Friday, January 31, 2003


It's not worth taking the old girl to the computer repair store again, because it has lasted longer than any computer I have ever owned. So I have ordered one online. And I am awaiting.

Last night I got a wild urge to make a new kind of Turkey Chili, which included mole sauce. I went to the A & P, where they had not heard of it. I went to the generally fabulous health food store, where they had not heard of it. I popped into a deli, a place so compulsively neat that the Anal Retentive Chef would have been momentarily happy. And the guy running the joint didn't have it, but knew what it was, and steered me to the Expensive Tiny Place that is sort of like Garden of Eden. And The Tiny Expensive Ones don't stock it anymore, not enough of a demand.


They did recommend me walking up the street to the tiny new very Mexican place. Where the waiter/proprietor proceeded to give me a paper coffee cup full of homemade mole, fragrant, warm, cinnamony mole. And would take no money.

Such are the pleasures of a town that thinks itself a city in the shadow of Manhattan. They may not have it, but they are willing to help you look. And when they do have it, they give it to you in a cup that reads: "It Is Our Pleasure to Serve You."

Wednesday, January 22, 2003


I'm going to start a clothing business for bodaciously figured dogs, like ours.


But if anyone is reading this, please do whatever you consider the agnostic alternative for my computer, which has developed major power supply issues. Thank heaven we're a two computer family.


An oldy but goody--Kevin Spacey, who gave Terry Gross the most glorious interview yesterday, AND an imitation of William Hurt that made her giggle.

Terry Gross, who loves words, music: sound.

George Saunders, whose latest short story in the New Yorker manages to mention a brand name nearly every sentence, yet still be incredibly weird AND poignant.

Mary Gordon, who embraces both crabbiness and desire.

Curtis Hanson, whose L.A. Confidential I can watch over and over again.

Sunday, January 19, 2003


If you are watching the news today, and they are covering the DC peace marches, and you notice a fetching 70something woman wearing a red headgator--well, that would be my mom.


It is curious. I just noticed this recently.

I can't remember the names of any of my bad dates.

I remember the names of all the guys I dated for any length of time. But all the nightmare dates? While I can remember details, their names have been erased from my RAM. Does this mean I'm an optimist? Or that my brain is full?

I was watching "To Live and Date in New York-2" which appears on the local metro NYC station, with fascination, horror, loathing, fascination. It is, simply, a reality show using some of the premise of "Sex and the City" (impossibly attractive single straight women date in New York) without the glue of any of the women being friends with each other. I think there are eight women, and the show lasts an hour, so since none of the women are friends, the show's producers cut frantically around the various dates that the women have..or, in some cases, don't have.

There's a lot of half-time chatter. Both the woman and the man will sort of step out of their date to discuss how the date is going, whether they are going to score. The selection of the women is high on whiteness--there is a single woman of color--and high on the glamor professions--actress, gossip columnist, model, "party girl" (dang, who knew that could be a job), event planner, investment banker, "business consultant," and, um, "aspiring rapper." The aspiring rapper is, improbably, a creamy-cheeked Brit with mega-connections--she gets invited to parties where she buttonholes Marianne Faithfull and grills her for career advice. (I so wanted Marianne to tell her to either "fuck a Rolling Stone or fuck off," but it didn't happen.)

Some of the women seem nice, particularly the event planner/booker, and a surreally effervescent actress. But so far, of the two episodes I've watched, the dates have been the least interesting part of the show. (Okay, the "party girl"'s date tried to hump her on camera, but it's nothing we haven't seen on Oz, and with better pecs.)The biggest drama to date was when the business consultant had an (off-camera) fight with her best friend when they didn't have enough tickets to both attend a swanky Newport party. The fight was so vicious that they ended up kicked out of their host's house AND had to look for a hotel room ("anything but a Travelodge"). The rest of her sequence was less about the hot hunky men at the Newport party, and far more about whether the friendship would be mended.

In short, what Sex and the City does so well.

Well, it makes me very grateful I am sitting out dating, as one of my sisters says, for the 21st century. I am probably not the demographic for this show, living, as I do, in New Jersey, being, as I am, over 40, over 110 pounds, and having been willing to date out of my area code. Or maybe I am. Stop me before I turn into a Stepford Wife, but I have to say that marrying Jeff has been the biggest surprise and thrill of my life. Getting to know somebody better and better is actually quite a wild ride.

Wednesday, January 15, 2003


1. Jeff and I were featured in an American Demographics article about the new profile of pet owner. Apparently, we are on the cutting edge--over 40, no kids, decent income, and spoiling our dog rotten.

2. One of my crabby letters about "The Bitch in the House" was published in the New York Observer.

3. I did not one, but two readings this year, at the glorious club/cafe Halcyon, on Smith Street, in Brooklyn.

4. I sold an article to a national magazine! Yea! And they paid me!

5. One of my Best American Erotica stories was translated and published in an Italian anthology, with a very spicy cover--a beautiful spike bella.

6. That same story was voted slot #56 in the top 100 stories in Best American Erotica 2003.

7. I was an advice-giver in Jane magazine in the September issue, where I gave wise advice about ill-fitting engagement rings. (Something I know more than a little about!)

8. I was on WNYC yabbering about a word my mother invented.

9. I finished a 50,000 hunk of words in November.

10. I created a workshop on giving thanks.

11. I celebrated my second wedding anniversary!

12. I drove in an enclosed Hoboken parking lot, and did not hurt a soul!


Charlie Watts. I saw Charlie Watts yesterday, wandering through mid-town, clad in a sensible black coat, looking....well, cold.

That is all.

Saturday, January 11, 2003


It is official. I have actually cooked something from O magazine. And it was good and grainy and filled with nature's bounty. I have to admit I have never used so little olive oil on anything, but it was good. Quinoa is some kind of super-grain, like they fed the Tribbles on the old Star Trek. Low fat, high fiber, and it somehow, like tofu, takes on the appearance and taste of the things around it. January issue. Check it out.


Ann Richards. Because she would make a rootin-tootin president.

Liz Smith. Just because.

Wanda Sykes, because more funny women should rule the world the way she does.

Saturday, January 04, 2003


Maggie Gyllenhaal. Because she managed to talk about S & M on Conan, allow him his comedy moments, and stick to the sticky subject. Oy, she is sexy smart.

Lance Armstrong. Because he continues to be the man, because he's teaming up with Bono to get the word out about AIDS in Africa, and because he STILL doesn't believe in God.

Alan Cumming. Because charm doesn't get more charming than that.

John Edwards. Because while he was announcing for president, I was captivated by his little mole. No, really. Because, gang, we had a slightly better economy the LAST time we had a handsome Southern lawyer in the White House.

The South Park boys. Because they're still funny as hell.

Ian McKellen. Because of his star turns, because he managed to talk like a queer feminist while answering James Lipton's dopey "Apostrophe" questions.

Thursday, January 02, 2003

MY NEW GUILTY PLEASURE For all those times you don't want to plunk down the extra change/surf the Web for the juiciest bits in the Post, the NY Observer, and the increasingly stressed-out Style section.