Merry Christmas!

Dear Asshole Artisanal Cheese Vendor on Avenue A at the Greenmarket,

If you offer samples to people, you can expect that some people won't like them. Especially when your cheese tastes like fermented Elmer's Glue. Don't glare at me with a frozen smile and try to blame me for wanting a "strong" cheese. Asshole.

Dear Bitchy Lady in the Laundry room,

Don't cut in front of me coming from the elevator with your cart. Don't take three washers at once. Don't accuse me of slamming a washer door. Don't try to manipulate me with tales of grief. And don't fuck with my laundry.

Dear Mom of Bitchy Lady in the Laundry room,

Yes, I will take down the picture of Jesus in the lobby. And put it up in my apartment, because Jesus loves me. And was Jewish.


If you want to amuse yourselves

all three of you who read this (I've been admittedly lax)

check out my short attention span, link o rama Tumblr:


Not a great day in lawyer land.

Currently in a holding pattern.



#447: Things that make me happy.


(Apologies for the lousy copies, best I could find)


What I need

A bungalow with a deck on a breezy desert island, convenient to seafood and Internet access. And big thick towels.


A cabin in the woods with a crazy well-stocked kitchen, a wood burning fire that I know how to operate, and Internet access. And flannel.

Vibes, whatever.

I'm not much for crystals, vibes, auras, nonspecific positivity and whatnot. But when gleefully shredding old bills and papers (I love my paper shredder, it's like a big noisy confetti maker), I came across a small, smooth stone in a tiny grey suede bag. It was from the hotel in Toronto we stayed at during the Toronto Improv Festival, when I performed with Harsh. And, immediately, I remembered, that outside from checking out Toronto itself and seeing some shows (that I could've caught in the US, for the most part), I had a generally miserable and shitty time, from the endless train ride to the personality clashes and general lack of acceptance and enjoyment. Except for my $1.00 combat boots, some decent food and drink, and checking out the film set that is Toronto, what a fucking miserable trip that was.

I threw out the freaking tranquility stone without a second thought. I feel better already. Positivity, man.


Delightful! Splendiferous!

If you haven't watched the 200th episode of "Inside the Actor's Studio," hosted by Dave Chappelle and guest James Lipton, I must emphatically say, Watch it. Watch it now.

Here's a taste:



It's not you, it's me.

If you want a really cool but nonprescribing shrink, I can recommend one, highly. She's very cool and yet takes no shit.

I just quit therapy today. This is a good thing, I'm convinced of that.

So much for "keeping it to myself for awhile." (That was the original plan. Until someone notices. I guess. If I tell my mom I'm finally "cured" she'll ask "Are you sure?" Then again, I'm really sick of her asking me if I'm cured. But I digress.)

In some form or another, I've been in therapy for 18 years off and on. Not Woody-Allenesque analysis, just the talky kind. Again, there were often breaks in between. There was the short-termers - the dear, sweet old lady I was convinced was the soul of evil living in the coolest apartment in the city; the burnt-out NYU doc who went medieval on a terribly fragile me for cancelling an appointment (he was reported to administration; do not fuck with even a fragile me). There was my first real doctor at Mt. Sinai, a hulking babyfaced Westerner who I'm surprised survived me; last I saw he was an ER shrink in the Bronx. There was the curmudgeouly but handsome psychiatrist on the Upper West Side; the hippie-ish psychotherapist who, for a few years, I followed to Westchester - eventually the train ride was the most thereapeutic part of the day. And there was the woman, before this one, who I reduced to tears, and then she "forgot" our next (last) appointment. I hope she's in retail now.

I didn't necessarily plan it, although I'd been planning it awhile. She was terribly nice about it, more fair than I'd ever believed a therapist would be. "Perhaps you need to leave here, to put some of this stuff into practice." I think closure is overrated; I chose "goodbye for now" and was nice to know the keys to the sofa were always available. Which is a good feeling. I think if I was a twittering basket case, she'd perhaps have advocated against me returning to the light of day solo.

Anyway. I meant to say more, display all kinds of brilliant insight as to my mental evolution. Reflect, you know.

But right now I just can't sleep. For real.


Trust me on a few things.

I am a big moron. Or maybe, I can just be a big moron.

I should not eat so much buttered popcorn.

Sports bras, even swell comfy red ones, can give you a uniboob.

The No Yarn till 2009 resolution seems to be working.

Facebook can be fun and can be incredibly lame.

I would like to coat some candied peel in chocolate, but it has to wait until the peels dry.

Honestly, I don't like candied peel, but it makes a swell gift.



Coolest case name of the day.

I'm a bit researched out at the moment, but here, I defy you to turn this into an improv group name:


A delightful array of slightly overpriced korean deli snacks

Ka-Me plain rice crackers, Slim-Fast, Babybel cheese, Leibniz whole wheat butter biscuits.

An odd array of New York office-grazing comfort foods.



Seriously, figure it out!


Figure it out.



Holy Crap, I could own these!

But would my friends ever forgive me?

The Broadway Box

Les Mis (possibly redundant since I know all the words. Ask me about my Iowa trip.)

Songs that I could do at American Idol/Showtime at the Apollo/Star Search auditions


Cranky post-fever observations.

1. "The Starter Wife" - Since when has being a divorcee, in and of itself, been fascinating, much less a plot point? What is this, 1953? Shut up, Debra Messing. Just shut up and stop smiling. Jeez.

2. How come when you're unshowered, borderline delirious, and exceedingly cranky (while looking slightly like a crazy person), the newsagent guys will still flirt with you? Moreover, I was buying a crocheting magazine, the most unsexy purchase ever.

3. I've got nothing. Sorry.

Wait - I do.

3. If you're a "friend" and not nearly as good to me as I am to you, then I don't need to include you in that category. Thanks for playing! (Chances are that if you are reading this, it doesn't apply to you.)


Welcome to my world of insomnia.

Sigh. More juice, perhaps, in some vague flavor known as 'tropical.' Yum!


So I went to Ricky's in search of halloween supplies, and was fairly succesful. The Ricky's girl steered me towards a very cool wig - not the packaged kind, but their regular stock - that was half off. It's a long dark affair, that's fun to play with. However, I was going for more of a drag-queen aesthetic so I wonder if I could style it somehow. I have no clue how to style an inexpensive synthetic wig. I bought a headband but it looks more preppy-princess. I could braid it and go as a fundamentalist polygamous lady, but I haven't the dress. Actually, I do, now that I think about it - a long, modest flowered affair. Hmm!

My original halloween idea was to be a zombie drag queen. Named Jiggle Mortis.

Not that it's terribly original, but I have a neat stash of drag-queen accessories i got at the Broadway Flea Market a few years back - gold pumps, a blue feather boa, and sequined armbands. I've got a neat gown that I scored for $5 (seriously!) at FIlene's, if it still fits OK. And, of course, I have gloves somewhere but I need to find them - I fear they've disappeared into the sexytime black hole in my bedroom (that ate my blue satin bustier). So it's all about the hair. I'm sure there's a few Wikipedia entries that will help me with the 'do. Or, I just pretend I'm Cher. It's Cher hair, to be fair.

Au contraire, mon frere. (Anyone who gets that reference in connection with hair gets a free cocktail!)

To sum up, wigs are fun! And Ricky's is a neat store. (I also got makeup sponges, gray face paint and a tiny vial of stage blood for convenient zombifying.) Huzzah!


I've been busy.

Heard outside my window:

"Why do you hate me? I love youuuu! WHYYYYY!"


And one more thing.

I would really like to do this.

No time left for you!

I have no time to blog! No time! Well, not at the moment. Well, not really.

But in the meantime, aren't these charming?

The Cake Pan Lady

And since I'm feeling especially generous,

Eliza Skinner. The phrase 'sticky man-trash' is somehow quite beguiling.

And finally, a truly fine piece of improv geekery.


Probably the best Mac/PC ad parody I've seen.

By the funny (and black) Elon James White. Get all your black news at This Week in Blackness!



This is hardly original; I've seen it around lots of places today. But it's worth watching.


I liked the cutoff sweatshirts too.

One of my adolescent heroes:


Update: I can buy that shirt! Whoo!


Dear Sir,

I am not believing your "Killer Death Ride" sticker as affixed to your shiny white Vespa.

a Dick



I am not a food blogger (kind of a food blogger addict, though). However, I am emerging from an "everything I cook sucks" phase (everyone hits that patch every once in a while) to becoming a functioning home cook again. That phase is diabolical - it started weeks ago, with a lentil dish I'd made a hundred or more times, which ended up tasting odd and worsening with every attempted fix. Several other failed dishes followed, inexplicable and frustrating. Even my local falafel takeout - my go-to after a failed cooking venture requires cheap quick takeout to dispel - has changed hands and acquired a certain irredeemable dinginess.

I seem to be emerging, though, and have whipped up some delicious dishes lately I thought I'd share.

Imprecisely yours, the Lazy Gourmet.

Veggie Shepherd's Pie - convenience food heaven with the imprimateur of healthy.

1 bag Morningstar Farm veggie crumbles (frozen)
1/2 box or so of mixed vegetables (frozen) (I used peas and carrots)
about 1 cup pearl onions (frozen)
about 1/2 a large bottle of tomato juice or V-8 (trust me. Ever buy a bottle of V-8, have a few glasses, and realize you don't like it much?)
Worcestershire Sauce (dust it off, it's crucial)
Black pepper
2 cups prepared instant mashed potatoes (I use some brand in a small blue box - one envelope makes 2 cups - you don't even need milk even if the box tells you that you do.)
grated cheese (optional)

Preheat oven to 375.

Spray with nonstick spray a 9 inch square pan. Dump in the frozen goods. Pour in the juice. Season with black pepper. Stir. Shake in (I'd guesstimate about 6 good shakes) Worcestershire Sauce - the sauce should go brownish red at this point in the pan. Stir well to distribute sauce and veggies.

Spread mashed taters over the top. (Leftover would be fine, I'm sure). Aim for complete coverage. Sprinkle with cheese, or not.

Bake for 20-25 minutes until the top browns slightly and the sauce gets bubbly and pokes out around the edges.

Inelegant but tasty. Freezes and transports to work well!

Broccoli Ricotta Pesto Pasta

3 Cups steamed broccoli, more or less. (Ziploc steamer bags are a freaking miracle, trust me. Worth the price of admission, cause you won't cook those well-intentioned veggies otherwise)
1/3 c grated Parmesan cheese
1/2 c toasted walnuts
1 clove garlic
Zest of 1/2 lemon
Juice of 1 lemon
1/3 cup olive oil
Black pepper and salt
1 small container part-skim ricotta cheese
Your favorite pasta

Dump the steamed broccoli (cooked in bag or you can just boil it up until it's bright green but not soggy), cheese, nuts, garlic, lemon juice and zest into a food processor. Pulse until chopped fine. Turn on the processor and drizzle in the olive oil until you get a smoother paste (pesto - paste - get it?). You may need a little more oil. Season with black pepper and a little salt.

Cook up as much (I guess a box or less - I use very little) pasta as you like - but be sure to pull out 1 cup or so of cooking water before you drain it.

Now, you can be flexible in the assembly. Add some or all of your pesto to a big serving bowl. Stir in some hot pasta water, a little at a time, until the sauce is smooth. You may not need all of it. Now, add the ricotta cheese and the drained cooked pasta. Mix well. Add some pepper or lemon to taste. Enjoy! Also packs off to work and freezes well.

My Weird Comfort Food Soup

I make this an awful lot.

Lipton Ring o Noodle Soup
2 Eggs
Handful grated Parmesan, Romano or Asiago cheese

Cook up soup according to package directions. Beat the eggs with the cheese. Stir it into the boiling soup. Stir a bit until the egg is shredded and cooked.

Sunny day, chasing the clouds away....

Sorry, but the Sesame Street theme just came up in my party shuffle. Party, indeed!

Janet told me this weekend, upon much caressing of her hot new iPod Touch, that she wasn't a "shuffle girl." That she liked whole albums, instead. That's OK. For me, it depends on my mood. Sometimes it's party shuffle, sometimes it's ten repetitions of Mitch Hedberg.

Joe Powers is in the hospital. If you don't know him, he's a sweet young comic who was in a terrible accident. Pray to whatever g-ds you do or don't believe in that he pulls through good and strong.

Can you tell me how to get? How to get to Sesame Street.

I had a lovely, lovely weekend in Chicago, for real. It wasn't just the getting away (which may have been nuts of me, given the short "whirlwind" trip and the fact that I leave for California this weekend). It was the complete and total dissolution of a sense of responsibility and decision making. And I can thank my lovely friends Janet and Ken for that, from picking me up at the el to gently depositing me at O'Hare full of pork omelette and giggles. We did tons of stuff, interspersed with some serious lumping around. I even slept better. I really needed to get the hell out of Dodge. Saw a benefit at the Old Town school (and ate free skordalia till I emanated garlic); hit the Taste of Polonia festival (an amazing fest of all things Polish. Sto lat!); went to a fantastic dance performance by the Breakbone Dance Company (perhaps inspiring me to get off my butt); and the traditional pre-airport Sunday brunch at Java Thai. And lots of nice, hard dozing and music-listening and cheese-snacking. I really needed that.

I don't have the speakers hooked up to my new mac mini, but the built in invisible ones don't really suck for my purposes. Nice!

I'm not tired anymore. Not much. A bit bouncier than I was an hour ago, perhaps. But otherwise OK.


It's so big!

Even if you've never owned a broadsword, you still need one of these.

From http://www.cavalierattitude.com/:

Why am I so easily amused? I have no idea. I think I like the red and black one. I can use it to tote around my smaller friends. And their broadswords. Because my friends are tiny, vengeful armed trolls. It's not an insult. They are actual trolls. With broadswords.


Far, far more delicious.

Unlike the tentacles that reared their ugly suckers here, the tentacles in my most recent soup purchase were delightful.

Seafood and Vegetable Noodle Soup from the spare-looking Chinese takeout on 60th between Park and Lexington. Rich and tasty with delicious seafood of all sorts - shrimp, squid, octopus, fish balls (not bad but not my favorite, and no, not what you're thinking - they're small fried up spheres of chopped fish) and crab stick (tastier than expected).

Note the tentatcles slyly peeping out from behind the water chestnuts and broccoli, nestled in a bed of egg noodle.


Light as a feather, flat as a board...

Dear lady friends, PLEASE come on Tyra with me and discuss our breasts. Please, please, please.

(Although I realize that most of my demographic is 'dudes who know me' and who are also flattish-chested, I'm afraid you do not qualify.)

Casting Call Information
City: Any City
State: National

Are you flat chested and are envious of your friend/sister's breast size?
Do you have a large chest and wish you could trade with your petite friend?
Please email me or call me ASAP (please include a picture of both people involved)


Sign o' the (burrrrrppp) times

Two youngish bros in dress shirts and ties (I'm guessing finance types) are in the Duane Reade in line in front of me. Each is carrying a case of Bud, Coors Lite, and a number of tallboys. They cheerfully avoid the well-meaning cashier's inquiry as to "what's the occassion," but they do advise him on how to properly bag said stash of cheap brew.

Here's the quiz: What's going on back at the office?

a) Just some genial summer merriment.
b) They can't afford the Whiskey Bar.
c) What do they care, they are so fired anyway.

They didn't even have any snacks. Times is tough.


Passive-aggressive poopery.

I don't know about your office, but mine has a nicely equipped "poop stall." Everyone knows that the approved "poop stall" is the one furthest from the door, where you can retreat in solitude, outlast a few pee-ers, thumb through the Vagisil product warning and the back of the M&Ms label (all that fits into your purse; I don't have the man-balls sufficient to stride into the poop stall proudly with a copy of the Wall Street Journal tucked under my arm.) Our poop stall is outfitted like the others with a multitude of TP rolls, but also with a can of industrial-strength Country Breeze Lysol - my favorite! I like to shoot a tiny courtesy spray upwards in synch with the courtesy flush.

However, in the spirit of 21st century poop-upmanship and eco-whininess, someone has taken issue with the Lysol, herein and to wit:

Now, I don't usually carry a pen into the stall (unless it's in my bag with a roughly folded copy of "Diesel Sweeties" - shut up), but someone was clearly on a mission. Someone hates cans; someone hates Lysol; someone is afraid that the next banned-supertoxin is disguised under all those Country Breezes. I tell ya, someone had better lighten up, plz!

Lysol is our friend (and a character on a classic Chappelle's Show bit)!

I bet that person uses paper seat savers and groans when they detect poopery rather than just deal with life. I'd rather have a pleasant, germicidal Country Fresh experience, than you!

(submitted to passiveagressivenotes.com)


Things to do

when you're tipsy:

Eat cheese and crackers
Make multiple corrections for typos
Amuse thyself

Things not to do:
Go out for sushi
Make phone calls.

Lesson for the ladies!

When using spray on leg hair remover, and the can says leave on for 3 minutes, for heaven's sake, pay attention!

[picture of raw scabrous legs]


We ARE the champions!

Queen founder Brian May finished his PhD in astrophysics after a 30 year break.

Here's the tome:


How cool is that?

New York City lunchtime marginalia

1. If you're feeling a bit lonely on a summer's day, try incorporating a molded-cup bra that may be a wee bit too small in the cups into your wardrobe. Instant friends on the street!

2. If you're a guy, the white man-capris with the drawstrings at the legs may not have been your best fashion choice. However, the upside-down lettering on your ass pushed it over the edge.

3. Avoid all delis that have dry panini on display. Instead, head to the Chinese steam-table takeout and noodle shop tucked away on 60th between Park and Lex. Ridiculously tasty and inexpensive to boot.


Moderation knows no bounds.

"I'm going to put a to do list on your tombstone."
- The Ex-Husband

You know, this is the funniest thing I'd heard all day (or at least the second-funniest), but it's probably the most accurate.

My approach to life is often a bit extreme. I mean, it's not like I go hurtling down mountains intentionally or anything but I tend to push it.

For example, my exercise "program" (as it were):

Warm up: Start exercising
Exercise: Work out until dizzy, strange and near-puking
Cool down: Do a few more exercises

Repeat for a few weeks until legs are permanently wobbly, tendinitis sets in, and you are close to requiring intravenous fluids. Take a few weeks off. Wallow in self-loathing. Buy a new ill-fitting sports bra.


I'm not alone in this, but it's probably not the wisest course of action.

Moderation, where art thou?


For those who don't know me

(although that rules out 99% of the readers of this blog, although they may be amused by the following)

I am pretty much the exact opposite of this.


this blog is getting way too Tumblrish...

but at any rate, here's some more videos to amuse you until I become witty again!

These ones I made.




Magic indeed!

From r stevens (creator of Diesel Sweeties, the best strip ever). I'll try to put in the actual youtube clip later, but if you know me, this would've been a near-perfect storm of evening entertainment.

Enjoy more soy!

From Cha Xiu Ba



I just bought and watched the movie version of "Chicago." Yeah, I'm a few years late to the party, but I loooved the stage version and I looooved the soundtrack (with the late late Jerry Orbach). But hell, this is a fun film! And damn, but if I had Catherine Zeta-Jones' body...hell, a girl's gotta dream. Watching her (pretty great) and Renee Zellweger (no slouch) sing and dance, it was pretty clear that Catherine's a dancer and Renee's an actress who is dancing. Does that sound performer-snobby? Oh well, it's my blog. I just notice that I'm rambling. Renee Zellweger looks a wee bit gaunt. I just realized that I sang (badly) the entire film. Richard Gere is delightful. And am I the only one who thought it was a hoot that the role played by a drag queen on Broadway is played by Christine Baranski in the movie?

I wish I could sing. Or dance. Or both, at the same time!

Preferably in a 1930s-era musical.

Jazz hands. Seriously.


Nerd Alert: High

If these don't make you ooh and aah, then there's nothing more I can do for you.

Star Wars Flash Drives


Almost famous?

Received today via my web site:

Dear Michelle,

I'm a collector of autographs. I have more than 3.800 authentic autographs of politicians, sportsmen, artists and authors from around the world.

Therefore, I would ask you if you would be so kind to send me an autographed photo of you
(or your autograph on a piece of paper with some words written down).
I will be very delighted to got your autograph in my personal collection.

Anyway, thank you very much, and may God bless you and your family.

With warm greetings from Belgium.

Uh what to do, what to do?

Fashion based reality TV is ruin my mind, no?

(I have adopted the accent of Francesca Fiore, so yes, the above title is correct.)

Things I want, in an abstract way:

1. DVF wrap dress
2. An amusing Betsey Johnson dress.
3. Christian Loubotin pumps.
4. Kate Spade bags.

Of the above, I may break down on 4 (which, I might add, will not cause me to fall, look like a sausage, or empty my bank account). The rest are clearly high and outside.



30 second bunnies.

stuff that made me happy yesterday (mush alert)

a long shower
cantonese roast pork noodle soup with a fine gentleman
haagen daz frozen yogurt sorbet pop, raspberry
watching the HOFers at the all-star game with my mom
my mom
warm weather and set trailers abounds
the smell of pierogies and summer in the air
a relatively sane kitty
a couple dozen roses
a whole lotta post it notes
even more post-it notes


World's Most Inane Blog Meme, or What to do when Insomnia Strikes

1. Name three songs you sing when you think no one is listening.

2. Favorite cheese?

3. Favorite informercial?

4. Jammies, undies, tshirt, nightie or nothing?

5. What celebrity would you sleep with in a heartbeat, even if you knew that a photographer from Us Weekly was poised outside your window to take a fuzzy photo of your naked butt?

6. Beer, wine or sangria?

7. Favorite refrigerator magnet?

8. Would you ever eat an unsugared grapefruit?

9. Most recent QVC purchase? If so, what? If not, why?

10. Favorite art supply?

11. SPF?

Enjoy. I'm not bothering to tag anyone but if you're up at this hour, hey, go to town. Feel free to post answers in the comments if you're blogless.


If I could write a comic, I'd wish it was Diesel Sweeties.



Hi, I have a boyfriend.

Did you know that?

I feel like I'm slowly emerging from the long-distance relationship closet, now that there may be a plan in place to make it not so.

I wonder if the people who may be vaguely intrigued by this will find it.


He's tall, dark and goofy. I love him lots. He really exists, and owns lots of shoes. He likes my cooking and thinks I'm adorable. He is capable of cheering me up against my will. Turn-ons: leggy dames, video games, pastrami on rye (Sorry for the lack of a third rhyme.) Turn-offs: rare steak, polo shirts, lack of leg room. (Given up on rhymes). And more! He likes stuff I do (flea markets, otters, being goofy) and he likes stuff I'm not into (strategy games, comic cons, drawing). He has an unmistakably awesome laugh. He willingly accepts comedy foisted upon him. He likes giving random presents. He has the capacity to surprise me.

Anyway, that's him in a bloggy nutshell.



bucket of truth

my stomach is sore
i am sipping lime snapple
i am still on crutches
i have actual work to do
i am out of cup o soup
i had two tiny bags of potato chips and one last cup o soup for lunch
my mom is in recovery room doing relatively swell


i am wearing a baggy pink sweater over said boob-framing blouse.


i require more cup o soup. now.

the bucket of barf list

my stomach is bleeding
i didn't sleep until 430 AM
i had weird dreams about getting remarried, then hanging out with the supreme court justices for lunch
i am on crutches today
my office is about 60 degrees
i have a raging headache but can't really take anything for it
i am running dangerously low on cup o soup
my mom is in the hospital awaiting major surgery
my stupid brand-new blouse is bra-revealing.


can't be bothered to post properly

click here


I Want Delicious Eczema-Free Candy!

Sometimes the law of the land is adorable. And delicious!

What I'm reading right now:

Not all candy is pulled, but much of it is. The process is first the mixture of the ingredients, then the boiling, then the cooling on a slab, and then the pulling. After boiling and cooling, it is a compact mass of dark color. The pulling aerates it and makes it less in weight but larger in bulk, lighter in color and more capable of holding flavor. Until the beginning of this century, candy was pulled only by hand. It required much strength. Candy pullers were hard to get. The work was strenuous and produced perspiration and uncleanliness. It was done with the
bare hands, and it was impossible to avoid danger from eczema and abrasions of the skin of the hands. It was neither appetizing nor sanitary. A good candy puller pull 300 pounds of candy a day. The capacity of the large machines now in use is 2 1/2 tons each, and one man can attend to two machines. Thus since 1900, the art has advanced from a production of 300 pounds a day to 10,000 pounds, with the same labor.

Hildreth v. Mastoras, 257 U.S. 27 (1921), Chief Justice Taft (yes, Taft) writing for the Court.


Not nearly as delicious.

How many things are wrong with this lunch?

"Seafood Bisque" from the Food Merchants deli down the street.


First of all, "Seafood." Not clam, or crab, or lobster. Should give one pause, right? But it appears pink and bisquey.

Second. The reason it's probably pink is because of the massive amounts of cayenne pepper. Not the stomach-soother I was hoping form.

Third. Octopus.

When consuming lunch from a Midtown deli, one should not be confronted with tentacles.

I love octopus, but only from trusted sources. Not a bottomless pinkish vat at the Food Merchant.

I don't feel so hot.



Thanks, Karla, for my going-away present from the old job!

Mine have pineapple flavor too!

Seriously, I like these better than chocolate.


I am working very hard.

But check this out - hacking coffee machines!

And the presence of this in my office makes me a wee bit giddy. (I put it up and several people have copied it. It's a particularly detailed one.)

Web Elements



This "Next Food Network Star" finalist....

...is clearly a Romulan.

Look at the eyebrows. Look at the way hairdo hides her ears. It's obvious.

For this reason alone, I hope she wins.


This will have to hold you till I work up the steam to write more stuff.

SCORPIO [October 23–November 21] Danny Anderson was out feeding his horses in Prosser, Washington, when a rattlesnake slithered into the barn. Anderson took a shovel and decapitated it—but when he reached down to pick up the severed head a few minutes later, it came back to life just long enough to bite him. Luckily, Anderson was fine after a trip to the hospital to receive anti-venom treatment. The metaphorical moral of the story, Scorpio: When your brave efforts finally eliminate a threat, don't get overconfident or let your guard down until you're absolutely, positively sure that it's gone.

From Free Will Astrology.


Name this photo...

of a deep fried White Castle burger. Personally I'm at a loss for words. From Grocery Eats.


What I learned at Family Court.

When boys fight, a great deal of it is about posturing and marking one's proverbial territory.

When girls fight, it's all about destruction.

Boys go for the body. Girls go for the face. Boys prefer fists. Girls prefer sharp objects. Boys will tangle. Girls will slash.

Why is this relevant, you may ask?

I am one telegenic fattte!

Joy! It's Fattie Day on Discovery Health! It's the 627 pound woman, the morbidly obese teenager, the fattest man, and plastic surgery galore! Watch the skin fly! I plan on tucking into a steaming plate of chicken enchiladas in front of the telly before the night is through. Yum-o!


I am one colossally bored and saline fattie.

Before I make another Cup O'Soup, before I read about construction liens, and before I wander off into thought about how pathetic my creative life is at the moment, I'm going to post pictures of Images From my Phone:

1. Empire State Building, the King Kong Ascendant Night View:

2. Adorable Nephew, or Highly Effective Mother's Day Decoy, Tompkins Square:

3. Pom juice handed out by girls dressed as pomegranates, if pomegranetes wore black tshirts and pants and lumpy magenta felt:


I am one broke-down fattie.

Whine, whine, whine. That's what sucking down horse-choking antibiotics and associated goodies will do to ya. My delicate constitution is revolting, as am I (as a result of my delicate constitution revolting-verb, making me revolting-adjective. Got that, grammar fans?) I am exhausted, thirsty and not as functional as I'd like to be (lots of highly necessary domestic tasks falling by the wayside as I 'lounge' on the sofa attempting to crochet a horse which looks like a pregnant fish.)

The only thing amusing me at the moment is flipping between Reality Shows of Thing I Would Not Like to Attempt, including Project Runway, America's Next Top Model, and my new besties at Cheerleader U.

These girls and boys are Very Serious about cheerleading. The only person on the show with a sense of humor is the slyly masochistic trainer who loves dunking the kiddies into a 50-degree cold pool post-practice. Her, I like. The rest are Very Serious Indeed.

I'm going to have a nice bowl of acceptable herbal tea (Yogi brand Chai, without the syrupy nastiness of 'chai lattes') with some soymilk (just sweet enough). Otherwise, avert your gaze from me at all costs, or you will turn into a pile of ick.


I am one veiny fattie!

Man, that sounds gross! But, a pattern is a pattern and it's not time to break it yet.

The point is, I went to get some blood drawn today, and the nurse told me my veins were 'great' as opposed to 'terrible.' Great meaning 'not buried under ten layers of flab.'


McNulty! D'oh!

The Wire cast as Simpsons characters.

I am one sore fattie.

Two days in a row at the gym? Wow! Yes, I went yesterday - 20 minutes of sheer aerobic joy on the treadmill, just me and Mr Green Jeans 2.0 listening to my "HARSH" (depressing/angry) mix and watching snippets of ESPN on the TV and poorly captioned news feeds on CNN. I have to ask people I know who have captioned - isn't one supposed to know the basics of what's going on in the world as they transcribe? I know transcription's a bitch, but Michelle Obama is newsworthy enough for her name not to be spelled "My Shell Obama" in the captioning. And why the hell doesn't the gym screen their TV programs better? I don't want to watch "30 Minute Meals" while I'm trying to drain the starch from my body.

Whew, that was a five calorie rant at least.

Unfortunately, I couldn't dodge Mavis. I actually ran into her at the gym shop where I was looking for a pair of shorts (I'd managed to pack four upper-body garments and no lower-body garments into my sweaty silver gym bag.) I was despairing over the (expected, to be fair) lack of big gal clothes, and found a pair of men's XL shorts among the tiny tanks and hoodies. Mavis stuck her face next to mine (why does she do that? Her neck appears to telescope like a goose-neck iMac) and gravelly make no sense to me:

"Oh I left ya here last night! Good, yer shoppin." And then she was gone. It looks like she had a haircut this weekend; she had a shorter, straighter more straw-like blond coating on her head.

Mavis, please go away. Maybe I'll get the counterman to feed her some slightly toxic Gatorade Tiger (which according to him, tastes slightly toxic anyway).

Good news - the shorts looked dandy, I got sweaty, took a lovely shower and had a delightful evening at the theatre, listening to men talk about what pathetic athletes they were.


I am one thirsty fattie.

Just got back from the gym about an hour ago, with a raging dehydration induced headache. I'm quaffing the delightful "G2" from Gatorade, which got high marks from the Asian gentleman who staffs the snack bar at Equinox. Gotta love a gym with a snack bar. He gave the thumbs-down to the other new Gatorate product, "Tiger." I slugged some G2 right there and totally agreed that it was a tasty treat (and less sugary/overtly salty than Gatorade which makes me gag.) However, due to my delicate system, I cannot chug without repercussions and so I am sipping it but suffering the headache.

I'm sweaty too. But sweaty kind of feels nice. I noticed the tshirt I'm wearing - the Johns Hopkins one I bought at the last Reunion - is actually fairly baggy. And my boobs are tiny. (I have been obsessing over them as of late - keep in mind, dear readers, that 'tiny' means 'may be able to purchase a mass-market bra in a regular store....maybe.')

I was parking it on a bench at the gym (a gym with benches and a snack bar? what the eff?) and I was, unfortunately, assailed by an elderly (well, probably fairly close to my age) trainer that I'll call "Mavis" - partly because I don't remember her name, and partly because she's just such a Mavis. Every time I see her, she tries to chat me up and induce me to get a 'fitness analysis' with her (I already had the best trainer ever and I'm not inclined to sign up again). I have actively ducked her at times, but this time I was vulnerable.

"Howareya?" (She has a death-grip Long Island accent; usually I will regress to mine, but I just get snooty around old Mavis)
I told her I was checking out a yoga class (which was about five minutes from ending).
No, Mavis. Now shoo!
"I don't know about yoga, vinata and whatever. But there's a class you'd like...." Blah blah blah "And there's men in there!"
I was rescued by a lovely young lady trainer who sent Mavis on an appointment and we chatted pleasantly for a bit.

Look, folks I understand the need for trainers to be salespeople, but I think I may be forced to rat old Mavis out. Not because she's old. Because she's effing annoying.

The gym is waaay crowded at 630. This is the only reason I'm glad my boss generally forces me to idle until 7ish.

Mmmm....hydration. I may limp over to the Key Food, although they probably don't have anything as highfalutin' as orange flavor G2.


Unbibium! Unbibium!

Isn't this neat? One of those heavy, heavy metals you glance over on the periodic table actually exists in nature! And 'unbibium' is a super cool name.

Viva Unbibium! And thanks to Thorium for helping out!

And slashdot, as always, brightens my day.


lord have mercy....

Tomorrow is Orthodox Easter. Besides taking care of a million other things, I am baking a 'lamb cake' for my aunt. It's a 2 piece aluminum mold; you fill half, and it rises to meet the other half. An easter miracle, no doubt.

(1) when you use chocolate cake instead of vanilla
(2) when the mold is a wee bit too full and leaks.

Then, you end up with a lamb perched serenely next to a pile of steaming poo.

Happy Easter, everyone! And happy Passover too!

Follow up: Somehow, the ears detached from the head (one, anyway); the head detached from the body; and random chunks dislodged. That poo was darn useful in patching up!

Out with the old....in with the newish

Thanks, Maddy, for Mr Green Jeans!

He's now happily loaded with aggro comedy, metal, chick tunes and cello sonatas. What fun!


Hey nerdz!

Maybe this will inspire you to go back and get that advanced physics degree! Hmmm!

physics is phun. and phundamental!


Pink is the new offense.

I can't walk five feet in Manhattan without being blinded by one of these:

And there are more, more, more of them in odious shades of pink than you can even imagine.

Last week in court I saw an elderly attorney of unknown foreign provenance flanked by two young blonde women in shocking pink trench coats. I couldn't stop staring. I know they are probably smart, competent legal professionals, but all I could think was "Pink Lady and Jeff."

Why, I ask, why??


Sadness abounds. Should it?

I lost my iPod last night. It was in its dirty black case with Dale's microphone plugged into it, on top of the piano. Something told me not to leave it on top of the piano, but we did for better sound recording. Which I'll never hear.

Yes, I know it's just an object. And I think 'lost' is the wrong word. 'left' is more applicable, but that makes me seem like more of a loser.

I know I'll never get it back and I'm sad.

I tried to use it as a reason not to go to the gym today but I decided in a fit of maturity that it wouldn't be a good excuse. Still it was sad to do leg presses without my aggro comedy workout mix. There was a profusion of old people in the gym this morning, and the sound track was clearly classic rock.

I am bummed. Oh well. I'll have to go to court next week without the joy of "Savage Love" pumping into my ears.

I feel stupid whining over an object. But it was mine. My mom got it for me before I had surgery a couple of years ago. It was a nice present.

I guess that makes it a bit more of a special object. But it's still a replaceable object, I guess. I really don't have the spare cash to kick around on a blatant luxury good that I rationalize as 'necessary' (to tape things, to motivate me and such) but it's just not a necessity.

Still and all, not happy.


The way to a woman's heart.

"First of all Rat, you never let on how much you like a girl. 'Oh, Debbie. Hi.' Two, you always call the shots. 'Kiss me. You won't regret it.' Now three, act like wherever you are, that's the place to be. 'Isn't this great?' Four, when ordering food, you find out what she wants, then order for the both of you. It's a classy move. 'Now, the lady will have the linguini and white clam sauce, and a Coke with no ice.' And five, now this is the most important, Rat. When it comes down to making out, whenever possible, put on side one of Led Zeppelin IV."- Mike Damone


Work it.

In this scene a gentlemen of my acquaintance and I were discussing my body. He was caressing my shoulder and was duly impressed with my incipient toning. An overly analytical discussion followed; in that, he felt that his favorable impression was 90% due to the fact that I was becoming better, stronger and healthier, and 10% was due to the fact that deep down, he believed that somehow I was doing it for him, and that was incredibly sexy.

Oddly, we were both wearing red T-shirts. Really nice dark red T-shirts.

Apparently I'm having a series of short, intense dreams with handsome-man commentary (see "Tim Gunn" earlier).


Just keep going!

Be afraid...I got my learner's permit today. I also ripped a thin strip of fabric from the bottom of my shirt to wear fetchingly around my neck.


A ridiculous conflict

ON THE ONE HAND....Old Navy, like too many retailers, has pulled their fat clothes from their stores, because apparently fat people and size 16 pants take up too much freaking room in their stores. Or, we'd rather shop while eating pounds and pounds of chocolate chicken pot pies. Or something. At any rate, it's online or nothing.

ON THE OTHER HAND...some of that stuff is cute and super cheap, which is what I require in clothing at this moment.

What's a semi-fattie to do?


Mistress of the Obvious

"You seem a little depressed."

- my shrink

Good thing all that learnin' didn't go to waste.


Make it wo-

I had an amazing dream the other night, where Tim Gunn was standing outside a suburban home with me, in the garage (the garage door was open and we were leaning against the hood of a car, drinking a soda). He was impeccably dressed, of course. We were having a serious, thoughtful discussion about how my personal skills aligned perfectly with that of a television producer, and how he thought I would be an excellent producer. When I asked him how I would go about that (did I need to be an assistant? go to school?), he started to answer...and then I woke up.

Tim - Call me! Or, I absolutely cannot make this work!


Diesel Sweeties is the best thing ever.

Check out the site for backstory on this fabulous babe (NOT indierock pete!)


Oh, too good...too good

But where's Timmy??

Real World Awards Bash

Late night haiku

The cool air feels crisp
on my face. I would like to
smoke a cigarette.

Full moon glows brightly,
thru my window as I slice
some Brie. I like Brie.

Grape Propel is nice.
Warm or cool it matters not.
Grape Propel is nice.


Blogs are for venting(whining)? Right? Huh?

Seriously, you guys!

Yes I know there were far worse troubles in the world today, great and small. But I am having a Most Annoying Day today.

1. Woke up too late to work out.
2. Left $20 in yesterday's suit pocket.
3. Fogged out all morning before a monthly client meeting. Minor office spat woke me up.
4. Monthly client meeting [boring contentious work issues here, that I can spare you.] Browsed at tacky yet girlacious bridal gowns on the way out.
5. Purchased a disappointing big salad at Pret (really I should know better, the chicken is spongy and the greens are weedy and no amount of honey mustard dressing will cure that.) Ate the Pret popcorn for lunch.
6. I'm dehydrated.
7. Race off to an audition (aka personal appointment) that I expected to take, oh, 30 minutes on a good day. Audition snapshot without glasses causes me to look retarded/cockeyed. Enjoy banter with "Nice Female Comedy Folks #1-3" and exchange potshots with "Undefined Male Comedy Friend #1."
8. After being out of my office for 1.5 hours I have apparently advanced barely at all in line. My feet hurt in wedgie heels. I have already told UMF#1 to fuck off, because deep down in my heart I know he was acting like a dick, even if he doesn't think so, because he's a dick, see how that works? (Note that I realize that writing slightly concealed blog posts about other's immature dickery kind of makes me an immature dick as well. So?)
9. Get called in, finally, to audition. Out of the 25 or so 20-35 year old males (yes, 35, I said it), I get called inside to audition with UMF#1 (see above).
10. Fuck. Shit. Channel barely suppresed rage into okay audition reaction shots.
11. Bid a cheery goodbye to NFCF#1, ignore UMF#1, and race to the elevator before conversation occurs.
12. Wander off towards the subway while sending panicked messages to the office. Nearly get blown over by the wind. Yeah, me. That's how bad the wind was, cause I ain't skinny.
13. In foot aching despair, flag down a cab by standing in the middle of Eighth Avenue.
14. Watch the driver develop rage in the Village while the meter leaps ever upward.
15. Back at work now, where I've signed on for the long long night to avoid bossly wrath and finish reports tonight. As a result, I am missing my own weekly standup comedy show. My. own. show.
16. Seriously regret choking down half a dirty-water dog. Ignore the dubiously old Diet Snapple on desk. Drink sludgy cold coffee and dig cookie shards out of desk drawer.
17. Moan. Whimper. Feh.
18. Still dehydrated.
19. Bad hair.
20. Indigestion.


The opposite of boobies.

A neat, touching and insightful blog post by my comedy partner in crime.

Would you say that I was flat chested?

If I asked you honestly? And relatively?

I have no idea why I'm writing this. I am sniffing at a bag of chocolate chip cookies but don't feel like eating them.

Last night I almost had a 'wardrobe malfunction' because my favorite, molded-cup, formerly-pushup bra now oddly hovers over my girlish curves in the most random of manners. I had to run to the ladies' room to replace the girls back into their now-large spare rooms.

(in the interests of full disclosure, that bra is a size 44DDD.)


Here's a picture of a 1940s 'sweater girl' for your amusement.


Beauty Tip #377

Philosophy's "Soap and Water" perfume should really be named "Baby Wipes/Diaper Fresh."


(Note to people who like to sniff at me: This is not the fragrance I bought. It is the one I absentmindedly tried on while I was blocking the path of the annoying woman and her annoying dog at Sephora.)

Holy Crap, are these delicious.

I don't really feel like talking at the moment. Or working. But, damn, the world HAS TO KNOW about these snacks!



Now back to your regularly scheduled bitching.


You know, I'm not really an inept asshole.

Seriously. I'd rant some more but there'd be no stopping me at this point.

There are about three people in the world that I do not want to tell to go fuck themselves, either directly, indirectly or rather gently. The sentiment, however, would be the same.

Here's some balloons. You know what? I fucking hate balloons. There, a concrete reason to garner disapproval. Whisper, whisper, that bitch hates pretty pretty balloons! Damn!

I really hate Florida too: (from Slashdot, which I do not hate)

"In an attempt to defy the newly approved state science standards, Florida Senator Rhonda Storms has proposed a bill that would allow teachers to contradict the teaching of evolution. Her bill states that 'Every public school teacher in the state's K-12 school system shall have the affirmative right and freedom to objectively present scientific information relevant to the full range of scientific views regarding biological and chemical evolution in connection with teaching any prescribed curriculum regarding chemical or biological origins.' The bill's main focus is on protecting teachers who want to adopt alternative teaching plans from sanction, and to allow teachers the freedom to teach whatever they wish, even if it is in opposition to current standards."

You know who else I hate? "Margaret P. Jones", the highly successful stone cold liar. If I tell colorful tales of fiction about my 'past' will I get a book deal and an interview in the Times? Fuck you.


I smellll Bacon!

I've been reading alternative food blogs lately - vegan blogs, raw blogs and the like. I find them fascinating bits of lifestyle-y navel-gazing. Have too much time on your hands? Reduce all your food to juice and then tell me how little you crap. To be fair, some have appetizing, non-tortured and tasty looking food that I would consider ingesting and enjoying. But many are just, frankly, a little nuts. Unroasted nuts, of course.

Also, vegans are cheap as hell, apparently. On most of the sites, the recipes aren't free - Real compassionate, guys! Even better, they'll chat at length about the recipes, post some shiny healthy photos, and then sweetly suggest you buy their book, over and over again. Kind of like free porn teasers. Guess all that agave nectar is 'spensive!

Here's a fabulous quote:

Cashews are stimulating, not a good choice for just before bed. I forget the precise principle involved, but I always lie awake if I eat anything with cashews too late in the day. Wish I could think of a good substitute. Mmmm... cashews.

Life's just too short, man. Eat a freaking unroasted nut.

However, I did enter a veggie "meat" stick contest! Yum-yum!

In contrast, this is what I plan on eating this weekend:

Wow! Maybe I'm Lutheran!


The view from my office window.

Followup commentary:
1. The cemetery is not really pink.
2. There are no gruesome tiny murders occurring in the windows surrounding it. Sadly.


Brrrring! Brring!

Remember this? The funniest thing EVER. From an unlikely source.

What @!#%! time is it?

Yeah, 345. I'm Very thirsty and my mouth and throat feel like they've been sandpapered. I've been dreaming about men's butts, Kitty Carlisle and musicals. I wish I were kidding. All the men were actually or based on people I knew and coincidentally had the same name. I also popped some Jiffy Pop (in my dream). Maybe that's why I'm so thirsty.

I just took some Claritin and Tums. Maybe my situation will improve.


Totally unrelated, but pretty neat quote

“There are so many clichés about love, food and cooking,” she said. “But cooking with your lover is a great way to see where your relationship is. I have been called an alpha cook, but when I am in love, the man can put as much salt, cream and butter into the dish as he wants. Even if it’s ruined, it’s still the best dish you’ve ever eaten.”

- Kim Sunee, in today's New York Times. She's had a pretty interesting life. I think I'm going to get her book.

Anna Karenina Quote of the Day

She hardly knew at times what it was she feared, and what she hoped for. Whether she feared or desired what had happened, or what was going to happen, and exactly what she longed for, she could not have said.

- Tolstoy, "Anna Karenina"


Things you think about when you're vomiting.

Will I stop vomiting?
Why can't I stop vomiting?
What exactly am I vomiting?
I need to clean the bathroom.
Boy I'd like to sleep, but I keep getting up to vomit.

Did you ever wonder....

Whether you weren't good enough for him? Or, rather, maybe he wasn't good enough for you? Or, both? Neither?

Nope. Not at all.

I need someone to illustrate this character for me.

Stormy Pleather - Tales of a Vegan Dominatrix!

I need a talented and mildly kinky artiste with whom to collaborate. The only thing I can draw are happy faces and Snoopy sleeping on his doghouse.


A special, heartfelt message to several cast members of "Gauntlet 3: Real World Road Rules Challenge"

Dear Beth,

You are forty.

Dear Coral,

You are bald.

Dear Katie,

You are haggard.

Dear Robin,

You are a man.



The Team: Mongolia

Very cool. Go click here and do your thing.

Featuring the voices of Jesse Falcon, Matt DeCoster and Margot Leitman. Created and written by Pete Olson.



Bret Easton Ellis's "Velveteen Psycho"

"How do you become Real?" said the butter-soft, black glove-leather Rabbit.

"Real is when you are capable of feeling Real things. Only killing someone can make you Real." The Skinned Horse was old. So old he had become not quite Antique, but definitely Vintage. His pony-spotted coat had been sheared nearly off and tiny down feathers and lofty Egyptian cotton tufted from his battered form.

"But I don't feel anything, Skinned Horse. No pain, no happiness. Nothing. How can I feel Real things?"

"When you shoot a nail in the back of a beautiful girl's head. Or drive a gleaming ax into the body of some asshole you can't stand anyway. Or when you shoot a kitten, and maybe an old lady."

"Will this make me Real?" The Rabbit's shaky voice grew more determined as it echoed through the minimally-decorated bedroom, on the thirty-sixth floor of the best building in the West Eighties.

The Skinned Horse lit a Dunhill and dragged on it slowly, deliberately exhaling a stream of smoke towards the foot of the Conrans tubular-steel framed bed. "Better. Or worse. It will make you Human."


my afternoon if my afternoon was documented by Bret Easton Ellis

so I woke up in the middle of the afternoon kind of disoriented, and remembering the dream I just had where I was in the Sunshine Theater ladies room getting undressed and then I wondered why I had my pants off. I guess that's kind of weird but typical if you were the sort of person who analyzed dreams which I wasn't. My shrink was youngish and always wore boots and chewed Trident and told me every time she quit smoking except it never lasted and I always saw her when I was late, outside on her cell phone smoking her Parliaments. Stretched out, took a big slug of water from the half open bottle on my nightstand. Thought about ordering Burritoville, maybe some nachos. Bean burrito, extra guac. The usual. I flipped through an old Salinger paperback I picked up from the tiny book store on St Marks that got smaller by half every year. It wasn't one of the famous ones they made you read in school, it was pretty rambling bullshit but somehow cool. I stuffed it in the back pocket of my jeans, threw on my down coat, pulled up the hood of my red hoodie with the Looney Tunes cat on it that vaguely irritated me, and headed out for a walk. Anywhere. It was four-thirty and I hadn't been out all day. I never did get the burrito.


Yin/yang, yum/yuck....you decide.

The blog, "Offal Good" by the mad sexy contender from "The Next Iron Chef," Chris Cosentino. Damn, he makes me forgive bleachy faux-hawking. It's NSFDT (Not safe for delicate tummies).

Me, I have had some deliciously prepared tripe. Can't wrap my head around liver, although I'd eaten it when I was a kid. Same with kidneys, although the tiny 19th century anglophile in my head would love to try a steak and kidney pie. Kind of.



Make Me a Stupormodel (too easy, I know)

"It's like a fraternity....except really good-looking"
- Make me a Supermodel

You know, watching Niki and Tyson (darling do you need a last name?) make me realize how great Heidi Klum is at her job. And, believe it or not, Tyra. She's fakey, but in a believable way. Genuinely fakey.

I know I don't make sense. I've eaten my weight in baked potatoes. I'm kinda miserable. I've been watching too much Bravo TV.

But given the choice between being a supermodel and a WWE Diva, guess which I'd prefer?


Yum yum....NOT

Did you ever notice those large cookies sold at 'healthy' places (like GNC, the gym snack stand, etc)?

(Did you ever wonder if I sound like Andy Rooney? I don't.)

You know, the ones that are 'fruit juice sweetened,' "high fiber," and the newest one, "no trans fats"? The ones that taste vaguely of dust and pineapple, even if they are chocolate chip?

They come, apparently, as two 'servings.' Yep. One of those cookies is two servings. Each serving, 220 calories.

One of those dusty, unpleasantly chewy, heavy and vaguely fruity doorstops is 440 calories.

A delightful McDonald's Double Cheeseburger is 440 calories too.

Yum yum!


completely different. I crochet. I don't knit.

Relationships are hard! Let's do math!

Yes, we have to divide up our time like that, between our politics and our equations. But to me our equations are far more important, for politics are only a matter of present concern. A mathematical equation stands forever.

- Albert Einstein (as shamelessly stolen from my Google front page)


Once upon a time,

There was a princess. A tiny, tiny princess. Well, tiny to you and me, at any rate. In her particular dimension, she was quite grand in stature. Her shoes were picometers-high, as high as her trailing-cape of muons was long.

This is why I don't write fiction.

Suspended anime-tion

I am in an odd place right now.

There is work on my desk and I have no desire to embark on completing it. I have additional work to do tonight, which I will likely enjoy, but it is not my main work.

I have an urge to do the following, in some combination perhaps, and in no determined order:
- write fiction
- consume chocolate
- work on audition material
- take a long walk
- check my cell phone voice mail
- disgorge the major and minor conflicts currently weighing on my brain and heart (metaphorically, not physically, thank goodness, knock on wood and all. I'm feeling relatively dandy, except for itchy eyes and slightly sore quads.)
- create a task list for cleaning my house this weekend
- locate a credit card bill and pay it
- go to the bank
- fictionalize one of the major conflicts that's brewing that I can't freely chat about
- clean out my personal email boxes
- crochet

What I am doing -
- rambling here for a short time
- reading old and infintely entertaining journals on the IRC
- readying myself for a dee-licious cup of Swiss Miss made with water-cooler hot water, thus making it slightly murky and not at all hot enough.
- debating whether I should gnaw on a stale unfilled cannoli shell (!) with my delicious beverage
- contemplating starting a new document of barfed-up fictionalizations of my current internal drama.


I'm wearing a smart suit, though. Shouldn't that count for something?


Rambo gets a fine review in the NY Times.

- Should I want to see this movie?
- Should I want to see it more since the Times gave it a great review?
- Should I see it because I am guilty of 80s nostalgia, even though I never saw the other Rambo movies in the theater?
- Should I be bothered by the fact that I really want to go see it, I mean really, I do.
- Do you want to go see Rambo with me? I mean, I'm sure I can find a dude to go with me, but you know, people get busy.
- Should I be bothered by the fact that I want to see Rambo, but either alone or with a dude? And not with a chick friend?
- Does anyone really care about Sylvester Stallone and the fact that he took HGH to pump up for this movie?
- Should that lessen my possible enjoyment of Rambo?
- Mostly, I want to go with someone to share the medium popcorn, giant soda combo. I don't drink soda and I can never finish the popcorn. And even if you go with someone who doesn't want anything when you go to the snack counter, they end up eating your popcorn because it is tasty. Just saying.



I'm reading "Anna Karenina" again

"Yes, I understand it all now," said Darya Alexandrovna. "You can't understand it; for you men, who are free and make your own choice, it's always clear whom you love. But a girl's in a position of suspense, with all a woman's or maiden's modesty, a girl who sees you men from afar, who takes everything on trust,-- a girl may have, and often has, such a feeling that she cannot tell what to say."

"Yes, if the heart does not speak..."

"No, the heart does speak; but just consider: you men have views about a girl, you come to the house, you make friends, you criticize, you wait to see if you have found what you love, and then, when you are sure you love her, you make an offer...."

"Well, that's not quite it."

"Anyway you make an offer, when your love is ripe or when the balance has completely turned between the two you are choosing from. But a girl is not asked. She is expected to make her choice, and yet she cannot choose, she can only answer 'yes' or 'no.'"





Write a wise saying and your name will live forever.
- Anonymous


Observations on Law & Order

Probably obvious but I've been watching lately...

1 - L&O is more pervasive than MASH or Seinfeld ever was. Remember when there was always a MASH rerun on? Or, maybe five years ago, there was always a Seinfeld rerun on? Of course, there are so many flavors of L&O on and an explosion of Unnecessary Cable Channels*. In a recent evening of channel surfing, I am pretty sure there were four episodes, on at least three different chanels.

2 - Exterior shots look like they are done in bulk, either in front of 60 Centre (the State courthouse with the impressive staircase) or the Federal building right across the way (the modern-y looking vertical-windowed one, where International Trade and a bunch of other Federal offices live). Let me tell you, those stairs are a fucking pain in the ass, especially in heels. And at least one in two L&O defendant shootings** takes place on those steps.

3 - You know, as much as I love SVU***, there are only so many scripts you can do about embryos. I want to know if there is a writer in charge of embryo continuity.

4 - Every crime show steals from Homicide.

5 - No matter what, I am unashamed to admit that I still love the Belz. Who was also stolen from Homicide. Even if he is starting to morph into Leonard Nimoy.

(*more on this later, I'm sure.)
(**the mid-episode defendant shooting is a Cross-L&O Plot Device. It can be spotted a mile away when the first twenty minutes reveal the criminals AND their crime isn't too severe. but again, I digress.)
(***Keller! The pouty Mariska! Ice-T! Dann Florek! and the Belz! Best cast ever.)


Why I need more chick friends

- Seriously is it worth it to wax my legs?
- Wanna keep me company during my pedi?
- We so need to get measured for bras
- And what's the deal with the bikini wax? Can I wear my own underwear or what?
- That color is way too purple for you.
- Is that vanilla flavored? Nice!
- You can have these heels. They kill my feet.
- Um when you're working out does this ever happen to-

Never mind. This is all ridiculous anyway. Which probably explains the above.

With apologies to "Anonymous" and my other two or three blogreading Y-chromosomes.


Just buy this.

Don't think. Just purchase. You need this.

Now that's what I call fitness!

This morning I sweated out six whiskeys, freshly-fried chicken fingers, potato skins, frustration, rage and a pound of tears.

Look out for my new workout program, "Sweating to the Uglies" where I set a fast-paced, many-repped, heavy-lifting workout to hardcore death metal and Black Flag. Think Henry Rollins in a Richard Simmons violet tank-top.

Or don't.

Of course, it is now 3 PM and I have had 2 sugar cookies and some tofu for lunch.


Suck in your life.

Freaking evil.

I want this site to die. I want everything about it to die.

I am sure I have mentioned it before. I don't care if it is run by well meaning and sensible ladies somewhere. I don't care if it is run by a conglomeration of smug psychoanalysts or canny businessmen or both. I want it to curl up and die and take everything that it represents with it.

I want to find the woman who is sad enough to pay almost $100 (!) for unfashionable jeans that may make her look 5 pounds smaller, because moving around a tiny portion of body mass is certainly her key to spiritual fulfillment.

I want to take the ace bandage and clay 'detox' kit, that will presumably drain you of a tiny portion of body mass, wrap the bandages tightly around a smug psychoanalyst and choke them with the damp clay.

Being a woman of a certain age (I perversely love that phrase, but let's get into my contradictions some other time, I'm on a roll), I take this shit highly personally.

When you get four or five crows' feet, or maybe notice a bit of displaced flesh when you rise out of bed in the morning, high-waisted wide-leg jeans with pumps may seem like a good idea.

They're not. Snap out of it. I don't care if you have to dump some bourbon in your morning Folgers. Spend the $100 on quality booze rather than overpriced, tired lycra and inferior denim.

You will be better for it.

*All of the above also applies to the Quacker Factory and Denim & Co. If you are awake at stupid hours and enjoy staring slackjawed at Home Shopping Hostesses, you will know of what I speak. However, even QVC doesn't seem so sad in comparison; just weirdly earnest. And at least you can embrace your inner tunic for about $40. The only thing I hate worse than burying yourself alive is being ripped off in the process.

This quote describes several of my current relationships all too well.

"I think we have the kind of friendship where if I were the devil, you'd be the only one I would tell."

- Broadcast News

(I'd forgotten how much I loved this movie. It may be one of my favorite movies that I always forget is one of my favorite movies, if that makes any sense.)


Ah, those crazy jurists!

"As I recall my esteemed former colleague, Thurgood Marshall, remarking on numerous occasions: ‘The Constitution does not prohibit legislatures from enacting stupid laws.'"
- J. John Paul Stevens

06-766 New York State Board of Elections v. Lopez Torres


My brother and I -

- are exactly the same height
- otherwise look nothing alike
- once caused an explosion in a gas stove
- prefer Breyers over Ben and Jerrys
- enjoy Ovaltine wet or dry
- move at different paces
- but can be equally obsessive
- had some of the same teachers growing up
- have lousy handwriting
- know many, many Billy Joel songs by heart
- think we are both underappreciated geniuses
- contemplate opening a goat farm/dairy/bakery one day
- are fiercely protective and loyal
- throw out milk before the expiration date
- like a mean cup o' coffee
- kick ass
- love each other very much

Happy Birthday baby brother (slightly late, but that's how we roll)

(photos to follow when i get off my lazyish hyperactive butt)

Scrabbble is for cheaters!

Sponsor me!

Scrabble is for Cheaters

It's all for a good cause!


G'wan, eat that Twinkie!

American Apparel has a (tiny) selection of clothes for fatties!

And by fatties I mean the size I would be if I lost another 50 pounds or so. Maybe. Although the craving for an array of brightly-colored, LA-produced, creepy-advertised tiny rib tanks is INTENSE!

I own a pair of American Apparel 'thigh high' socks. And by thigh high I mean knee high. They're quite cute. I also purchased a strange polka-dotted headband and a smallish pair of mens' safety orange briefs, possibly to be gifted when it amuses me to do so.

What would you do, ladies and gents, if confronted with a pair of safety orange briefs (on another, clearly, not on yourself.) I may buy another few pairs and scatter them amongst the slim-hipped men of New York just for giggles. Kind of like marking a dollar bill with your name, or website, and sending it out into the world.