Why Meme?

Oh, this is just hideous. Hideous hideous hideous. Perhaps as punishment for not visiting him in London (… yet!) or for being slender and fabulous (I’ve been told by him that I’m “hated” for this more than once) or for any number of irrational, illogical, and completely derelict reasons, Bob has decided to tag me for participation in a hideous meme. Although he claims on his site that he’s chosen me because he misses me terribly (I didn’t force you to move away, Bob), I know that’s a load of poppycock. I am being forced, against my will, to participate in a meme. Yes, that’s right: a meme. Entitled “Bathing With Caesar”. As I commented on his site:

Hate the memes. Hate. The only time I like the word “meme” is when it’s divided into two, and I’m waving my arm in the air like ARNOLD HORSHACK, wildly signifying that I want something. For example, “Who wants to meet Johnny Depp tonight in a dark alley up against a brick wall?” Then, yes, I would raise my arm and say, “Me! Me!”

So, anyway, here’s the description of this garbage, as indicated on Bob’s site:

Said meme takes its name from Mel Brooks’ A History of the World (Part I), and, upon receiving it, one is supposed to list five things that one’s circle of friends or peer group is wild about, but that one can’t really understand the fuss over. Quoth Caesar, “Nice. Nice. Not thrilling . . . but nice.”

Et tu, Bob? Et tu?
And now, without further ado, I present my responses, in no order of significance:

  1. Classes at the Gym— Oh, please. If you know me at all, you know that I am not a joiner. You know that I despise organized anything. So to suggest that I “check out” Spinning or Yoga or Yogaerobispinlates (or any other half-baked two-bit exercise hybrid), is to suggest that you know me not a whit and to indicate to me that you are witless. And as far as yoga itself goes, well … NO. Anything that involves more than two pairs of bare feet in one room is not something in which I want to participate. Yes, I do Pilates. Yes. We all know that. I’ve been doing it for four years now, and it is my so-called “thing”. But I do private, one-on-one sessions, not classes. Classes nauseate me to my very … core.
  2. Low-Carb Anything— Give me a break. The biggest one you can find. And then dip it in a mixture of potatoes, rice, and any other “forbidden” carbohydrate-crammed food, sautée it in a tablespoon or two of olive oil (#2b on this list would be “Most Things Low-Fat”) over high heat, and serve it to me on a pretty dish large enough to act as a platter for a family of famished Jews after Yom Kippur. There’s no way I could function without carbohydrates. No way I could do the aforementioned Pilates without carbohydrates. Take your special low-carb foods and diets and whatnot and shove ’em up your Atkins.
  3. Waxing— No. No. No. I mean it. No. One of my best friends, the inimitable “JS”, once revealed the aftermath of her bikini waxing in an Ann Taylor dressing room, and I have been traumatized ever since. Sure, I was a bit startled to see her newly stripped vulva (I’m sorry, I had to say it, I had to, please forgive me … believe me, I’m retching as much as you are), but I got over that pretty quickly. What I didn’t get over was the notion of waxing, itself. Not even for eyebrows. As for me … well, I won’t divulge my methods of personal maintenance, except for the eyebrows: threading. I just did it last week, and it’s marvelous. (Aside: I had mine done by Manju. Imagine my disappointment when I discovered Manju was not a handsome male Jew but an Indian woman. She was cute, but still.)
  4. Jogging/Track Suits (with or without Louis Vuitton handbags)— Hello, but I wouldn’t even wear this sartorial schlock to run to Duane Reade to buy an emergency Diet Dr Pepper (P.S. Try the cherry vanilla variety). I can’t tell you how much I absolutely loathe the sight of anyone wearing this hideousness. I don’t care what age or what kind of body the offender has; it’s just horrid. And worse, of course, is when the word JUICY is splashed across the ass. Sorry, trollops, but this isn’t a good look. And Louis Vuitton bags? Can’t we be a little more original or individual? I don’t care if the thing is an original or a knockoff … just knock it off.
  5. Mochafrappachocochinofuckalattes— What the hell ever happened to a simple classic coffee? I’m willing to grant an espresso, cappuccino, or even a latte, OK? I’ll give you that much. (I can’t be as generous with “chai”, though. It’s just not going to happen.) But all these ridiculous super-long coffee drink names have got to go. They remind me of those ridiculously long German words that are really just individual words tacked together, like “das Insolvenzeröffnungsverfahren” (whatever that means) (and no, I didn’t make it up). Coffee. Plain and simple. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.
  6. Yes, I know I’m only supposed to list five items, but I can’t resist one more (plus, I like even numbers): Jude Law. Sorry, Matt. Or, maybe not sorry. This way, if ever we meet him one night while we’re out, and he can’t make up his mind which one of us he desperately has to have for the night … you can have him.

I will pass this ghastly meme on to Scott, because he loves me TOO much and can’t find fault in anything I do or say and I just can’t handle that much adoration, so “forcing” him to participate in this nonsense will make him lower his opinion of me by a few points; Sprite, my secret son … because despite his trendy appearance and attitude, I know he’s more of an individual than his love of Jack Spade bags would indicate; and Kate, because she’s wonderfully verbose and will be the only person I know who might actually have a blast with this.
You know, the more I think about it, the more I think Bob included me because he thinks I cannot physically harm him now that he’s moved from New York to London. What dear sweet Bob doesn’t know, however, is that I’ve been taking private voodoo lessons at a PSYCHIC GYM and can do more harm to his body (and soul!) now than I ever could have done back when he was living just a few crosstown blocks away from me. Oh, silly boy. (NB to Bob: If you feel a strange burning sensation, don’t be alarmed. And don’t bother going to your GYNECOLOGIST. It’s just me ‘n’ my voodoo, ‘s all. Love ya lots!)
P.S.  I have enabled comments on this entry, in case you feel like participating and aren’t one of the three people I chose to infect with this meme. Or, if you are one of the three people, and you want to lambaste me publicly, now is your opportunity to do so.