Name this photo...

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

Not that I'm materialistic...

but damn, their boyfriends bought them some quality goods!

Ex-Boyfriend Jewelry

Men in plaid.

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).
"ohyagoinin?"
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.

Except-
(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.