?

Why do they have to include the word "baby"? Is it necessary? What ... do some wacky women give birth to adults? Isn't it enough to just say, "We had a boy" or "We had a girl"?

Drop the "baby", I say. (Only figuratively, of course!)

fresh-baked at 09:26 PM
Drop the Baby

When someone has a baby, and another person asks, "What did you have?", why does the mother (or father) say, "We had a baby boy [or girl]!"?

Why do they have to include the word "baby"? Is it necessary? What ... do some wacky women give birth to adults? Isn't it enough to just say, "We had a boy" or "We had a girl"?

Drop the "baby", I say. (Only figuratively, of course!)

fresh-baked at 09:26 PM
Comic Relief

When Robin Williams is a guest on a talk show, why can't he just walk out on stage, sit the hell down, and talk? Is there an unwritten law somewhere — or is it actually written on some stone tablet like a Commandment — that he has to do his schtick/schpiel/thing constantly, like a painful run-on sentence, with no relief or punctuation in sight?

fresh-baked at 09:39 AM
Comic Relief

When Robin Williams is a guest on a talk show, why can't he just walk out on stage, sit the hell down, and talk? Is there an unwritten law somewhere — or is it actually written on some stone tablet like a Commandment — that he has to do his schtick/schpiel/thing constantly, like a painful run-on sentence, with no relief or punctuation in sight?

fresh-baked at 09:39 AM
Thursday, 14 November 2002
Facial Profiling

A few years ago, I was friends with this guy — we'll just call him Steve — whom I actually met via the internet. The story of how we actually met isn't that interesting, so I won't relay it here. (It involves a newsgroup about step aerobics. I'm sure you're shocked.) I thought he was the bee's knees, the cream of the crop, and, alternately, the cat's meow and pajamas. He adored me and insisted on bestowing upon me not only names that included a variety of royal titles but an array of fabulous gifts as well.

I flew out to see him quite a few times (he lived several states away to the west), and he actually drove out to see me quite a few as well, each time bringing me more fantastic gifts. And when he wasn't actually presenting them to me in person, he was sending them to me via some sort of express mail service. One time he even sent me, overnight, six dozen of the most outrageously mouth-watering homemade (by him, of course) chocolate-chip cookies ever to grace the planet. Yes, he was "all that" and a bag of chips. Chocolate ones.

He was a fantastic cook (vegetarian), an amazing writer, a great athlete, and possessed a cruel wit that I found utterly priceless. He couldn't dress for shit, though, but with a little effort he could have been quite sharp. All he needed was a few trips to Kenneth Cole, Banana Republic, and a few other black/gray stores, and he would've been set.

We were the best of friends for a couple of years. Because of the physical distance between us, we communicated quite a bit by Instant Message and email. We were prolific like you couldn't imagine. I think he's the only man I've ever met who could type as fast as I can.

We "should" have been a perfect match, but for some reason it just never worked for us. The physical/romantic thing didn't work. I tried to be attracted to him "that way", but it just didn't happen. He was in love with me and thought I was the most gorgeous, amazing, fabulous woman in the world (he showed exceedingly good [and accurate] taste), but it wasn't enough.

It wasn't enough because I found him physically unappealing. No, he wasn't fat at all (in fact, he had been OBESE, but had lost close to 100 pounds through diet and exercise and was extremely fit when I knew him) and he wasn't hirsute and he didn't have a deformed parasitic twin growing out of his side who spouted off comical one-liners. It's just that I couldn't look at his face full-on.

In profile, he looked very cute. He had a good nose, a strong chin, a fine brow. So when we were in a car, and he was focused on the road in front of him, I would actually think, "Hmmm, he's quite good-looking!" and would even sometimes act accordingly. I daresay I'd be coquettish (or as coquettish as is possible for me). But then he would turn to face me and the spell would be broken.

I don't know what the deal was. How could the nose and chin and brow that all looked so lovely in profile conspire to look so different when faced head-on? I just don't understand.

Walking beside him, I was fine. It was only when he would turn to face me that the revulsion set in. Imagine how much of a struggle it was to always position myself so that only his profile would face me. And here he probably thought I was trying to be romantic at restaurants by insisting that we sit on the same side of the table. Bah.

Anyway, he turned out to be a total liar about way too many important things (no, I won't say what), so my feelings for and about him did a total "about face". Now none of it really matters anymore, does it?

And you know what ... I make you a bet he didn't even bake those cookies.


fresh-baked at 11:57 AM
Wednesday, 13 November 2002
Kook's Korner

All right. I need your help, kitchen wizards. I bought the following delicacies at Whole Foods this afternoon:

  • black grapes
  • whole wheat lavash
  • one pound 15 ounces of extra-firm tofu
  • cheddar cheese
  • soy creamer
  • Tom's of Maine "Cinnamint" toothpaste

What kind of sumptuous snack can I prepare using all of these items, and these items only? (I don't eat cheese, so also suggest something that will be just as delicious without it.)

P.S. There was (is?) a cooking show (I think on the Food Network?) based on this premise. Can anyone tell me what it was called? I'll know it if I hear it. The first person who correctly names the show wins a prize!

fresh-baked at 02:37 PM
Choc Full o' Fun

Dulce & Flabbonya

Yes, it's that time again, gluttons. This weekend is the Fifth Annual Chocolate Show here in Manhattan. So circle it in chocolate on your chocalendar and get ready to choc 'n' roll.

Roll out of Metropolitan Pavilion, that is. Because you know you won't leave without having sampled everything and bought chockablocks of choco goodness like there's no chocomorrow. Like Hallowe'en wasn't just three weeks ago and you haven't had your fill.

But where else, really, are you going to see a dress made of chocolate (designed, perhaps, by Dulce & Flabbonya)? Or hear people proudly declaring themselves "chocoholics" (uggh)?

I, of course, will not go. The line is way too daunting, and I refuse to stand in line for almost anything, including chocolate. If I really must have chocolate, I'll just indulge my craving at Fauchon or Teuscher. And you'll know I'm truly desperate if you find me in the candy aisle at CVS or Duane Reade, trying to calculate just how many KitKats it will take to make myself a nice little chocofrock.

fresh-baked at 08:16 AM
Tuesday, 12 November 2002
Domestic Goddesslessness

All right, so I may not be a "domestic goddess" and know how to do all sorts of household stuff. Or, OK, so maybe I know how to do it but I just don't like it. That's closer to the "deal". Yes, I know how to cook and can make some pretty incredible dishes, including a risotto with leeks and porcini mushrooms that an old beau who lived part-time in Tuscany deemed the best risotto he'd ever had. Yes, I can even bake too, in a real oven that isn't powered by a lightbulb. White and dark chocolate macadamia brownies to die for. Or at least worthy of suffering some sort of seizure for.

I have no idea, though, how to go about painting walls, refinishing furniture, sewing my own (or anyone else's) clothes, and a whole host(ess) of other domestic activities/tasks. The last time I sewed anything more than a button was in seventh grade, when my home ec teacher praised me on my innovative way of using corduroy so the wales were horizontal on the stunning camel-colored wrap skirt I'd created.

I don't do crafts. I cringe in stores like "Michael's". I don't make wreaths. (Which is OK because I detest them.) I don't own a glue gun. I don't BeDazzle.

I do none o' that stuff at all.

But I'm really good at coming up with ideas for inventions that I think the world needs now. Necessity is the mother of invention, as "they" (whoever they are) say, and I've got a need that requires attention, Mama. Hence, my latest invention idea; this: a sort of Band-Aid® for the roof of the mouth. I need one now. A couple of days ago I scraped mine with something (tofu can be so menacing), and now my tongue keeps prodding it and poking it and rolling around on it. And I can't stop.

By this time tomorrow, I imagine this tiny surface scrape will expand, courtesy of my tongue's insistence, into a bloody cavern, and I expect to feel my tongue curiously and tentatively making its way to the edges of my brain. I'm wondering what that will taste like. (Chicken, perhaps?) (UnChicken?)

If I were handier with a needle and thread, I'd just go in there right now, and zip zip zip, put a few stitches where they're needed. And add a pretty button while I was at it.

Oh, to be domestically inclined!

fresh-baked at 01:08 PM
Rebel Y'all

Upon leaving a certain exercise venue just moments ago, I heard myself say this: See y'all later.

I am ap'palled. Who or what have I become? Who do I think I am? I am not even remotely Southern, and the only time I was in the South was on a layover in Atlanta years ago.

So what's up with the "y'all"? What's up with the Southern belle thing?

I'll have to think long and hard about this over my lunch of collard greens and black-eyed peas.

fresh-baked at 11:23 AM
Monday, 11 November 2002

Last week (Wednesday? Thursday? 3fo2.x&4-ui%.day? I don't know; they're all a blur!) I went to the New York Public Library to see the "New York Eats Out" exhibit. I highly recommend it.

What I don't recommend, however, is that if you go, you stand so close to the person next to and ahead of you that she can almost feel the peach-fuzz of your cheek against the smooth dewy flesh of hers. That person may, after all, turn to you and say, "Move! What, are you going to kiss me next?"

I also don't recommend that you press your sweaty palms against the glass of each display case in an effort to support your tonnage as you spend an inordinate amount of time feasting your eyes on the items behind the glass. I hate to break it to you, but no matter how much you fixate on the prices of desserts offered by Schrafft's circa 1946, the actual dessert is not going to magically materialize before your greedy eyes. Remember, just like at a buffet, you have to move on. And it's nice to leave something for everyone else in line. Otherwise, you may just find that when you lumber over to the next case to view the next part of the chronological display, one person whose progress you impeded earlier will feel the need to pretend she's poring over each detail, molecule by molecule, crumb by crumb, of every item in the case you wish to view.

And one more thing: You might also want to ditch the gum. No matter how much you think it's going to quell the appetite that merely perusing menus is stirring in your gut, it's just not going to work. Either is chewing the gum faster and faster and breathing heavier and heavier. Because you know that as soon as you leave, you're going to continue the day's culinary theme and seek some sort of relief. (P.S. No, I can't believe a sandwich used to only cost five cents, either.)

Just so you know.

N.B.: This was all just a little too reminiscent of my experience at an Oscar Wilde exhibit earlier this year.

fresh-baked at 09:46 PM

Don't be scared. The "cornhead" cartoon me at the top of the page is just temporary. Seasonal. For Thanksgiving. (You can see the "classic" me by placing your mouse over the cornhead image.)

After Thanksgiving, it will be on display in the fabulous Gallery, along with my recent Pumpkinhead incarnation (which alternately frightened and delighted so many of you).

So if you were expecting something turkey-related, well ... just go here instead.

Or just hang around here for a while and enjoy a nice warm piece of cornhead.

fresh-baked at 12:21 AM
Sunday, 10 November 2002

To KW: Passive-aggressiveness is so 2001. I suggest you try a different tactic. And while you're at it, you may want to update your wardrobe as well.

To Super Reek: Three miles in 19.34 minutes is fantastic, but so is washing your gym clothes. Your run may have knocked you out and taken your breath away, but all it took for me was inhaling the fetid, wet-sponge-stench of your clothing.

To the Elegant Tenants of Apartment 3F: Perhaps if you didn't leave an open trashbag in the vestibule, the UPS delivery attempt slip containing your apartment number wouldn't have accidentally fallen into it. Accidents do happen.

To PortlyBelly Mushroom: The camera can only be blamed for ten pounds, tops. Too bad it can't add inches, too, where they are desperately needed. Someone with your professed computer skills should certainly be familiar with the basics of Photoshop, right?

To Mr. and Mrs. X: She sells seashells by the seashore.

To You Know Who You Are: Yes, when I wrote this, I did have you in mind.

fresh-baked at 09:04 PM
Deli-Cut Flowers

Click for bigger gorgeousness

fresh-baked at 10:22 AM
Saturday, 9 November 2002
It's Lo-fficial!

So "J. Lo" (I can't write that without surrounding it by quotes) and Ben Affleck are engaged. Big fucking deal. I couldn't be more "over" them if I tried. I was over them the moment I heard there was a "them". In fact, I was over each of them individually a long time ago. And actually, I was never into either of them to begin with, so I guess I'm back where I started.

My original opinion of Ben Affleck still stands. He still needs a beating. (Add Lopez to the list.) And yes, so do I, for this confession, which I now officially retract.

fresh-baked at 11:09 AM
Friday, 8 November 2002

Heaven on Earth!

Is it really so wrong for a "grown woman" to be so completely in love and lust with french fries that she actually fantasizes about them at 5:53 p.m. EST? Is it wrong for her to occasionally do Google searches for images of french fries the way boys do for porn? Is there anything wrong about wanting to declare every Friday a special occasion, i.e. "Fryday"?

I want to celebrate!

fresh-baked at 05:57 PM
No-Skill Shelter

Well, what do you know ... I've been rejected. Turned down. Kicked out. Told, in no uncertain terms, that I am not welcome wherever the hell it was that I was taken yesterday! Apparently my snide remarks about not wanting to be caught dead in that horrendous outift and my refusal to eat the chicken in white sauce that was served for lunch were not appreciated by the rest of the group.

I knew I was in even more trouble when, after "luncheon" (they couldn't just call it "lunch", could they?), we all had to congregate in some sort of activity room, sit in a circle, and introduce ourselves. One by one, we were to stand up, say our name, and then tell everyone what our particular "skill" was. Apparently everyone there is supposed to know how to do something "useful".

The first woman, a real beauty named Sharon, stood up, nervously tugged her sweater down over an ass that had seen way too much white sauce in its day, and then whispered, "I can fold bottom sheets just as perfectly as they are in the package." She sat down quickly and stared at her hands, which would not stop shaking. Her announcement was met with almost thunderous applause and a great deal of laughter. The woman to her left pulled her into a hug.

Another woman, this one named Mrs. Miller, proudly informed the group that her skill was making needlepoint samplers that included whimsical sayings. "The one most folks like best is the one that says 'Bless This Mess'," she said, much to everyone's delight.

When it was my turn, I stood up, mumbled a fake name, and announced my skill.

"I'm sorry, Clarissa, but Pilates is not a skill," the woman who appeared to be the group's "leader" said, completely unimpressed. "What we're looking for is something useful. Do you make potato salad? Refinish old furniture? Garden? Do you own a glue gun?"

I sat down and crossed my arms defiantly over my lighthouse sweater, cursing gently under my breath.

"All right," she continued, struggling to identify my skill. "Can you replace drawstrings when they make their way out of, say, a sweatshirt or yoga pants?

Little did she know that just that morning I had finally gotten around to replacing the drawstring that came out of a pair of my own yoga pants last month. (I used a straw.)

"No," I said, feigning disappointment. "I can't."

The door didn't even have time to hit my ass on the way out.

fresh-baked at 09:48 AM
Thursday, 7 November 2002
Death, Part 2

A match made in heaven!

I was joined at that dumpy little diner by the fellow pictured above, who told me he would love to accompany me on the next leg of my journey. The only problem was that he wasn't quite dead yet, so it would be impossible. When I said, "But I thought you were dead," he laughed that inimitable laugh of his and gently reminded me not to even mention it, given what happened the last few times I questioned the status of someone's life. He shared some pie (apple crumb) with me, kissed me on the cheek, and the next thing I knew I was milling around the appliance department of what appeared to be Sears, marvelling over the latest features in refrigerator-freezers.

"Surely this must be hell," I thought.

But it turns out I'm still in limbo. And it really blows. First of all, they took away the chic ensemble I'd carefully selected for my trip, and replaced it with something even more hideous than the white sashed robe and soft-soled slipper-shoes that I envisioned. Apparently whoever is in charge of wardrobe here made some sort of deal with a tacky mail-order catalogue, because everyone is walking around wearing this, with matching capri pants, plastic button earrings, and 1" covered-heel pumps.

And now they're about to serve us a late lunch. How much do you want to bet there will not be a vegetarian option?

fresh-baked at 03:11 PM
Wednesday, 6 November 2002
Death Becomes Me

Oh no.

I thought the whole "three hours to live" thing (#10 in the preceding entry) was just a joke, but apparently it wasn't. So here I am. Like, dead and all. Great. This is wonderful. Fucking wonderful!!!

And no, I don't mean the actual place itself. It's absolutely nothing like the place where Albert Brooks wound up in Defending Your Life. It's not pretty, you can't eat everything in sight and not gain weight, and for the life of me I can't find Rip Torn OR Meryl Streep anywhere. In fact, it looks entirely too much like 14th Street, around Sixth Avenue. I'm not too thrilled.

So here I am stuck in this strange place that I can make neither heads nor tails of, and I don't know what to do. Because I only had three hours, I didn't really have time to make anything, and by the time I made up my mind to just go down to the Lower East Side for chocolate macaroons, rugelach, a few black-and-white cookies, and some hamentaschen (poppyseed and prune), I only had 45 minutes left before the Big Moment, and I still hadn't decided on what to wear. So I had nothing to bring. Rude, I know, but wouldn't it have been ruder to show up at death's door wearing something pedestrian, such as jeans and a turtleneck?

As it turned out, I found something appropriate in my closet, which was a godsend, given that I was not in the mood for shopping. I wore a black Armani pantsuit (Chinese-inspired jacket and slim, flowing pants), black boots (I'm sorry, but I couldn't do the "sensible shoe" thing, even though I suspected I'd be doing a lot of walking where I was going). All in all, a very elegant ensemble that travelled well but didn't look too casual.

So now here I am, waiting in what looks like a diner to meet my so-called "maker". And somewhere along the way I wound up with an aluminum foil-covered 13x9 Pyrex dish full of warm apple-raisin kugel and a note from my darling Bubby welcoming me.

I'll keep you posted. Someone just came in and is being led to my table.

Wish me luck!

fresh-baked at 03:09 PM
Tuesday, 5 November 2002
State of the Tart, Part B

This afternoon we received the remainder of the results from my recent tests. To say they shocked the pants off all of us here in the home office is a gross understatement (and, in the case of our 530-pound receptionist, just plain gross, especially considering she hasn't washed her pants since March 2001).

The following are the rest of the laboratory's findings:

  1. The elemental composition of my body (by weight) is not the standard 65% oxygen, 18% carbon, 10% hydrogen, and 7% other. Rather, I am composed of 80% cashmere, 10% silk, 6% cotton, and 4% other fiber. It is recommended that I cease taking showers and instead send myself out for dry cleaning (no starch, boxed).

  2. When I was a little girl, I was not made of sugar and spice and/or anything or everything nice. Instead, I was composed of Sweet 'n' Low, Chocks Chewables or Pez (the tests were inconclusive), and something akin to "nice" but decidedly less cloying.

  3. There is a 100% chance that I will audibly cringe upon seeing the word "naked" spelled "nekkid".

  4. My left hand is made entirely of marzipan, and not halvah, as was originally thought.

  5. My liver will secrete a liter of bile instantaneously if anyone tells me, or I just happen to overhear someone say, "I'm really just a big kid, myself."

  6. If an occasion should arise where I am handed a hammer, I will not hammer in the morning. I will also not do so in the evening, and certainly not all over this, or any other, land.

  7. When at a restaurant, if I go to the ladies room before the food arrives, there is a 92% chance that when I return, my plate will be waiting for me.

  8. There is, indeed, an apple tree growing in my stomach. The apples are, appropriately enough, tart.

  9. My Papa was, is, and always will be a rolling stone. And, as such, it should be noted that, true to his non-conformist nature, he refuses to gather moss. So don't even bother asking him to do so.

  10. I have three hours to live (and I received the test results 95 minutes ago).

My mamacita wants me to knock wood, but really, what good will come of it?

Pass me my pants, please. (Black, size 2, low-rider, flare-leg ... Thank you.)

Zei gezunt!

fresh-baked at 06:40 PM

If you don't, you can't complain!

fresh-baked at 12:59 PM
Office Space

classic elegance

Here's where it all happens, chil'en. Here's where Mama makes her magic every day and serves it up fresh to you. She's a very easygoin' lady, really, Mama is, happy with the barest of bare essentials. She don't need no fancy-schmancy whatnot or high-tech whozit. She's tough, she's hard-boiled, and she likes to be where the action is!

And no, don't worry, Mama don't need no chair. Why do you think she does all them there squats at the gym, anyway?

fresh-baked at 08:36 AM
Monday, 4 November 2002
On a Roll

Ever since I was kidnapped last week and subjected to an exhausting battery of tests (yes, more results are forthcoming, as promised!), I've been doing a lot of intense soul-searching. Rather than focusing on the shortcomings of those around me and getting all up in arms about improper uses of apostrophes, bad workout form, or slow-moving halfwits on Sixth Avenue who can't get it through their heads that the wet stuff that falls from the sky is the same stuff that comes out of their shower and that there's no need to panic, I've been turning my thoughts inward. I've been introspective. And today I finally confronted something that I've been avoiding for quite some time now. I've been shoving it aside, hoping I wouldn't have to actually address it, because it causes me almost palpable physical pain.

Here is what I discovered: No matter how much it would warm my heart, there is no way that Shana is ever going to accept an empty toilet-paper roll as a toy.

I don't know how many times I've tried to encourage her to play with one. No matter how excited I was to nudge the bare cardboard roll toward her with my foot in the hopes that she would realize how much fun it is to chase it around the apartment, she still doesn't express even the slightest interest. I'm crushed. But at least, in identifying this harsh reality, I've taken the first step.

And here I thought I wasn't "spiritual". Here I thought I was too concerned with the minutiae of daily life. Here I thought I was too focused on manicures, perfectly-fitting corduroys, and black turtlenecks. Here I thought that all that mattered to me was tofu, Pilates, and the gym. Iced coffee, "All My Children", and Pilates. Pilates, Pilates, and Pilates. Iced coffee. And Pilates.

Say hello to the new me!

fresh-baked at 02:24 PM
Sunday, 3 November 2002
Site Note

Several of my more stalkeresque ardent admirers wrote to me to lament the recent removal of the world-famous Pumpkinhead version of the cartoon "me" that watched over this site for a few weeks. Because I live to please my readers, I decided to re-incorporate that image, and it can now be found if you place your mouth over the regular (but ever chic) "me" at the top of the page.

Eventually, however, I may choose to replace the "mouse-over" image with something else. But fret not, Pumpkinhead fans. The image has now been given a permanent home in The Gallery, under the heading "Punky Jewster".

fresh-baked at 11:07 PM
Bedtime Snory

"I know what I'm going to do today!" I exclaimed joyously a few hours ago. "I'm going to read the books that I should finally return tomorrow!" (Yes, those books.)

And with that declaration, I skedaddled back here with the books, snuggled into the unmade bed next to my cat, and let the fun begin.

Here is a handy pie chart so you can visualize the progress I've made in the past three hours.

I'm so proud!

Wake me when it's over.

fresh-baked at 02:46 PM
Saturday, 2 November 2002
Bag Lady

This morning on the way home from the gym (quick question: how many of my entries have started this way?), I stopped at the vet's to pick up a bag of dog food (it's a delicious alternative to granola, if you add raisins and a few nuts), and cradled its 20-pound heft in my arms in order to easily transport it the third of a mile back to my digs.

Now, this is New York City, and no one should think twice about doing anything even slightly out of the ordinary, right? So why were tourists (and for some reason there were a lot of 'em out today around 10:00 a.m.) looking at me as if I were the wackiest chick this side of Margaret Cho?

"Oh, look. She's carrying a big bag of what I think is dog food!" one said. "And she's walking with it! Quick, take a pixture!"

"Please, no photos," I said. "If you'll just turn to your left you'll see a man dragging a huge wooden cross down Broadway. I'm not completely sure, but I think he may be that Christ fellow you hear so much about."

The cross guy is out all the time. I barely even notice him anymore. There's a woman who walks around with wings affixed to her back, even when it's not Hallowe'en. (Perhaps she removed them for that special occasion and just walked around with a backpack?) There's a lady with bright red lipstick smeared across her mouth the way a little girl would when playing dress-up. There's the semi-naked guitar-playing cowboy guy up by Times Square. And, of course, all manner of other freaks, lunatics, and sundry wackos.

There's also a trainer at the gym who I think is trying to do something to make himself stand out from the rest. I'm pretty sure he wants to be known as "That Crazy Trainer Who Wears Two Different Shoes". It would be endearing if only he were out of his mind. But because he is sane, it's not cute. It's annoying.

"Oh, look. You're wearing two different shoes!" someone no doubt has pointed out.

"Yes," he has probably responded. "And I have another pair just like it at home!"

Get the hook. Take his life, please.

So I was thinking. If walking while carrying a big bag of dog food can produce such a commotion, maybe I should make it part of my schtick. Maybe it can be my "thing". That one thing that sets me apart from all the wannabes, has-beens, and never-weres. Eh?

You see, I really want an affectation too. I think I can pull it off, given that the
tests I underwent earlier this week revealed that I am 72% "off my rocker" (that's the scientific term). What I want to do is lug that bag around town every day, without the benefit of a shopping cart or a stroller. I want to just cradle it in my arms the way I did today, occasionally dress it up in something cute (Baby Gap is fabulous!), and walk around town as yet another wacky, zany New Yorker.

What do you think of Mama's new bag?

fresh-baked at 10:48 AM
Friday, 1 November 2002
State of the Tart

Science is sexy!

Yesterday I was subjected to rigorous testing in a top secret laboratory somewhere about an hour outside the city, in order to come up with some conclusions about myself that otherwise I would never have been able to determine in the comfort of my own palatial digs. My own kitchen is equipped with one saucepan, a spatula (it's a nice one, though), and a Spaghetti Stick, so the likelihood of my having the newfangled equipment required to perform a battery of highly scientific tests was pretty low. Hence, the necessity of a fully equipped professional laboratory setting.

I was taken in an unmarked vehicle to a location I couldn't even disclose if I wanted to (I was, of course, blindfolded, earplugged, and gagged, and let me tell you, the ball was just a bit too big for my mouth), and, for about 12 hours, I was observed through one-way glass as I played with all manner of Fisher-Price® toys, filled in little black boxes of standardized test forms with a No. 2 Ticonderoga-Dixon pencil, and played this game. I was also subjected to a whole host of proddings and pokings and other manner of invasive procedures, both physical and psychological.

I've got to say that the results shocked me to my very core — which, by the way, is not chocolatey nougat, but the same exquisiteness found in the center of these. The following is a partial list of what was discovered.

  1. I am not a "people person". The chances of my ever being considered anything close are less than zero — a measurement that actually exists on the sensitive, carefully calibrated instrument used in the test.

  2. Big, fluffy/furry afro wigs, even when worn on Hallowe'en by highly original revelers, do not amuse me in the least. The scientists were astounded by the utter lack of visible reaction on my face when they paraded a seemingly unending line of the aforementioned revelers in front of me.

  3. Even under extreme duress, I will never say that something "rocks my world". The experts brought in Johnny Depp, not just once but twice, Gregory Peck,
    and the most gorgeous plate of Pad Thai to ever grace the planet, but still ... no.

  4. If a glass of iced coffee is placed on the floor by my feet, there is a 100% chance that I will kick it over, curse loudly and creatively, and, while running for paper towel to wipe up the mess, vow never to place another glass of iced coffee on the floor by my feet. There is also a 100% chance that the following day, the same situation will occur.

  5. I do not approve of strangers sweating on me, especially when the sweat travels through the air from its original host in order to reach my unsuspecting arm several feet away.

  6. I only condone the use of curse words if the person uttering them has an otherwise extensive vocabulary.

  7. I am not a fan of the current trend of wearing very very long scarves.

  8. Although I do not sanction the use of leather pants by most straight or non-black men, this fine young man can get away with it.

  9. At social gatherings and in all other situations where I can either participate in the actual activity or hang out with the "help" in the kitchen or anywhere else behind the scenes, I will choose the latter.

  10. I experience a violent physical reaction when some regular American schlub tries to affect an Irish brogue.

More results are forthcoming late this afternoon, at which time they will be published.

fresh-baked at 10:19 AM