My eyes! My eyes!

Um, the latest Harry Potter?

The scene in the bathtub?

It made me feel all funny inside...

Wit, how I love thee.

Screw Ebay, get this guy a book deal! (Scroll down for the Q&A. It is awesome too.) Thanks to dad for this one.

Where's my senior discount?

Firstly, great ideas, all. I think I'm going to steal bits from you all, focusing on the burgeoning gastro-loveliness that is Hell's Kitchen. Since the only time I tend to eat out is on Date Night (known also as Sunday. You know how Thursday used to be the new Friday and Wednesday used to be the new Thursday? Well Sunday is the new... wait, what day is it?) I thought I'd ramble about wherever we went. And since that place tends to be on the cheap, I'll niche it up even more. I loved your suggestion, KPolly, but the thought of actually having to eat the grossness left me feeling woozy.

Anyway, first day back and what do I do? Throw my stinkin' back out. Which is how I ended up on all fours, moaning and cursing in the middle of a playground. (Of course the bewildered toddler, upon realizing that his babysitter was completely incapacated, chose to waddle juuuust out of babysitter's pained and desperate reach.) I've swallowed three Motrin, encased my lower back in bags of frozen blueberries (the chiropractor says ice, not heat) and pissed off catering bookers in an attempt to walk upright. I've seen the future and it is scary. I now stand at a 45 degree angle and make small, shuffling movements instead of walking. Holy crap, I'm 80! I miss my youth. Those carefree days when I could sit down without clutching the arm of the couch, when I didn't pine for a walker, when my back didn't seize when I picked up my cat... (Why did I just pick up my cat...)

I'm off to make myself some nice split pea soup.

Go, Einsteins! Go!

Quick! I need your help! Someone has graciously extended an invite for me to have my own weekly food column. Here's the catch - they don't pay. Which means that I need to come up with ideas that won't cost me anything. But they have to be about food. And with enough potential topics for me to write weekly.

And yes, I'm back. Glad to be home. A week without cell phone and internet makes one a bit twitchy - with 285 email to answer when one gets home. (True story, folks.) I have more going on in the next two days than in the last two months, but more on that once the shot-like-a-pinball feeling lessens a bit.

So, ideas please.

FYI

I'll be heading to the wild and wooly wonderland known as "The Midwest" tomorrow. Since we won't have internet access, my blogtasticness will have to be put on hold until I get back. But fear not, I will return - unless our plane veers thousands of miles off course and we crash on a "deserted" island magically populated with sexy former paraplegics, extraordinarily good looking doctors and several abandoned plot threads. (Polar bears, anyone?)

He WAS kinda foxy.

Last night I dreamt that I was in love with Adrien Zmed.

That's right, from Grease 2.

I'm not sure where my subconscious is going with all this.

Why do I never work these parties?

I heard this rumor a few weeks ago and I really, really, really wanted to believe it. But as someone who knows first hand the mind-numbing tedium that is catering, I just chalked it up to fantasy. (Even though I really, really, really wanted to believe it.)

But now I'm starting to think maybe it's true. Which makes it the BEST! STORY! EVER! (I was goofing on it with one of the chefs but then he pointed out that "a lot of them waiter boys is hot, honey!") Hey, it's more fun than watching people do the horah.

Thanks Walter!

I shall title my first book "POON"

I'm not sure what it says about you guys that the two genitalia-centered posts garner more comments than any post ever.

Actually, I think I know exactly what it says.

Paging Freud.

I had a dream last night that the microwave wouldn't shut off so Matt was going to have to eat it.

When we last left our heroine

Mucho apologeociocios for the lacksadaisical posting. Been feeling a little uninspired/blue for the past few days and until a new episode of ANTM or celebrity scandal comes along to make me feel like I know my rightful place in the world, I'm apt to be a bit off my game.

Have I mentioned that commercial auditions are ridiculous? Has that theme reared it's oh-so-comical head yet? The other day I went in to play a fussy French poodle for a spot. They were looking for a French accented Paris Hilton/Zsa Zsa Gabor type - which is exactly who you think of when you think of me. So I get there and - aw, crap - it was like a freaking Guess girl convention. Every one of them was leggy and blonde and, what's the term I'm looking for? Bustacular. Several were even French, just to piss me off.

I wandered over to one of the casting directors and inquired if I was there for the wrong spot. Was there, perchance, a perky plucky goldfish role? "No," she sighed, with a look that said she knew my pain, "I think they want to see you for the poodle". Aw, crap. But cliches exist for a reason and while the blondes may have been bodacious - they were not brainy.

(Bewildered look) "Do I 'ave to memorize dees?"
"What's a 'size card'?"

One girl didn't even bother to look at the copy - she just stared blankly into space, as if patiently waiting for someone to mention how shiny her hair was or how nice she smelled.

The casting director called me in and explained ("as best I can with this thing") the sitch: I was a French poodle who had absolutely no idea I was a dog. They wanted her to be extremely snobby, yet warm and approachable. (As so many heiresses are.) Sexy, but not sleazy. Funny, but still very, very real.

Right.

So I gave it a go. Thank God for Madame Stull and 4 years of high school French, is all's I've got to say. After spending two hours coaxing mannequins, the c.d. was clearly ready for someone (anyone) who knew what she was doing because I was great. And you know what? I felt pretty great! I did it a few more times, sometimes a little more real, occasionally a touch more sexy-like, but through it all I was certain of one thing: I was probably, maybe going to book this thing.


I took the elevator down with the model who'd gone before me. She turned to me with an anxious look and asked, "Did it go well for you?" I said that I thought it had. "But... was it good the whole time? Or was it maybe less good at first?" She seemed so insecure and in need of reassurance that I couldn't help but fib. I told her that it was a tough audition and that she shouldn't worry, that she looked perfect for the part (which was of course true). She sort of hiccupped/laughed and said, "Well we all look perfect for the part." She was kind enough not to add, "except you, shorty" for which I was grateful.

No callback.

It's not too late to check out Scientology, right?

Happy Birthday, Matt!

Firstly, today is Matt's birthday! He's 62 years old today! Feel free to send birthday greetings, balloons, assorted ponies to matthewj_cody@hotmail.com (there's an underscore after the J, I just can't figure out how to turn the hyperlink off so you can see it.)

Second, we were having a discussion the other night about the word "twat". He thinks it's a filthy word, akin to the "c" word. I think it's charmingly archaic, not unlike the aforementioned "muff", or "foxy". Thoughts?

Overhearing the most pretentious, yet honest exchange ever? Priceless.

Two rich young guys outside of last night's auction:

- "I go to Yale. Don't you go to Cornell?"
- "I used to. Now I go to Harvard."
- "Ah."
- "So - what do you tell people you do for a living?"

I couldn't love this more if it spanked me on the ass and brought me breakfast in bed.

The best things I saw today:

- A homeless man screaming at a pidgeon, "DO YOU HAVE AVIAN FLU? BECAUSE IF YOU DO, I DON'T WANT TO EAT YOU!"

- A tattooed, hipster dad crooning "Stray Cat Strut" to his delighted infant, followed by a rather bouncy version of "Tainted Love".

Titty Titty Bang Bang

Matt and I went to see Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang last night. Now I love me some Robert Downey Jr. (those eyes, that nagging drug problem!) and Val Kilmer (so witty, yet so puffy!) but at the risk of sounding - gasp! - old, I have a bone to pick:

Why so many titties?

I have no problem with titties, really I don't. I do have a problem with the fact that EVERY WOMAN IN THE ENTIRE MOVIE had to show them. Damn, ya'll, I started wishing for some hiking boots to go with all those mountains. Then, just to keep things interesting, they decided to throw in some muff.

MUFF!

It even got its own close-up! But was there any man-meat? No. Where were the buns, hun? Nowhere. Why? Because bringing out the trouser snake gets you an NC-17. But fur pie is fine. (I can see the meeting now: "It won't be gratuitous muff! We'll make it a PLOT POINT! That way we can show it over and over! Hey, let's make the titties a plot point too! Nah, let's just show 'em.")

That's it. I'm picketing for shlong.

The best Halloween costume EVER

Thanks mom!

LYLAS

My niece (so weird) Amanda (also so weird) has a blog. And since my husband seems to have abandoned his post as my #1 Blogstar, I deliver you to the capable hands of Miss Panda. (Feel free to call her that. She likes it.)

Let's hear it for time wasters!

Okay, this is insane. (Thanks to Nadia for this head trip.)

An open letter to my cats

You know mama loves you. That's right, I do. I understand that you need me to play with the string now, Val. I know you only like to play with it in the bathtub. I understand, Tinkerbell, that you can only be put on the left shoulder or else your little world starts to fall apart and that Val needs to check under the covers every night to make sure there aren't any monsters there. (Thanks for keeping us safe.) I go out and buy you the feathers-on-a-stick contraption that you love more than life itself - even though it costs $15 - and I know that sometimes a cat NEEDS to get out into the hallway, even though there are doggies on this floor and Val has never actually seen a doggy and the terror would probably give her a little kitty heart attack and the guilt of that would nag at me for the rest of my life, but I understand.

But I will not mush your food into a paste just because you like it that way. I'm sorry I bought the "wrong" kind of food. I didn't know you didn't like chunks. I was sucked in by the delicious sounding names (Hunter's Stew!) and figured that you'd enjoy something new. Perhaps I shouldn't have bought four flats of it but it was on sale. Please eat the cubes. Stop only licking the gravy off and then freaking the hell out because you have nothing to eat.

Thank you.

SCURVY!

So a cruise ship headed to Kenya was attacked by pirates the other day. They launched grenades and shot at the boat and, I dunno, did Keith Richards impersonations, but luckily the cruise ship escaped.

I know this could've been a really ugly situation and that pirates are a real threat but... (heh) ... they were pirates. All I can picture is a bunch of guys with peg legs and parrots yelling things like "Shiver me timbers!" and "ARRRG!" and raiding the seafood buffets for lemons. Anyone else find this hilarious?

Even God believes in dinosaurs, you idiots!

Today the 9-year-old told me about a quote his mom read to him:

51% of the country doesn't believe in evolution.

I just.. I just... argh.

I kid you not.

So my agent calls. You know that story I just got published, about the hamster and the water and the audition? I have an audition for it again tomorrow.

Only this time instead of a hamster, I'm a French poodle.

My first byline!

For those of you who don't have access to the Topeka paper, here's my little story. (Thanks, mom!) It was in the religion section. Huh.

I could do that. No seriously, I could.

Got up bright and early Sunday to work a brunch at Christie's - a pre-auction exhibition of modern art. Lots of bad facelifts (on men as well as women), a surprising number of tots, a model or two (including Veronica Webb, for those who care. And yes, she ate). All in all the kind of crowd you'd expect at an event that offered free booze at 10:30 in the morning.

It's easy to make fun of modern art... because it's SO EASY TO MAKE FUN OF MODERN ART. Now I'm sure all you art snobs out there are just waiting to rip into me about how this stuff is "conceptual" and "original" and I'm soooo provincial because I only like pretty art but seriously, come on. Now I'm not including Calder or Rothko or even Basquiat: Calder made whimsical toys, invented the mobile and bore a striking resemblance to Santa, Rothko's paintings pack a visceral punch in person and deserve some serious wall space and Basquiat - well, I kind of liked the piece they had so I'm cutting him some slack. But the rest was crap covered crap with crap filling. Some of it literally. I'm talking to you Jeff Koons.

Since none of us were remotely interested in pretending to purchase any of it, we waiters entertained ourselves by playing "Which Piece Is The Dumbest?" The universal winner: a group of stuffed animals clumped together, hanging from a rope. Starting price: $180,000. (I loved watching the little kids make a beeline for it while their parents raced after them, freaking the hell out.)

Other winners:

- A bundle of recycled newspapers from 1986. (This piece was from the Whitney Biannual. A fellow waiters' mother made the egregious error of assuming they were a bundle of recycled newspapers from 1986 instead of a valuable piece of - ahem - "art" and sat on them.)
- A canvas with a date painted on it. (Astute waitress Carol Dan pointed out that this must have been "the date he realized he could make a lot of money painting crap like this.")
- An unbelievably graphic sculpture of two people fucking, carved out of amethyst. (Lest you think this sounds reasonably arty, picture a bunch of gaping maws filled with scrambled eggs standing next to a surprisingly large pair of testicles.)

Highlights from previous years included a loofa, a bag of kitty litter and an enormous sculpture of an elephant covered in a cape, so that all you could see were his eyes and his feet. (I heard that last one was actually really cute - and almost 10 feet tall. Where would you put it?)

Take THAT, jerkwad!

I don't know if this is hilarious or horrible, but I'm leaning toward the former. It's a site called DON'T DATE HIM, GIRL! where you can find out if a guy is a cheater before you date him. Say you've found some hottie on Nerve but worry his clever banter (and resemblance to Ewan McGregor) are just a touch too good to be true. Now you can enter his name in the database and see if he's been caught dinking the nanny! There's also a place where you can post a pic of the scoundrel, which (depending on how popular this site turns out to be) should severely limit his chance of getting some any time soon.

I haven't fully investigated it yet but I suspect it could be the biggest time-waster/guilty pleasure since America's Next Top Model.

BUY A TICKET TO THE ME SHOW, ALREADY!

Yep, that's me on page 2-B of the Cap-Journal! (If you're reading the paper on Saturday, that is.) The editor emailed me with the news tonight, along with the fact that people (okay, person) already mentioned how funny it is. It's nice to hear such positive encouragement coming from someone who isn't a family member.

Fox-tastic!

Sting's a little in love with me. I'm not sure when it happened; maybe at the beginning of the night when I paraded back and forth in front of him while he drank his tea. (He didn't actually look up but I could tell he dug me.) During his sound check he kept making these sexy little "I wanna hump you" hip thrusts that were clearly meant for me, and he'd clearly talked to the powers that be because I was chosen serve his entree. The captain tried to thwart our love by telling me that Sting wasn't a vegetarian and sending me to serve his wife and some random, non-Sting woman, but my man blew me a kiss across the table to let me know it was okay. (He called me "Trudy" for some reason... I think that's his pet name for me.)

Watching Sting perform live 20 feet away was pretty fucking cool. And in case you were wondering, the man is foxy. In person he will make you swoon. When he launched into Roxanne, seriously, it was like a Tom Jones moment. You could tell every woman in the room was thinking the exact same thing - the man can orgasm for 8 days straight. One of the waiters was in the enviable position of being in the urinal next to him but he just thought it was a guy who looked a lot like Sting. (Of course I had to ask the important question... But unfortunately he hadn't bothered to look at Sting's, er, stinger. Dammit.) Poor Trudy. I can't imagine being that guy's wife. At one point he took off his sweater and announced that he was hot. It took every ounce of self-control not to yell "YES YOU ARE!" C'mon, Every Breath You Take? Englishman In New York? How were we supposed to control ourselves? It was like every one of my 6th grade Sting fantasies come to life! Only with much less making out!

Plus I got a goodie bag with organic chocolate bars, some tea, an eco magazine, something called a USB drive AND an entire bottle of apple vodka! AND I got sent home at 1 am! Dude, it rocked.

It's good, right?

I have discovered something wonderful. A magical, happy-making word. Feeling pissy? Sorta blue? Get ready to see the sun shine brightly amigo, 'cause if sadness is the badness than this word is the madness!

Kerfuffle

Seriously, say it.

It's time for me to go

I'm catering until 4 am. From 4 pm to 4 am.

4 am.

It's less cheezier!

This, from the 9 year old during dinner:

"What I like about this parmesan cheese, is that it doesn't taste like cheese."

I'm sure the good folks at Kraft would be thrilled by that ringing endorsement.

I love the word "schnauzer"

Remember Jack Handey? The guy who used to write Deep Thoughts for SNL? Well he actually writes funny stuff too. Who knew?

Ah, boys.

Overheard yesterday at the children's park:

"OKAY! YOU GUYS ARE ZOMBIES AND IN ORDER TO BRING YOU TO LIFE I HAVE TO PEE ON YOUR BRAINS!"

Atonality is my friend.

I was feeling a little blue because I might've yelled at some overly enthusiastic Trick Or Treaters (in my defense, they knocked really, really loud) but then I listened to Bai Ling murder "Like A Virgin" and felt a whole lot better.

The Jov - A little older, perhaps a little wiser.

Worked an event last night for cochlear implants at Lincoln Center. Great cause - lots (er, three) celebrities were there, including unlikely attendees Jay-Z and Russell Simmons. (Who, for some strange reason, was clutching a rosary. I've seen Cribs - isn't he a Buddhist?) There was also a private performance by Jon Bon Jovi. It was Bon Jovi Unplugged - just him, a guitarist and a violin player. As if that wasn't incongruous enough, whenever he spoke it was in a distinctly Southern twang. (Dude, you're from Jersey.) That said, his acoustic version of "It's My Life" might've made me tear up a little. (I'm not saying it did, I'm just saying.)