I'm all a-twitter. My hagworthiest friend and I have been temporarily abandoned by our fellas, in favor of London and Las Vegas, respectively, so we're taking advantage of the situation (and each other?) tonight by having a slumber party a deux, chock-a-block with flirty pajamas, a wide variety of sassy snacks that will try their jealous damnedest to wreak havoc on our girlish figures and flawless complexions, bawdy banter that would make lesser sluts blush, and, of course, a host of Golden Girls DVDs.

It is said that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, so in honor of my boyfriend, who I am sure is even more jealous of my and Matt's night together than the snacks are of my and Matt's taut torsos, all I'm going to say is that what happens in Astoria stays in Astoria.

I cannot wait for tonight's episode of Will & Disgrace to begin.

 
Max, Yesterday, (l, r) 6:48:00 p.m., 6:48:24 p.m.

Just when you think it doesn't get cuter, and you can't possibly get down on the sidewalk any lower to hug and kiss and snuggle and flail and make an enormous honking fool out of yourself over the outrageous, otherworldly sweetness and beauty of a huge bear of a dog you just met moments ago, and who makes you want to just curl up with him and hibernate forever by a fireplace, just when you think your heart is going to fairly burst from your chest, clear through your jacket, because his mom tells you she first met him when he was three weeks old and "his ass was so big he kept falling over" and took him home when he was eight weeks and thus has lived with him almost 14 years, the clock moves from 6:00:00 to 6:00:24, and he smiles and looks up, and anything else that may have happened during the day that made you mad or sad or anything else other than exuberant, suddenly disappears just like that, and you just want to thank whatever force of nature is possible for bringing this much ridiculous sweetness and beauty into the world. And then his mom tells you he was a "love child" because some silly boy dog had an unplanned encounter with his dogmom, and he was the only puppy in the resulting litter, so it was truly meant to be. And you just about cry right there on the sidewalk, or, okay, you do. All this, because you had to dash to the post office to mail your own mom's Mother's Day card in time for it to reach her this weekend. Woof!

Should these guys open a head shop?

I hate when people grab other people's "shticks" (although not their rhymes-withs, boys, because that I whole-hard-onnedly condone [or is that "condom"?]) and say stuff like, "Talk among yourselves" (Mike Meyers/Linda Richards) or "Can we talk?" (Joan Rivers), but, really, can we talk and then you talk among yourselves about this ... this ... this PEEVE of mine that I need to address?

Okay, so I know I have tons of 'em. I won't list them all now, because that would take way too long and I know you don't have all day ("Yeah, so get on with it, damn it!" you're saying) (Peeve: Being interrupted), and you can just as easily, when you do have all day, dig through my archives, where you'll find many as many peeves as you can shake a shtick at.

So. Ordinarily, I'm a rather polite person, choosing not to do publicly what is best carried out in private (although my boyfriend may tell you otherwise), but I figured that in a delightful little twist befitting the situation I am about to address, I would do something here, out in the open, anyway. The gloves (white, the better to run my finger along your dust with) are off!

Here: I like knowing you are "out there" and have something to say. I appreciate when you take the time to do so, whether in email (because you're shy!) or in comments. Although I am delighted to be entertained in comments, I don't care if what you say isn't, in your estimation, particularly clever or funny or just a simple "Hey, I like what you have to say, and by the way, Jodi, you are stunning." You are even free to disagree with me (although I will have to "hate" you for it and wish instant obesity and leprosy upon you). However, one thing I do not find cute in the least is when a comment only exists to point out that I have made a typo.

Because I do. Make a mistake from time to time. I know that shocks many of you. But I, like Britney Spears, am a human, and occasionally something will slip by my eagle-hawk-pterodactyl-eye and make its way out into the world without my noticing.

So, if you feel compelled to bring this to my attention — and I really do want to know, because I can't stand to be seen in public being anything less than the bastion of perfection that I am — let me know via email. Or, if you're going to correct a typo out in the open, at least provide a real comment about the content as well.

I mean, you wouldn't like me telling you your zipper is down, but not complimenting you on what's peeking out from it, would you?

Do I rest my case? Or do I need to beat a dead whore? (not a typo)

Nice

The next time you're on the subway, take a li'l looksee at everyone else and imagine them nude. Not just in their underwear, but full-on, full-out nude. In whatever position they happen to be in at the time. (This means no picturing them stretched out on a bed or suspended from an elaborate series of ropes and pulleys.) But don't picture the "good" stuff about nudity. Focus on the road less traveled — the rolls of flesh roosting just above their laps, the uneven tits, the errant hairs and moles and blemishes. The grosser you can imagine it, the better.

I have come to the realization, after countless disappointing experiences, that cake just doesn't do it for me. Every time I eat cake, thinking I will "treat" myself because hey, I work out so so hard and I "deserve" the thrills that a piece of cake is supposed to provide, I am left frowning out into space, thinking, 96% of the time aloud, "That was so not worth it."

I don't care where the cake is from, who made it, how much or what kind of chocolate was involved in its creation, or how many giggly tarts come popping out of it with strategically placed frosting and a cherry on top, it never lives up to my expectations. While it is true that I have very high standards and thus expect a lot from everything that has even the most marginal impact on my life, I don't think it's asking too much for cake to at least make me happy I ate it.

Years ago I went to a wedding where the cake, I was told, ad nauseam, was going to be the highlight of the whole affair. After enduring the most excruciating vows ever written — painful not only because they were riddled with more cliches than a valedictory speech but also because the bride and groom thought it would be fabulous if they both used the same interminable vows, thus forcing an already squirming congregation to listen to the tripe twice — I thought, well, it won't take much to top this. But as it turned out, the cake, the most expensive part of the wedding, I was told, given that it was created by a very famous cake guy out of white and dark chocolate of the finest quality to be found on the planet, was about as inspired as a Ring Ding chilled in my refrigerator overnight.

If you can tell me where to find cake that will make me not want to dismiss it a la Marie Antoinette, please let me know. But please also know that if it, too, fails to persuade me that cake is not a total waste of time, I will wish her fate upon you.

So, in sum, to bastardize my own quote, found in the sidebar, "Feh. Cake-cake."

Every morning, on the subway, Lydia reminds herself that she is happy. She has an apartment with heat and a window and plumbing, and a boyfriend who takes her to dinner. She's healthy, not fat, and has a pretty face and a job that pays most of her bills. Construction workers still say rude things to her, and the nice Indian guy at the corner deli always throws in a free bag of Ruffles no matter what else she buys.

She is happy, damn it. Very happy. Finger-snapping, head-bopping, puddle-skipping happy. Sing-aloud happy.

For 20 minutes she almost convinces herself.

You can find this house on West 75th Street, between West End Avenue and Broadway. The house on the left, alas, is "no more". I am quite sure it is being replaced by yet another soulless condo-type atrocity.

Previously:   I would not cry if I had to live here - #1

The only light in the wooded area comes from Keith's headlights as we inch forward to find the ideal spot for him to have his long-haired, teenage-mustached way with me. Our parents' houses are out of the question. But his hatchback? Hoo, yeah, now we're talkin' sexy.

But Keith isn't. Talkin' sexy, that is. No, instead he's telling me about some guy who was found hanging from a tree out here. I'm convinced he's the murderer. I figure I'd better "do it" with him so I won't be his next victim. But why do I think that will save me?

*  *  *

Keith and his mustache are making out with me like mad in the back of the hatchback, on the edge of the darkest forest that's ever been privy to a man murdered by hanging. My eyes are closed, though, so any dead-guy feet swinging mere inches from the back window won't find an audience in me.

A policeman parks a few feet away, waves his nosy flashlight through the windows, and asks Keith to step outside. Keith, displaying gentlemanliness way beyond his 18 years, makes sure to not only pull on his pants first but to zip up as well.

*  *  *

I don't know how much the policeman saw on his first round of flashlighting. I scramble to hide underneath whatever's in the back of the car, so he won't be able to leer at more if he decides to re-invade the space. Perverted thrill-seeker, I seethe. He'll probably force me out of the car, wrapped up like this.

Very little sound, other than Keith's and the cop's muffled voices, penetrate my cocoon.

"Just shout out if you're okay!" the policeman says.

"I'm okay!" I shout, imagining that he thought maybe I'd been chopped into small pieces for relatively easy disposal.

By eighth grade, Jamie, safely tucked into plaid shirts and dark jeans, already looked like a frumpy suburbamom. Her body appeared to have slid directly from pre-pubescence into middle-aged dump, completely bypassing any charms of mid-development. The Dorothy Hamill haircut, extraordinarily plain face, and obsession with horses didn't help her cause, either.

Her concession to girlishness was her sneeze, a cartoonish little apology that never failed to make the more jaded of us 12-year-olds roll our eyes. The giggle that followed in its wake was pure overkill. Still, many found it delightful.

I shudder to imagine her evolution into orgasm.

Everyone has a grand time watching Billy Boman flop his flubby way down Laskey Boulevard with the rest of the marathoners in smalltown Picton. They've never seen a fatso running down the street barefoot, only in pajama bottoms, his cheeks puffing in a way that's kinda gross but, in a weird way, kinda cute.

He can't keep up with the skinny runners, of course, so why's he keep looking over his shoulder like that? And what's with the tears running down his fat red face? You'd think he'd be happy to see his dad catching up to him so fast!

Yes, the "#1" is an indication that this is going to be a series!

I will not divulge actual street addresses, though, because I do not want some of my more rabid, eager-to-please (read: eager to get into my Will or my pants) readers to take drastic measures to separate the current residents from their residence as a first step in planting me there. Also, I just plain ol' don't know the street for this one. However, I am willing to bet someone's life (not anyone too dear to me, though) that it is in the mid to upper West 70s, somewhere between Broadway and Columbus.

This series will showcase (a/k/a I'll take a pixture 'n' hope it comes out at least 74% decent enough to "share") a place that isn't necessarily a palace, because I'm not into anything too grand or unapproachable. (Unless you're a man. Then I thrive on your grand unapproachability.) And although I am quite certain some of you think I'm some sort of princess, it just isn't so.

Ahhh, yes. Dearest Henri Bendel, you know what I like:

UPDATE, 5:55 p.m., 30 April 2008:  These windows are at Bergdorf Goodman, not Henri Bendel. Thank you to the commenter who brought this to my attention. I am locking myself away in a small underground rabbit cove, to recover from the mix-up.

Dear Dour Bank Teller,

I apologize profusely that the roll of quarters that your co-worker gave me in exchange for a crisp $10 bill mere moments ago contained a surprise penny among the expected coins. Although I was heartily amused to find that a hobo penny had jumped the quarter train and, when discovered among the quarters in my palm, desperately hoped to escape notice by putting on its best George Washington voice and trying with all its might to appear less ruddy-faced, I had to rectify the situation at once. This is the sort of "small stuff" that I am told not to "sweat", but you must realize that I have always regarded that expression with a delightful hint of bile.

So, I apologize for bringing this to your attention with a gentle and patient smile. I apologize for offering you the imposter quarter a/k/a the penny to exchange for the quarter that was due me and not assuming it was a bonus gift. I apologize for handling this with humor and calm, when clearly it was a situation that demanded silent surliness, which you so brilliantly demonstrated upon the presentation of a replacement quarter along with a thorough lack of an apology for any inconvenience.

Had I only known the protocol expected in a situation such as this, I surely would have wiped the hobo penny on my own bum (the body part variety, not the unemployed drunkard I store in one of my kitchen cabinets) before handing it to you. But as it was, I only did what I thought made sense.

Yours in proper Presidential coinage,

This sign, posted on the outside of the men's room at Veggie Heaven in Teaneck, New Jersey, is marvelous enough on its own. But you have to wonder — or at least you do if you are I (yes, that's proper grammar — stilted, sporting a natty silk ascot and strolling down the avenue with a carved ivory walking stick, but, yes, proper, and thus I must use it because someone has to be the queen of propriety, and I accept the duty even before it has been officially presented to me) — what precipitated its creation. How many times and with what variety of vigor did someone have to jiggle, rattle, and otherwise molest the door handle so that this carefully worded sign was warranted?

I was reminded, of course, of my own experience in a ladies room a few years ago, and I invite you to remember it too.

Also remember: You love coming here because you know I rattle your brain. I challenge you to consider mind-bending cerebellum-wringers so deep and controversial that they have no chance of ever being up for distaff discussion on the "Hot Topics" segment of "The View".

Okay, so this annoys me. It doesn't anger me or distress me or make me want to poke its eyes out (too much), but yes, it does annoy me. But because my schedule this week dictates that today is my only non-work day (back to the grind tomorrow) (but not the bump) (because as much as I know you like to fantasize that I am a stripper, it just is not so), I do not want to have to "do the work" by telling you why that is so. So, that's where you come in. You tell me why you think this annoys me. And then, sometime next week, when I'm not busy bumping and/or grinding, I will tell you why. If your answer is correct, you win the coveted prize of my undying admiration for the day.

Do you know what is a tragedy? A crying shame? A real hand-wringer and soul-sapper? That Henri Bendel, displaying in one of its windows this fabulousness, which is the stuff my dreams (the non-exploding non-bloody body part kind) are made of, will never Bendel over backwards to accommodate me by lowering its prices sufficiently, and thus its salespeople will never know the supreme and inimitable joy of having me exclaim, mouth frothing and limbs flailing, over the brilliance of whomever is responsible for bringing this creation to still life. And that sad sad notion, my friends, claws at my careful coif like a glassy-eyed, non-blinking rodent.

UPDATE, 5:51 p.m., 30 April 2008:  These windows are at Bergdorf Goodman, not Henri Bendel. Thank you to the commenter who brought this to my attention. I am clawing my brain out, rodentially, over the mix-up.

I am not being facetious when I ask, Is it impossible to whisper in Chinese?

(This is also not a rhetorical question or a riddle.)

Ten days ago, after showing you a shoe that inspired bile to seep from the cozy cove of my liver and invade my pancreas, I tossed out a teaser about one that almost made me spontaneously combust. "NEXT UP," I said, with no indication as to when that might be. So, because I don't want to keep you on the edge of your seat any longer than is absolutely necessary for me to feel completely in control, I am sharing the shoe RIGHT NOW.

Here. Look:

They also come in "black antique gator patent",
but that's not even a fraction as fabulous as the pewter mirror metallic!
Click for details!

The only qualm I have with the description — other than the word "comfy", which I think was put on this earth to make me wretch in the same way "sammich" does — is that it says the footbed "feels like a dream." I suppose I can't blame the good people at Zappos for not knowing that my dreams mainly consist of bloody explosions of body parts, can I? But hey, even if these droolers caused my own body parts to explode, bloodily or otherwise, I'd still give them a go. And then spontaneously combust, as aforesaid.

If you do one thing today, go here and here and sign. I beg of you.

CAUTION:  Even if you are like me and cannot stomach the thought of vile acts like this existing in the world, please please please check out the petitions anyway and sign.

She flops the item on the counter and says, "I'd like to return this. When I got home I realized I didn't need two of them, so I'm bringing one back."

The cashier rings it up and hands her the receipt. She turns to leave, head bent over it, and quickly turns back, holding up an index finger.

"Whoa. Wait. You only gave me back half what I paid."

"It was a buy one/get one deal," the cashier says. "What's the problem?"

"I'm returning the one that was full-price," the customer says. "I still have the free one at home."