To everyone who works in Joe's office:
Joe will be late getting in this morning. He mistakenly thought that somehow, despite his poor form and apparent lack of stamina, he would be able to outlast me on the treadmill. Perhaps he should have been warned that I was running ten miles. But I suppose I didn't seem like the kind of girl who could go the distance or who cared to compete, because I didn't seem interested in making a big deal out of a little incident that had occurred earlier that morning, when he and someone else were yelling across me to engage in inane conversation for at least five minutes, and I finally took off my earphones to tell them (politely!) that I could hear them even with the volume at its maximum.
You should know, further, that Joe is not going to be in the best of moods. A big spiteful infant like Joe is going to need to unleash his fury on someone, because, despite his best efforts to instigate a full-fledged fight by pointing out, after getting back on his treadmill after one of his trips to the water fountain, that people were going to trip over my coat (which I'd ensured, prior to my run, was not in anyone's way, behind the treadmill row), all he was able to get out of me was a simple, "Oh, you're just being a big fucking baby because I told you to be quiet earlier!"
But Joe is tenacious! What a whippersnapper! He pounced back! "So you have the mouth of a fucking fishwife, do you?"
Joe didn't like it when the little lady responded, "As much as you do, honey! Do not even TALK to me!" and threw up her hand in classic show-me-the-hand fashion, turned up the volume again, and blithely ignored the vomit stream of vitriol that I could see him spewing, via my right side peripheral vision.
You may be interested to know that you cannot trust your colleague Joe. He is a duplicitous schmuck. Although he had apologized earlier for speaking across me so loudly, he had clearly done so in an attempt to impress the girl he was talking to. Oh, that Joe! He's such a fox!
"We actually were rude," Joe had said with a rueful smile, dropping his contrite chinlessness into his chest. At that point, Joe was trying to impress me, too, with his joie de vivre and good sportsmanship. What a guy! If he was lucky, maybe he could bag two babes before breakfast!
I'd apologize for the disastrous, torturous day that Joe is going to inflict on you, but alas, I am not responsible for Joe's petty churlishness. I just hope he had time to scrub himself thoroughly, because he reeked of ingrained, baked-on sweat. His body stinks as much as his attitude.
Good luck today, dealing with this sour bastard. I have a feeling, though, that you're used to it.
"Outstanding presentation!" Taxi said with an appreciative nod as I placed the plate on the candlelit table. He removed his monocle to avoid steaming it up. "You outdid yourself!"
His only suggestion for next time: "Some greens, lightly sautéed. Broccoli rabe with a dash of extra virgin olive oil is lovely!"
My dinner? Kibble. With raisins!
... well, yes, this, of course.
But love is also a pound of extra lean ground sirloin, cooked in a pan with brown rice, and served to the dog (not the DOG) on a pretty plate in honor of his anniversary.
I cannot remember the last time I bought meat (other than shish kebab for Taxi, when he asked nicely and I realized I would be passing a street-cart anyway). I cannot remember the last time I handled it. (And here, boys, is where you wink at each other and indicate your own shrink-wrapped packages with a nod.) I know the last time I ate it was in 1979.
What makes this even more of an event is that I don't cook. (All of my food comes in special non-gelatin capsules or astronaut-like squeeze-paks.) I can cook, and quite well, I must admit. Taxi already knows. But I just don't do it.
Ahhh, the things we do for love!
Now, if you'll excuse me, I must consult with my sous chef. Enjoy not being able to get this song out of your head.
P.S. Yes, Shana will get some as well.
Three years ago today, my dog Taxi would spend his last night in a shelter. January 28, 2000 would be the last night he wouldn't have a family who would keep him forever, no matter what. Never again would Taxi know rejection. Or abandonment. Or abuse.
Starting the morning of January 29, 2000, he would know nothing but love, attention, and affection. Sometimes I tell my friends it's almost criminal how much I love this dog.
He was brought into the shelter the first time with his "brother" (the dog he lived with), a Pit Bull. (Taxi is a German Shepherd.) The people who brought him in came back for the Pit Bull, but not for him. Eventually someone, a student, did take Taxi home, but brought him back to the shelter because Taxi tore up his apartment.
The DOG found Taxi while searching online for another German Shepherd after Max, his gorgeous all-black German Shepherd and best friend of ten years, died on January 22, 2000. Taxi's name at the shelter was Max. It seemed like fate. Kismet. Luck. Or, as I like to think of it, like the first Max passed the baton (shaped like a bone, of course!) to the next.
We decided that we couldn't call the new dog Max. It would just be too sad. So we had to come up with something that wouldn't confuse the poor guy. Of course, that meant it had to rhyme. So I went through the alphabet (I'm smart that way!). Ax ... Bax ... Cax ... Iax ... Qax ...
"Tax!!!" I yelled, a modern-day Archimedes (without the messy bath water). It was perfect. The DOG, after all, was a tax lawyer (in addition to being a major Broadway producer). But that seemed just a little too obvious (like having TAX-ESQ on a vanity license plate), so I added an "i". Because everyone knows that adding an "ee" sound to the end of a name makes it cuter.
So "Taxi" stuck. And he's been sticking around with us ever since.
- 1970s: metric system
- 1980s: cable television
- 1990s: worldwide web
... I don't give a hoot/damn/fuck about football, so I couldn't care less about yesterday's Super Bowl. I don't care who won. I don't care about the famous hilarious commercials. ("They're the best part of the game!") The only part of the whole shebang that I saw at all was Shania Twain (pretty lady lip-synching in an ugly outfit!) and Gwen Stefani (spare me the Madonna-wannabe and accompanying bizarre cheerleaders). As soon as I saw/heard Sting, I had to leave the room. (It's not nice to vomit in front of your dog; it just puts ideas in his head.)
And just so you know ... YOU did not win the game, Happy Tampa Fans. So I don't want to hear any of this "we won" nonsense. You did not win. The team you cheered for until your temples throbbed did, but you, personally, did not. If you weren't at the game, you slouched on a stunning plaid sofa or slumped in a hideous easy chair, stuffing buffalo wings down your gullet, dipping chips and crackers into a disgusting concoction (shaped to look like a football!) that someone brought to the party, guzzling beer, belching, and cursing. If you were actually at the game, you did the same thing but outdoors and with even worse food. That's all.
Oh, and by the way, stop calling today "Super Bowl Monday". This isn't Easter.
It's over now. Touchdown. Woohoo. Whatever. Enough.
All right, already. Listen up, Miramax or Filofax or TJMaxx or AltoSax, or whatever your bigwig movie production company conglomerate whatzit whozit flotsam jetsam is called.
Knock it off already with the Haley Joel Osment knock-offs. His "I see dead people" line was overplayed before The Sixth Sense ever came out, and was about as fresh and thrilling as a rouged and lipsticked corpse by the time it finally did. He annoyed me from the get-go, both on-screen and off-, especially when interviewed and everyone was tickled all shades of pink at how grown-up the little three-namer was. All Hail Prince Haley!
Why do we need more of his kind? Wasn't he enough? In the past half year or so, we've had the little girl from Signs staring into the camera parroting, "There's-a-monster-in-my-room-can-I-have-a-glass-of-water" and then a little boy in that movie about the message on a VCR tape that kills anyone who views it ... and now some other little kid, all soft focus and innocent, soft-voiced and cloying, whispering yet another warning about yet another otherworldly experience that he or she is privy to because Children Will Lead the Way, a la some sort of Spielberg fly-away-with-me-n-ET throwback.
Oh, Movie Makers! Release the angel-haired, wide-eyed, overly-calm, child-messenger-seer-sages from their whispered pleas and warnings! Please please oh please just tell them to go off and play somewhere in the sunshine, away from VCRs and monsters.
If I hear one more repulsively cute child whispering a warning or delivering a message from a long-dead yet unsettled soul, I'm going to kill myself. And then, while I'm hanging around in limbo, I'll whisper not-so-sweet somethings into their shell-like ears when they're playing in a little fort in their bedrooms, and they'll magically appear in your living room one evening to serve you pea soup, a la Regan.
To Anyone Who Bought Glasses at Selima Optique This Afternoon Between 2:40 And 3:10:
You got ripped off. You were lied to.
Those blue-tinted sunglasses were not perfecto for your face, Señor Pelo Blanco Con Esposa Fea. You looked only slightly less pathetic than Jack Nicholson or Bono in their tinted atrocities. And you, Ms. Shopping Bags, were not look-at-me amazing in the untinted, clear plastic wraparound frames that looked suspiciously like the plastic that houses six-packs. Sure, we all know you bought them just to keep the wind out of your eyes (aha ha ha look around the store to see if anyone caught how clever you are) and not because you looked incredibly fabulous (the frames, again, so perfect for your face!), like the salesgirl said you did. Just like you propped those dead animal carcasses atop your head in a close approximation of a hat because you needed to keep your head warm.
Don't you know, you cretins, that if you have $1,750 to waste on a pair of glasses, the person who's selling them to you is going to tell you you look stunning in them, even if you really look like a cross between a retro soft-porn pimp and Elvis at his doughnut-bloated, white-jumpsuited absolute worst? That's also why no one dared tell you, Ms. Let Me Seriously Regard Myself In The Mirror, that you are not Jackie O.
Why weren't you as embarrassed for yourself as I was for you? Why couldn't/didn't you see what I saw? Are you really that myopic ... or truly blind?
Today's jury duty was considerably less painful than yesterday's. I was called to be in the first group, comprised of ten people from which only one would be chosen to fill an alternate juror spot.
Today, like yesterday, I only had to sit through one selection session. Unlike yesterday, however, this one did not last long enough for my boots to go out of style.
I liked Ms. H, the attorney for the defense, immediately. She was a very attractive young woman of indeterminate ethnicity. She had very dark longish hair (thick and well-managed) that she wore loose, and was dressed in an unstuffy black pantsuit and white shirt with cool shiny shoes. The bottom button of her jacket was unbuttoned, which, along with the shoes, showed she had some sense of style. I liked her even more by the time the session was over.
Mr. G was another story. As soon as he entered the room, I hated him. In a word, he was ... unctuous. He is the stuff that sleazy plaintiffs' attorneys are made of, which just so happens to be the same stuff that repels me in non-lawyer men. He was youngish. I will be generous and call him Napoleonic. He wore a big boy navy blue pinstriped double-breasted suit. Cuffed pants. Clunky cufflinks. A shiny tie and a mismatched "pocket square". (I detest those things. They reek of a certain stick-up-the-ass pretension of which I am not too fond.) His hair was very dark, rather curly, extremely oily, in need of a trim, and surrounded a bald spot that in three years will no doubt invade his entire scalp. His fingernails were very well-maintained. I was surprised that they were not painted with clear polish. I did not notice his shoes. I hated him even more by the end of the session.
The case was a "slip and fall". Someone tripped on a sidewalk and hurt her elbow. Four or fives years ago. I got out of this one by saying the following:
I think slip and fall is a bunch of crap. To the person who falls, I say the following: LOOK WHERE YOU'RE GOING!!!
Ms. H said, with a laugh, "Tell us how you really feel," which ordinarily makes me cringe (but I forgave her because she was purdy), and then quickly added, "No ... don't!" and laughed. She was very affable.
We all shared a hearty laugh.
All of us, except, I think, Mr. G. I didn't gauge his reaction. I think he was too busy trying to appear down-to-earth by perching himself on the edge of the desk/table which no doubt rammed the stick up his oily ass even further. I was surprised he didn't just slide off entirely.
The highlight of the day, however, was meeting and hanging out with two extremely hip and swingin' chicks: one from my little group today (whom I had noticed yesterday and thought looked very cool) and one from that girl's group yesterday. We went to lunch (they gave us an hour and 45 minutes today), came back to the waiting room, and were dismissed by 3:15.
As an additional treat, we were relieved of the third day of duty. What a, yes, relief.
Today's doodle, among others, was Taxi, tap-dancing. I daresay I emulated his fancy footwork on my way out of the Courthouse, as "Freebird", "I'm Free", and "Me and Bobby McGee" all swarmed around inside my head, each vying to displace "I'm A Yankee Doodle Dandy".
And yes, I was careful not to slip and fall down the Courthouse steps.
Do you know two phrases that I really hate? Yes ... you in the back, son.
Yes, yes I hate those. Fiercely. But they're not what I had in mind. Yes ... you, nice girl with the cashmere sweater tied around her shoulders. Yes?
Sheemeee wawa pooo kameeee hissssssssssssss? Plocky plock plick?
Well, yes. Those two make me see red as well. But no. Good answers, though, both of you. The phrases I detest are these:
- I'm like a kid in a candy shop.
- He's like a bull in a china shop.
Now, I know that the kid/candy shop thing is supposed to mean that the person saying it was wide-eyed with wonderment and glee, overwhelmed (in a good way) with the bounty being offered. I know it's supposed to be a positive thing. But what if you're a kid whose experiences in candy shops aren't quite the pink 'n' purple unicorn and rainbow swirl of sugary sensation that they are for the other kids? What if you're the kind of kid who cries when puppies approach, who sleeps with a nightlight on even for an afternoon nap, who's scared of the merry-go-round and has to cower on one of the little pussified benches rather than one of the big scary horses ... the kid who was somehow mishandled by a purple dinosaur or a big yellow bird in a candy store during a Grand Opening, and when he cried to his mother about how the Cookie Monster tried to grab his special cookies when no one was looking, well, she reached into the gummi worm bin (the SOUR gummi worms!) with one hand, pried his sticky mouth open with the other, and jammed as many of the gummis into his wailing maw while yelling, "No pasketti for YOU, tonight, little man!!!" What about that kid?
And as far as the bull in the china shop thing, well, that's just plain stupid. The one time I saw a bull in that kind of store, he was nothing if not downright elegant, right down to his top hat, monocle, and pocket watch. And you didn't see him stuffing dinner plates down his kid's throat, either.
Class is dismissed! (Oh, and take that sweater off your shoulders, Missy. That look never works.)
You've been sitting around all day, wondering, "Where is she? Why hasn't she fresh-baked anything for us today? This blows. I can't get through my day without her wit. And even though I don't know what she looks like, I can't survive without her beauty, either. What's going on? Doesn't she love us anymore? Has she died ... again??"
Well, no. I don't love you. That much you should already know. I never did, I never have, and chances are I never will. I'm "sorry", but that's just the way it goes.
And no, I didn't die. If you had any sort of memory retention or true loyalty to me, you would have remembered that today was a Very Special Day for me.
I have nothing to say about it right now, other than this:
- ChapStick® does not make for a satisfying lunch, even if it's fruit-flavored (classic cherry!).
- People actually like the little movie they show in the big waiting room. No one wants to change the channel to see Regis at 9:00. Surprisingly, saying, "But Vince Neil from Motley Crue is one of the guests!" makes no difference.
- Lawyers laugh when young men tell them, in response to one of their humorous, off-the-cuff, stress-relieving questions, that their favorite television show is "The Practice" or "Law and Order".
- Even though a girl includes Pilates among her hobbies in the written questionnaire, fancy lawyers do not feel compelled to ask her, "What is that, anyway?"
- Ladies like to splash very yellow urine on toilet seats in government buildings.
- During voir dire (look it up, non-legal types!), lawyers like when you're honest and tell them that you are "not a team player". They appreciate it when you say, "I would be the one in the jury room yelling like a bitch at all the other jurors because I would not agree with what they'd be deciding, and I wouldn't back down!" They especially like and appreciate when, after being told by one of them that you will not be selected, and you are doodling pictures of your dog and a little Asian girl in a sailor suit, you respond to one of their questions like this: "I'm sorry. I was not listening. What was the question?"
Before I was dismissed (shocking!), I was told by one of the lawyers to rent this movie.
Still, I have to go back to the Courthouse tomorrow morning. I, of course, object.
Stay tuned for Part Two, tomorrow!
P.S. I managed to do a little charming self-promotion during the questioning. So if anyone reading this was with me in Room "B" this morning/afternoon, drop me a line!
As if the inane "Bloggies" aren't putrid enough, one of my readers just sent me a "heads up" to alert me to yet another bloggery circle jerk a-gogo, found at www.blizg.com. This speaks to all (OK, not all, but quite a bit) that is wrong with the so-called BLOG COMMUNITY (also known as the "blogiverse" to the truly pathetic) in particular and people in general. I feel a hot mouthful of bile making its way up my throat.
Although it's not purported to be a popularity contest indeed, the list owner describes it as "a resource designed to help people find high-quality blogs" anything that has a "Top 100" and affords people the ability to vote can't help but be construed as such, especially in the blog-world, where people really seem to get off on numbers in great numbers.
Yay! It's high school all over again! This is one class I'll definitely be cutting.
What's next? A blog prom? (Duckie, where are you???)
Thanks, dear reader, for the heads up ... about people who clearly have theirs up their own asses.
P.S. Ordinarily I don't acknowledge things bloggy and don't get b(l)ogged down by the bullshit attendant to them, but this time I just couldn't resist.
Last night I stayed up to watch "Late Night With David Letterman" so I could see Topher Grace from "That '70s Show". He's got that awkward/cute/slightly dorky way about him that I just adore. I confess that I also wanted to see Simon Cowell (yes, the mean/truthful British guy from "American Idol"). It was like taking something from Column A and something from Column B. I like a little balance.
The third guest was Vienna Teng. Instantly I thought, "What? Are they bringing on a crisp cookie to enjoy with a hot pot of tea?" I wasn't going to stay up, but thought it would be "rude" to not give Vienna Teng the courtesy of seeing what she/he/it was.
Well, I found out. And I have never been so happy someone wasn't a cookie, crisp or otherwise.
She's simply glorious. Go here to listen for yourself. I'm ordinarly not instantly enchanted with most music that I hear, especially "pretty" stuff sung by girls/women, but this ...
... more delicious than a cookie.
All right. It has to be said.
Would everyone just stop it with the yoga posturing already? Not the actual practice of yoga, if indeed you do it at home where you don't have to pretend to be not competing with the even more flexible, even more Madonna-esque pretzel to your left in her flowy garments and silver toe ring. No, not the actual yoga itself, but the bullshit talk about yoga, fabricated to let the rest of the world know that you, too, are In and Fabulous and Hip.
I've been wanting to say this for quite some time, but Meryl Streep's "yoga" reference last night on the Golden Globes made me want to dump her in a Bikram studio somewhere and watch her plastic face melt down into her shirt, so she could then try to retrieve it from between those runaway breasts.
She stood on stage, feigning shock at having won her award, saying all the "I haven't won anything in so long" garbage that was expected of her, and the audience drooled over it and her with all the unabashed hunger of Pavlov's dog. She was apparently incapable of breathing properly, such was the magnitude of her excitement and shock.
"Yoga," she said, closing her eyes and slightly bowing her head, inhaling deeply as if to calm her soul and the carefully posed quivering of her hands and fluttering of her eyelids. And the Other Stars applauded and laughed, for they too are In and Fabulous and Hip.
And enough of the "Namaste" while we're at it, too.
I watched the Golden Globes tonight. I'm sorry, but I had to do it. I knew that if I didn't, I would hate myself in the morning, because when everyone at the office was talking about Lara Flynn Boyle's hideous get-up, I'd feel left out. Then I realized I don't work in an office, and it didn't really matter, but still. I had to watch anyway, because that's the kind of masochist I am.
I have only a few words, and, in some cases, special thanks, to share with several of the STARS in attendance this evening. They are as follows:
To Renée Zelwegger: Honey, please please please stop crying. It threatens to puff your cheeks up to even more mump-filled monstrosity and seal shut those twin slits that masquerade as eyes. Please also know that when you say, about the crumpled piece of paper that contains your list of thankees, "I barely wrote this legibly because I didn't think I'd need it", you, like Richard Gere before you, are not fooling anyone.
To anyone and everyone who tearfully said anything akin to, "Thanks for believing in this project" or "Thanks to everyone who made this dream come true" or "I'm just thrilled to be nominated": Just stop it. Shut up. That cliché is as tired as the feigned shock that played on your face when your name was called as the winner.
To Harrison Ford: Your glazed, paralyzed face could take lessons from Heath Ledger's, whose mouth's spasms were more alive than the words that sleepwalked out of it.
To Sharon Stone: I wish I could say that the combination of your lunatic behavior and monstrous outfit was a welcome departure from the rest of the zombarina parade (led by the everlean Lara Flynn Boyle in a pink getup that I think I wore in ballet class circa 1969), but alas, I wish you had availed yourself of the Valium that Jack Nicholson admitted he took. (You should also work on your triceps. All that arm flailing ... not a good thing.)
To all the ladies (Goldie Hawn, Susan Sarandon, Courteney Cox, among others in the Breast Brigade) who insisted on wearing dresses cut down to where a hemline would normally rise: Stop it. Your bralessness left me speechless. That goes for you, too, Debra Messing. Please, all of you, have a little more, yes, grace.
To Bono: You repelled me with the references to New York City as "her" and "she", but you managed to slip in the word "fuckin'" when accepting the award for best song, so for a few seconds I didn't have to hate you.
To Matthew McConaughey: Nice bronzer.
To Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas: Please try to look alive, even though I suspect that one of you is made of wax and the other of marzipan.
To Meryl Streep: Sadly, darling, you still can't dress to save your life. In fact, tonight's ensemble of black pants with a sheer, chiffony train, almost literally tripped up your lovely co-stars Julianne Moore and/or Nicole Kidman. And please, that thing you did to demonstrate that you're just a normal girl like the rest of us you know, where you conspicuously reached inside your spangly silvery shirt with each hand to arrange each errant breast before you started your acceptance speech let's just say you let me down as much as your bra did you and yours. Yes, you received a Golden Globe, but I don't want to see you handling the two inside your shirt.
Last but not least, I'd like to thank Gene Hackman, the recipient of the Cecil B. DeMille award (I think it was for lifetime achievement). Thank you, Gene, for being absolutely normal and graciously accepting the award without a shred of pomp and/or circumstance. Thank you for not reading a speech from a sheet of paper. Thank you for not being Richard Gere, who apparently thinks the Globe revolves around him.
P.S. Special surprise thanks go to Robin Williams, who presented the award to Gene Hackman along with Michael Caine. Thank you, Robin, for realizing, for once, that it wasn't your turn in the spotlight.
You know how, at the end of some movies, just before the credits start to roll, there are flashes of each of the characters and at the bottom of the screen, we're treated to a brief update as to what will happen to them after the movie's over? Like, it will tell us that the quirky hairdresser (the one chewing the gum) eventually escaped from the tacky perm parlor on the wrong side of town and went on to open her own salon on Rodeo Drive and became stylist to the stars, or the ugly girl (she'd be the one in the glasses) wound up owning her own modeling agency where she refused to hire skinny girls and the entire universe stood up and applauded?
And you know how these little updates are never funny? And how they're actually kind of embarrassing and you wish the director or producer or whoever is in charge of doing this kind of stuff wouldn't have done it because it just ruined what, up to that point, had been a hilarious teen comedy?
Well, I just wish I would've remembered that when I watched "Fast Times At Ridgemont High", because I'd rather remember Phoebe Cates' coming-out-of-the-pool scene without the taint of the post-story captions.
Enjoy your Sunday evening. When you hear the "Sixty Minutes" clock ticking, that's just as much of a sign that your fun-time is over as the movie updates are.
Let the cringing begin!
It's very rare that I wish bad things to happen to people.
OK, all right, so that's a lie. Most people piss me off, gross me out, and all around just make me want to quit touring with "Up With People". And I frequently try to make bad things happen to them by sheer force of the telepathic powers it's becoming increasingly clear that I don't possess. Alas, I'm no Carrie (although I do look stunning while drenched in pig's blood and have really nice dirty pillows).
It's a shame, though, because I'd really like to hurt some people without having to actually touch them or go out of my way to order expensive implements with which to inflict the damage. And, sadly, looks can't kill. If they could, it'd make things a lot easier on me and the outrageous poseur-princess who was showing off her special brand of idiocy while dancing on the treadmill this morning. Yes, that's right. Dancing. Not just prancing prettily. Not just lip-synching. No, this was all out dancing. Like for an audition.
Dancing on the treadmill (not on the ceiling, a la Lionel Richie). Dancing on an incline, backward. And, of course, facing me, and only six feet away. Dancing complete with arm movements, spins, kicks, syncopation, plastic grin, wide eyes, and jazz hands.
So given that the daggers leading from my eyes to her body weren't sharp enough, and I left my cyanide at home (I hate when I switch purses!), I had no choice but to kill her with kindness.
"You are the best! I love what you're doing on the treadmill! It's so fun and quirky! And you look so pretty when you do that cute little dip thing with your shoulders! The shimmying is neat too! Would you mind showing me how to do it someday? I love your outfit! You're not an asshole at all!"
It was a perfect crime. Because no one will ever suspect me.
I just strutted down the little catwalk that leads to the steps down to the Maury stage. I've got my fiercest face on, my lips are parted so I don't mess the gloss, and I'm staring ahead like the panther I hope I'm convincing you I have become. I'm tugging my tiny bra top a little over my overinflated balloon breasts, flipping my too-long, too-blond hair. I'm hoping you don't hate me because I am so beautiful.
I'm careful not to fall down the few steps to the main stage, but it's kinda hard to do in these five-inch platform shoes that I hope make my legs look extra sexy. According to the boys in the back in the baggy jeans and the baseball caps, the ones giving me a standing ovation, they are! So when I get to the center of the stage, I turn around and shake my ass for the camera and for the boys. And also, of course, for Greg, the guy who's waiting to see how I turned out, 15 years after he used to tease me so much that I had to leave school. I had a crush on him, even though he treated me like shit!
Then I sit down in a tall stool and, as I cross my legs, you can see a little flash o' panty. Or am I wearing any to begin with? I'll never tell.
But what I will tell is that you, Greg, hurt my feelings in junior high. And even into high school. You hurt my feelings so much because I was a geek with "Coke bottle glasses" and stringy hair. I was skinny with bad skin and dorky clothes, and you used to throw things at me, slam me into the lockers, and call me names. You hurt me so much then, but now I'm over it.
I'm so over it that I changed my name. I'm so over it that I now have to make fun of the way I looked then too. I'm so over it that I'll tearfully accept your lame, limp apology. And hey, I'm so over it that I'll even thank you for how you treated me because if it hadn't been for the abuse, I never would have turned into the New Me you see before you!
Thank you, Greg!
I was wondering how Equinox was going to spend the extra $5.00 a month it started extorting from its members this year. It certainly wasn't applied toward fabric softener for its limitless towel supply. Or for the Jackass R-ejection System ("JRS-2003") (Pat. Pending) I suggested.
But now I know: Free Jell-O®!
January 2004: Pudding!
Good morning. This entry is best read while sipping chai.
Sometimes amid all the usual searches that lead the less original of "surfers" to this fabulous website (the ever-popular "camel toe" is always a winner, hands down [your pants]), there lies a delightful little gem. It's as thrilling as cracking open a fortune cookie and finding two fortunes instead of one, or an egg and finding two yolks.
This morning, for instance, I found this one. (Don't worry. You can click on it without offending whoever it is in your office that checks up on the sites you visit when you're supposed to be working on important memoranda for submission to the person I hope you don't call "the bossman".) The search string itself is ridiculous enough in its original form, but even more asinine is Google's polite "Did you mean?" suggestion. As if the success of this search hinges on the substitution of the suggested word.
Caveat: You may want to be careful, though, if you do choose to do a search based on Google's suggestion. I mean, the word "bed" can lead to all sorts of sexy stuff! And sexy stuff is bad. Very bad indeed.
P.S. Speaking of very bad stuff, if the people in your office don't give a fuck about what you look at on the internet, I suggest you check this out. Beds are often involved. (See, I can be just as suggestive as Google!)
"You're at the gym so much, you should be a personal trainer!"
No. No, I shouldn't.
"You really know what you're doing! And you're so dedicated! You know what? You'd make a great personal trainer!"
No. No, I wouldn't.
"You're so good at this stuff and you have so much energy! You could be a personal trainer!"
No. No, I couldn't.
"You should/would/could be a personal trainer! You'd be like a drill sergeant!"
No. No, I sh-w-c-ouldn't. But yes. Yes, I would be a drill sergeant.
No no no, a thousand times no. In response to everyone who has ever told me that I would make a good personal trainer, the answer is a resounding 288-point, bold-faced, all-caps, underscored, italicized, big, fat, pulsing, fire engine red "no". To the nth power.
Yes, I'm "good at it". And dedicated. Focused. Energetic. And a whole host of other adjectives. But, you see, there's a big difference between doing it for yourself and doing it for other people. The only kind of personal training I'll ever do is the kind where "personal" means ME.
I have a "no nonsense" approach to working out, and don't like to talk while I'm doing it. I don't like to be interrupted. I don't like to talk about what I do at the gym. I hate the words "reps" and "sets". I would never say "Feel the burn" to anyone. I can barely type those words without cringing. I am not a cheerleader. Or a babysitter. Or a psychologist. I am more like a drill sergeant. Only there are you correct.
I would not let women do pushups on their knees. I would not allow anyone to walk more slowly on the treadmill than he does on the street. I would not have any compassion for someone who laughed as she told me she couldn't push herself during a session because last night she wolfed down a half-gallon of ice cream while watching some jackassy reality TV show.
So, no. I would not make a good personal trainer. I make a good trainer to myself, and that's it, because I don't accept excuses from myself. I am harder on myself than I have ever seen any of the personal trainers on their clients. My "interior monologue" is more fierce than anything I've heard dribbled from the lips of a trainer who's coaxing his whining client to push herself hard enough to actually break a sweat.
"Wow! I like your philosophy! I'm sorry, but I still think you should be a personal trainer! With your attitudeBlahhhCharlieBrownAdultsTalkingBlahblahhhhhh..."
No. No I should not. Really.
I will hear no more o' fit.
This time last year: Equinox Bulletin Board. A-Ha!
Note to Exit Guard at NYPL (Main Branch):
This afternoon you seemed like a kindly man. I didn't hate you even though you were missing teeth. I thought, "Oh, how nice. If it wasn't for this job, this pleasant old bastard would probably be shuffling behind a Dumpster somewhere, picking desiccated flesh from an old chicken bone."
So why, when I handed you my two books, did you have to practically caress "The Dying Animal" upon seeing Amedeo Modigliani's Reclining Nude and then, as you returned it to me, stare knowingly into my eyes and exclaim, "Ahhh, it is a beautiful book!" Was it really necessary for your chapped hand to linger on its cover? And did I really have to giggle coyly, to show that I wasn't offended?
Thanks to you, Lech R. McLeery, I was forced to wonder, during my walk home, if you were imagining me reclining in a similar pose.
Tonight I hate you.
The other day when I was in line at Duane Reade, a woman came in pushing her baby in a stroller. Now, I'm not going to talk about how people with strollers think they own the store and that everyone else should have to get out of their way just because they have precious cargo in that stroller somewhere among the shopping bags and groceries and Mommy's discarded pilly acrylic scarf and the diaper bag. No, I'm just here to ask this: What the fuck is up with that clear plastic sheet/drape/tarp thing that covers the entire stroller?
Baby Boy (the kid was wearing blue, which eliminated the guesswork!) was snoozing, oblivious to the Duane Reade experience. Oblivious to the dirty carpeting and the haphazardly stocked shelves. Oblivious to my quizzical fixation on the thick plastic barrier that ostensibly was there to protect him from the rain that I think we were expecting that day. Or the snow that never came either. Or perhaps just randomly spat sputum from the occasional passerby or from some litter-conscious pedestrian mistaking the stroller for a trashcan.
I could see no air holes, slits, slots, gaps, or other apertures in the surface of the plastic. At first I thought this meant that Mommy was sick of Baby, and choose to encase him in plastic as a quick 'n' easy way to rid herself of his infantile burden. After all, didn't the dry-cleaning come in clingy plastic bags that admonished customers not to use the bags as toys because of a little thing known as suffocation?
But then the bright little bulb that I wear above my head (it's attached to a specially designed apparatus expressly for this purpose) lit up (*ding!*), and I realized that I had completely misinterpreted the situation. The plastic wrap could mean only one thing: Mommy wanted to keep Baby fresh, like cheddar cheese. She didn't want his edges to get crusty and hard. She wanted him to stay moist! She wasn't an ignorant fucking moron. She was a nice lady and a good mother after all!
I paid for my soap, and skipped out happily. Once home, I hurried to the refrigerator, unwrapped my own adorable block of cheese, and cradled it lovingly in my arms. It was moist. And not at all crusty.
And all was right with the world.
Guess what? It's colder than a witch's tit outside! Yes! And just so you don't have to do a frantic Google search to find out just how cold that is, I'll tell you: it's exactly 14 degrees Kelvin. You will, however, have to do a Google search to find out how to convert that to Fahrenheit or Celsius or whatever other temperature scale you use. After all, I can't be expected to do everything around here.
(By the way, this is not new news. Readers of my lovely friend Scott's site have known this since December 4, when he posted the information that I supplied him that morning.)
P.S. Are there witches in hell? And if so, how is possible for them to maintain the cold tit thing while down there? If you go to church today, would you be so kind as to ask someone who might have a better grasp on these things? Thank you.
This whimsical item is from the same fine company responsible for outfitting me with my favorite purchase of the Winter 2003 season. I just placed my order! I wanted to get two of each breed, but because I'm on a budget, I limited myself to just one Dalmation (although at these prices you really can't go wrong by doubling up on the sale items). After all, these canine cuties make great year-round gifts.
No doubt most people who buy lawn ornaments live in the suburbs, so they'll probably find a home for these on their lush lawns next to the adorable wooden ones that look like an old woman in bloomers bending over. Imagine the look on the neighbors' faces when they see a dog doing the same thing! And imagine the look on your own when you wake up at 3:00 a.m. because that same neighbor just drunkenly careened into the driveway and stumbled out onto your lawn to vomit into your bushes but got distracted by the undeniable sexiness of a puppy's sweet upturned ass!
John Waters can keep his pink flamingos!
P.S. I'm glad I live in the city, where my options are limited. I plan to put mine in the cat's litter box! Can you see it now? I can barely contain myself!
This morning, while putting on a jacket I haven't worn in quite some time, I felt something crinkly in one of its pockets. Imagine my glee when I found that it wasn't that winning lottery ticket I'd misplaced in 1997 or the dry-cleaning receipt for a pair of pants I thought were long gone, but a crisp five dollar bill! That's right! A fin! A five-spot!
Well, I have no idea where it came from, because I rarely misplace anything. So that means only one thing. Someone else lost it. Yes, someone misplaced this half-sawbuck in my pocket!
So if you lost a five dollar bill sometime in the last couple of years, this one may be yours. Please contact me to make a claim.
Of course I can't post a photo of the bill, because then everyone would be clamoring to claim it. Please note that I will ask you to provide a matching serial number before releasing the bill into your possession. If no claim is successful, I will split the money 46 ways, with all of the steel workers I let down in 1997. Or finally pick up those pants.
Offer open until midnight tonight (Eastern Standard Time).
If I say nothing else today (and chances are I won't, because I had my mouth surgically sealed yesterday in order to stick to my New Year's resolution not to speak in 2003), let me just say this to two of my best friends on television:
Dear Dave L. and Regis P.:
You both make some serious "coin". May I suggest you share some with a couple of nice manicurists? It's really amazing what a little cuticle care can do, Dave. And even more amazing what a nail file can do, Regis.
Happy New Year to you both! Love to Paul and Kelly.
Later, kids. I'm off to put my money where my mouth was.
Since I mentioned an old beau yesterday, I decided to mention someone else I once allowed an audience with me several years ago. This one I'll call "P", which you can laugh about because "penis" begins with the same letter, and some guys probably refer to theirs as "Mr. P" without humor. (Don't get me started on guys who give appellations to their appendages. I could tell you stories, but I won't.)
So anyway. P. He was an Assistant District Attorney in Philadelphia. (See what happens when you work in the legal profession? You get to hobnob with all the best people.) He is now a partner in a major law firm. So if you care to look him up, it won't be difficult to find him. Just type "P, law partner, Philadelphia, used to date Jodi" into any search engine.
For some reason, P had a lot of guns. (He also had a lot of guts. See what fun you can have just by substituting a single consonant? Oh, and by "guts" I don't mean the kind that accumulate on one's body. Please. Do you really think I'd go out with someone with a gut? Well, OK, I did once. But never again.) And for some reason, P thought I would like to shoot one. I think he thought that because I said this: "P, you know what? Sometime I'd like to shoot a gun."
So one Saturday morning, he picked me up and we went to a shooting gallery in a really safe part of Philadelphia. As we drove around, I began to suspect that when he said "shooting gallery", he meant we'd be shooting up heroin, not shooting guns. I actually got a little happy, because I was feeling a little low and needed the sort of pick-me-up that even caffeine can't accommodate. But when we pulled up in front of Sir Shootsalot (no, not its real name), I may as well have pumped heroin into my neck.
The only other people there were the kind of people you'd expect to be there. They all looked like they had just gotten out of jail for doing something with the guns they were now handling with such aplomb. P and I looked out of place in our schoolgirl uniforms.
It's fun being the only dame in a place like that. And yes, when you walk into a place like that you become a dame. Any perceptions of yourself as a delicate flower or a pampered princess or just a plain ol' "girl" are immediately, well, shot down. You don't want to be a girl or a woman. You're a dame or a broad, and that's it.
The headgear alone ensures that. It's hard to feel less than tough/tuff when you're wearing the things over your ears and the goggles. It's not impossible to look sexy, either, as P assured me. And he meant it.
So I used a variety of guns. I don't remember any of their names, but the one that P said I looked best with was called a "Glock", I think. It was a pistol, I think. (I think a lot.) Or I was a pistol. Or something. Whatever it or I was, it was a blast to fire. (And yes, it was literally a blast, not just figuratively.) He said it was the sort of gun James Bond used, which was enough for me to feel like my schoolgirl uniform was instantly replaced by a latex catsuit. (So you see ... here you have two sexy images of me: schoolgirl ... catsuit. I like to appeal to a wide audience.)
I didn't think I would like it as much as I did. And you know that "they" say that when you like doing something, you usually excel at it. (There's got to be a quote out there that addresses this phenomenon.) So yes. I excelled. I surprised myself. Whereas I suck at darts and only rarely get a bullseye (and here you get an image of me in a bar, in latex or a plaid skirt, throwing darts with one hand while balancing a drink in the other), I managed to neatly and quickly take out the heart of my paper assailants. I know that comes as a surprise, given that my own heart is so full of love for flesh-people.
P was astounded. For months he'd read and heard my special brand of vitriol (believe me, the "tender bits of bitchiness" I dole out here are nothing compared to those I indulge in real life), but never had he seen it translated so brilliantly. Allow me to be so bold as to say the rest of the afternoon was splendid in ways I shan't divulge.
Although P and I said we would definitely return to the shooting gallery sometime, I haven't handled any sort of gun since that Saturday morning several years ago. Which is probably a good thing. Because once I like something, I tend to get a little obsessed (just a little). So let's just say it's better that in my closet hang 250 latex catsuits. But no guns.
Because after all, this is AMERICA, and I believe in giving everyone a fair shot.
... if you own anything from "Precious Moments", there is no way in the world we can ever be friends.
Just so you know.
Now go clear your shelves.
Have a precious day!
This afternoon I realized with horror that I made a huge blunder in an entry that I wrote last week. Thankfully, I was on my deathbed at the time of the writing, so I can use that as an excuse. I mean, when someone is one little blip away from a complete flatline, she's not exactly up to her usual brilliance.
The error was in the entry entitled "Still Ill ... and Lovin' It!". There, I mentioned the popular '70s situation comedy "Three's Company". I used "Snow" as Janet's last name rather than "Wood". And as everyone in the universe knows, "Snow" was Chrissy's last name!
I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused.
Thank you for your time.
Note: I also apologize for the way the archived entry's formatting looks stupid. If anyone can tell me how to get my individual (and monthly!) archives to appear as they do on the main page, I'd appreciate it. I did check the Movable Type forums, but it was too daunting. All that tech-talk. My head is too pretty and too little for that kind of hooha.
Back when I was a hip 'n' swingin' girl about a smaller town (Philadelphia), I used to go out on these things I called "dates". That word has probably fallen out of fashion by now, and probably wasn't even in vogue then, but, well, I'm really an old-fashioned girl, so it doesn't matter much. (And it doesn't matter, either, if I choose to do the "mashed potato" at the swanky clubs around town. I don't care for this stuff that's passing for dancing these days.)
So anyway, I dated. I went out with a variety of guys. Men, boys, boys to men, men to boys. (Sorry, girls, but despite what I may have led you to believe, I'm not into you that way. Sure, I dig the way your hair smells of "Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific" and I like the curve of your lower back and the way you bite your lower lip when you're feeling shy. Oh, and the sway of your hips. But that's as far as it goes.) Thursday night I'd be at Striped Bass with Mr. FancyPants, where the bill would come to more than my Thursday night date ("I'll bring you Diet Coke!"), Mr. ShortPants, made in two years selling lemonade on the sidewalk in front of his parents' house.
It was fun sometimes, and it blew sometimes. Just like everything else. There were more misses than hits (and in a few cases a "missus" who would do a lot of hitting if she only knew) and more kisses than tits. And sometimes there was what the kids these days may still be calling "action".
I don't divulge details of my exploits when I'm actually involved with someone. None of that "kiss and tell" stuff. I don't even talk about it when the situation isn't too involved. It's just not my way. However, years after the fact, I may tell a story or two about something particularly noteworthy, but only if the person isn't anyone with whom I have any contact anymore. I am, after all, a lady in some respects.
However, I'd just like to say two things to (and thus, about [which is OK, since we haven't spoken in years]) "C", one of the deeper-pocketed men. A man of grace and elegance who could quite possibly pass for Barry Bostwick as he appeared in "Spin City". A tall man (6'6"), well-dressed, impeccably groomed, chivalrous. I told him he looked like "Country Club Dad". And he laughed. He had a very powerful laugh.
Country Club Dad: You would be well-advised not to refer to your penis as a "steel rod" when it has all the raw power of a sheet of aluminum foil. You should also know that when you tell me, over and over again to "watch it grow", that a watched pot never boils.
I'm bored with/by people's misuse of the word "irony". It has to stop. I don't blame it on popular music sweetheart Alanis Morissette, or whoever is responsible for the song "Isn't It Ironic". I don't blame it on anyone, I guess. But still, it's gotta stop.
And no, it's not ironic that people misuse the word "ironic".
Really. It's not.
Good night. It is 11:55 p.m.
It is not ironic that I am tired.
If you love me, you'll defend my beloved tofu. I cannot bear to see it maligned.
I can bear arms, however. (She does, after all.)
But don't worry. Mine is only a soy gun.
Thanks to a regular reader who just today made himself known, I now know more about W.B. Mason, that Kyle MacLachlan-esque purveyor of fine office products about whom I wrote yesterday. You can read about it here.
Now I'm even more impressed with W.B. Mason the company and W.B. Mason Himself! But I'm even more more impressed with Me Myself for recognizing the "circus" quality of his trucks without having to be told beforehand!
Hooray! I'm off to jump through a fiery hoop and then on to the trapeze!
This morning, while discussing important world news and current events with a terribly fabulous friend, our conversation veered, as all of our conversations inevitably do, to pants. This time, however, it wasn't just folly that led us astray. You see, he recently made a purchase that shocked mine right off (literally!). His choice was about as aberrant as if I were to buy, for example, a pair of sensible shoes (two words that should never appear in that juxtaposition or even in the same sentence) or a bottle of bleu cheese salad dressing.
So when he revealed to me several days ago that he'd bought some variety of sweat pants (and I wholeheartdly share his philosophy and disdain for such garments as a sartorial option), I was not only shocked but also led down Memory Lane (it's down near Little West 12th Street, where all the streets get twisty and confusing) to a Sunday in the Sporting Club in Philadelphia.
On that Sunday, a 40s-ish woman came into the gym in her best (or what I'm assuming had to be her best, given that it was a Sunday and it was "after church" time) black slacks and matching jacket, some sort of blouse, and nondescript mid-heel pumps. I didn't give her a second glance (because really, I wouldn't have been caught on my worst Wednesday in her Sunday best) until she did something that begged for my attention and immediate disbelief. And, OK, a fair amount of disdain.
No, she didn't talk to me, hand me a copy of Watchtower, or try to sell me Avon products. What she did was get on an elliptical trainer and proceed to do an entire cardio workout. In the very clothes that she had just prayed in. In the very clothes that, afterward, she would no doubt be wearing as she enjoyed her short stack of delicious pancakes at the IHOP several blocks up Walnut Street.
Now, that activity in and of itself wasn't the most appalling aspect of the entire episode. What was was that I just know the pantsuit (slacksuit) wasn't even made of a revolutionary breathable fabric that instantly wicks away moisture.
What was she thinking?
This afternoon, while gamboling down Sixth Avenue in the not-so-snow, I saw this truck:
It stopped me in my tracks not only because it was bold, bright, and impossibly clean, but because it vaguely reminded me of a circus poster. And although I loathe, detest, and otherwise abhor circuses (circi?) for a variety of reasons (none of which I'll detail), sometimes I do like circus posters. (P.T. Barnum makes such a lovely pin-up. Even lovelier than Rita Hayworth! Or Farrah in her red one-piece!)
What really made me laugh (I believe aloud), though, were the words "Who But W.B. Mason". Yes, W.B. Mason. You know. W.B. Mason! Yes, the W.B. Mason. Who else, indeed!
No, I've never heard of him or his company before, but apparently "W.B. Mason" is a household name and has been since 1898.
And as if that wasn't enough, there was also this:
I can't explain why this especially "W.B. Himself" amuses the hell (and no, not the "bejebus" -- I hate that "bejebus" thing) out of me. It just does. I can't even describe how it made my day or how much it still makes me laugh nine hours later. It just does. (Since when do I have to explain, anyway?)
And hey, that's good enough for me. And for W.B. himself, too, I'm sure.
Hooo boy, yeah. I am soooo fiiiiine. Yeeeaaahhhh.
Well, yeah, you know that, yes you do, if you know me in real life or have been lucky enough to have seen a photographic representation of me as I appear in real life. But what I really mean is that I am no longer sick. Sure, I have vestiges of a cough and my spleen's still acting a little, well, "kooky" (that was the professional diagnosis), but that's nothing a little -ectomy can't fix.
And now, having said that, I'm outta here.
"Hey, that's my line!" (That was the spleen talking. It's actually kind of sad if you hear it in person. Or out of person. But, sadder still, once it's removed ... its voice will be silenced.)
Note: In case you're not familiar with the spleen's location and function in the human body, you can find more information here. Don't be daunted by the elaborate drawing.
It's been seven months since I pointed out a particular popular misspelling that I thought warranted attention and correction. (It's all part of my never-ending quest to make this world a happier place for all of us to enjoy, preferably while holding hands and skipping through a field of giggling yellow flowers.)
Then it was the word "definite". Today it's ad nauseam.
See the last vowel? It's an "a", not a "u". Please make a note of it.
I'm not here to harp. I'm only here to carp.
Have a stunning Sunday.
Last night, on my very own GroupBoard, where I invite visitors to "Make something pretty for Mommy!" (I believe in corralling the maverick artistic spirit, after all), someone actually lurked there, waiting for a little action.
The person was typing "hello" and "anyone there?" into the drawing area rather than into the box reserved for chat. I don't remember the exact words of the exchange (it was just too brilliant), but it went something like this: (The visitor was "Dilk", or something like that, and I was "Anon_something", which is my real name.)
Anon_12: Oh god no. Please don't start that. Take it to an AOL chatroom or something.
Anon_12: I'm old enough to be your mother, Dilk. Don't do that.
Dilk: do you mind if i look at the saved drawings?
Anon_12: Go on. Look at them if you like.
Anon_12: Certainly. I have no problem with that.
Dilk: i've had enough
You know, the least he could've done was make Mommy something for her refrigerator. Or try (harder) to "make" her, for fuck's sake.
Dilk, if you're reading this, I suggest you rent a little movie called "The Graduate". (It's even better than "American Pie"!)
P.S. I just went back to the GroupBoard after sending this to "publish", and there was "Dilk", hangin' out. (For the "record", I've changed one of the consonants in his name to protect his innocence.) He asked "can I look at da piccys?" Dilk, honey, where were you when I was 15?
P.P.S. Last night I checked his IP, and he's not someone I know.
Tomorrow, without fail, no matter what, come hell or high water, come rain or come shine, I'm going out and forcing myself to pretend I'm feeling fabulous even if I'm not.
I've had it with the NyQuil and the naps. A trial packet of DayQuil keeps looking over its bare shoulder, batting its eyelashes and winking at me, but I won't have any of it. Goodbye, seductress. You're just a no-good tease like all the rest. You promise great things, yet when push comes to shove, lady, you're just a shy little virgin, like Children's Tylenol. (Oh, and by the way, whoever's responsible for taste tests or whatever they do over at the Tylenol factory/lab/kindergarten kitchenette, should be fired for daring to call the product's flavor "grape". I know it doesn't really taste like grapes, but come on. It should at least taste fake grape, like a purple Fred Flintstone, and not like bile.) (And don't ask why I even tried Children's Tylenol in the first place.)
So anyway. That's it. I've had it. Tomorrow I resume my
morning chants with my brothers and sisters of the Universe at the yoga studio regular routine. Tomorrow I'm back at the gym at 8:00 a.m., where I'm sure to be met with a whole pack of new jackasses who resolved four days ago to finally get in shape but who will abandon the resolution by month's end when they realize that the weight that took years to amass on their frames won't take four weeks to disappear.
I've been so out of it that I haven't even been able to fully hate people with all the joie de vivre such hatred deserves. But don't worry, come tomorrow, fresh off a multi-mile run on the treadmill, I hope to be back in full force and effect.
Thanks, by the way, to all of the lovely people who sent email full of "get well soon" sentiment. You I don't hate.
See you bañana. I've got a dayful of Lifetime to accomplish.
All right, so I'm still not feeling quite right. I'm out of sorts and in the house and about ready to scream because the only Lifetime movie that's on during the morning or afternoon is some Danielle Steel mega-miniseries thing, and that's just not acceptable. Why oh why can't they just run a Tracy Gold marathon and make a poor dying girl happy? I don't ask for much. Really. (Well, I'm thinking about asking NyQuil to stop hawking itself as a cold remedy and just put itself on the liquor store shelves along with the vodka and gin, but hey that's not what I meant, and you know it.)
So I'm still not "me". Last night for a couple of hours I think I was Janet Wood (you know her as Chrissy's cherubic mop-top sidekick on "Three's Company"). Or maybe Arnold Horshack (we all know who he is). Not the actors, but the actual characters. Neither was much fun, but I did get to see myself in crotch-huggin', ass-grabbin' bellbottom jeans, which is always a bonus. And an ugly gauze top.
But I won't run on and on about my SICKNESS. There's nothing quite as uninteresting to other people as the details of someone else's pipsiblinkomonophlebromonstritis.
What I will say is this: How am I supposed to use the microwave or toaster oven now that the NyQuil label admonishes me against using machinery? Maybe I should have waited to take it until after I'd done my big cooking for the day.
Have a nice day, everyone. I'm off to hate Danielle Steel for ruining mine. If I had her phone number, I'd call her right now and have her come over and cook for me. It'd be the least she could do.
Note: The image above was lovingly provided by Mad Genius, who told me, "I had a vision of you drowning in a bottle of NyQuil."
OK, so the NyQuil that I took about an hour ago isn't doing its job. I'm still experiencing all the things it's supposed to alleviate. (Everyone knows what they are, so I won't make a list.) This is not what I expected. It's such a disappointment.
But worse is that I'm not drunk. I thought I would be at least tipsy from this crap, but no. You see, I don't drink, so I thought the little bit of alcohol in the one-ounce cap that I threw back like a sailor would knock me on my ass. Or have me dancing on tabletops if only at home and to collect all the one-dollar bills Taxi promised to tuck into my G-string. But no. Nothing.
Until ... all of a sudden, without warning or fanfare ... my stuffiness cleared up. My throat no longer felt scratchy. And my voice returned almost to its normal bell-like clarity! There was and is! hope!
So if there's hope for the allevation of my symptoms, then maybe drunkenness isn't far behind. I'm going out now to prepare. Here's to hoping that tomorrow morning finds me slumped heavily in a darkened alcove somewhere on Broadway, the NyQuil bottle in a wrinkled brown paper bag, my face rough with a five, seven, and eleven o'clock shadow, and my feet shoved into floppy clown shoes. Slurring my words, but without sniffling!
It's good to have hope.
P.S. Just moments after "publishing" this entry, my sniffles returned, so I just drank the rest of the bottle of NyQuil. Is that bad?
What do you get when you take Kathleen Turner, Brenda Vaccaro, Suzanne Pleshette, and Lauren Bacall, put them in a blender (or food processor, if you're feeling ambitious) with a heaping half-cup of Bea Arthur, and then whirr them all together for 15 seconds (using the "pulse" feature on the food processor, if you used one)?
Well, you have a mangled mess of talent-pulp, blood, and tunics especially if you didn't add juice, water, or some other liquid.
Actually, I meant their voices. I didn't mean their whole bodies. That would have required a fair amount of folding, bending, and twisting (especially of Bea Arthur she's surprisingly inflexible, really). So anyway, if you take all of those voices, blend them together, and pour them down my throat, well, you have my voice today. A real smoothie.
I've been sick all year. Yes, I know that's about as asinine as that "See you next year!" thing I mentioned on New Year's Eve. But it's just as true!
Feel sorry for me. Thanks.
One year ago:
OK, yoga doofi downstairs. You can stop chanting now. It's 12:25 a.m. Enough with the "NAH mah nee, mah nee ... NAH mah nee, mah nee ... NAH mah nee, mah nee ..."
And I swear every once in a while I hear "Must kill, momMY ... must kill, momMY ..."
I'm glad I didn't make a resolution to stop hating them.