Warm and fuzzy, like a hot cup of cocoa

You know what I think? What does the world needs now? Peace, love, caring, understanding-- all of us holding hands singing ,"I'd like to teach the world to sing."

No, we need another Jim Jones.

You read me right. Of course, not innocent people trying to do the Lord's work.

How about celebrities? Yes, thats it; can you think of a group of people who contribute less

to society? What function do they have, except make outragous sums of money and then complain they want to be left alone? But: first, before they pull the wounded bird act, let them lecture you on how you need to live your life the right way while they do completely the opposite. Ever watch the show Dirty Jobs? There is a job out there where people have to clean up bird vomit. That's a job. Play acting? Not so much.

But just so you know, I will play fair--you get to each keep one celebrity. I'll pick Shia LeBeouf.

I liked Transformers and he hasn't been stupid enough to annoy me yet.

*2015 update Shia can join the list...

Some see the Menendez brothers as evil, I see them as go-getters

We all know people that we wish we didn't know.

Friends maybe even family; they make our lives a living hell.

Admittedly, the stories we tell about them are amusing, but it's a headache we don't need. Why did I cross paths with them? Why did I cross that street; why did I pick up the phone; why did I think they were looking out for my best interest? A constant liar whose thrill it is to make you feel as if everyone is against you, because they're the only one who care about you. Let's tell a story to pit you against someone else's family, friends, band mates--of course this person is always the schemer.

Him or the wife, sends you emails about their troubles (probably about the crappy kids), even though you haven't spoke to them in months. Oops, sorry didn't mean to send you this, but since I've got you here, read this: how I've fallen on hard times--brother, can you spare a dime? How personal and I bet if each one of us sends you a dollar, your pyramid scheme will be perfect. This person probably always wanted to be famous, so let's ride on your coattails. Make sure they never have your Social Security number ever. Probably put out a CD of their crappy music and write a blog as if anyone would read this drivel; remember, everything is for an audience. If they ever looked around and took stock in their life, they would have to take a gun and pull the trigger.

How bittersweet that would be.

A late afternoon person can never be a morning person

On the treadmill? Really--whats the point?

For my money, there's nothing that spells irony more than someone at the gym, standing around eating a candy bar. It was a Snickers bar; had to be my favorite. There he was, just chomping away, right in my face. I would have loved to see him on the treadmill, cigarette in one hand; bourbon in the other. Burn the candle at both ends, I say.


Later on in the day, I pass by a tanning salon. This ample broad was standing, outside smoking a cigarette and talking loudly in her cellphone: "you know, they say tanning makes you look slimmer." Does it Really?--tell me about it, hungry hungry hippo. There would have to be a whole lot of sun to cover the hurt on that one. Besides, nothing says attractive like orange mottled skin. I'll keep my deathly pallor.

Bringing the misery since 1971

These are a few of my favorite things:

Hairdressers who don't listen to you:
"hey I would like a bob haircut": instead, you wind up with something similar to a mushroom head on top and a mullet in the back. Try to explain that in the office. Yes, I wanted to look like a 56 year old lady from Kansas named Lula.


The guy at the sub shop who doesn't speak English, yet can magically make your sandwich right. Yes, I wanted turkey with light mayo and lettuce. Thank you for the fried mystery meat cutlet with extra full fat mayo; at least they remembered to skip the black olives (I said I'm allergic and it could kill me). Not really; I say that so they would generally pay attention to my order. Nothing like a customer having a seizure and turning blue--that makes them pay extra attention .

Chain subs: one word--hideous. Subway, with that bready dreck; Quiznos--that greasy mayo and onion-drenched devil's handmaiden of a sandwich. Blimpie used to be good, now the last ones standing are all in the mall next to the gyro meat. Nothing says yummy like dry meat that looks like it's been around since the Soviets invaded Afghanistan.


Customer Service or lack thereof. Get on the phone--need to speak to someone about cable service; some guy couldn't care less about you, the job or his life. I wouldn't be surprised if old Mr. Friendly started taking people out with a rifle on the roof.


Oh yes, Heath Ledger is still dead and the media vultures are picking this one dry.

Listen, I, like so many, were so happy to here of the passing of Anna Nicole Goldigger but this was sad. It's hard to find out someone so talented died. It just left me wondering why, oh why couldn't it have been Paris Hilton?

As I said so many things to complain about... so little time.

Ode to a conversation heart

It's that time of year again: overpriced flowers, jewelry, cards and loads of sickly sweet candy
wrapped in boxes of red and pink velvet, just to say I love you. I love the many versions of candy: boxes of heart-shaped chocolate, filled with cream, milk chocolate, dark chocolate, peanut butter and anything else you can imagine. There's even Valentine's Day candy corn--remember when you could get candy corn once a year, at Halloween?

Let's say you want to send flowers to your loved one. Red roses, yellow, maybe white? The $40.00 special? No, send the $70.00 assortment; it means you really care. Remember, this is a holiday to impress--dyed daisies from the bodega just won't do.

How about some jewelry? A nice diamond perhaps? Fancy cut or maybe just a a nice CZ necklace; I'm sure she won't know the difference.

I'm sure some of you feel Valentine's Day is just a ruse. Who is this Valentine's Day character,
anyway? He must have been an executive at some multi-national corporation. I don't think this, but somewhere out there, someone is posting this theory on the web. Remember, this was probably the same guy before computers who would be at the copy store all day and night, handing out his manifestos to passers-by on the street and of course, now he has a website, so it must be true. Type in http://www.valentinesdayisalie.com/. See if I'm right.

Me, I'm a simple gal. Ive always loved a good box of "Conversation Hearts". Cute, heart-shaped candy; pastel colors with little messages on them: "BE MINE ", "LOVE YOU", "TOO CUTE"--
you get the picture. The candy itself tastes like stale chalk, but it's just adorable. I used to use them in my paintings, collages and that sort of thing. I thought it was great; everyone else... not so much.

A word or two in passing: if you are someone with a somebody, buy them some pink champagne, a box of Russell Stover candy and a card at the 99 cent store.

Alone? Send flowers to the office to make the catty coworkers jealous and that night, have some Godiva chocolate and drink vodka and cranberry juice while watching a tearjerker on Showtime. I'm not saying that's something I would do; just a suggestion.

All of them: the flower, candy, greeting card and jewelry companies got together to create this
holiday to separate the working man from his cash. I don't think that, but I'm sure someone's
floating that theory out there.

Oh! The tragedy of the modern artist

Recently, I read an article in AM New York; the cover story was about how expensive NY was and the tragedy of artists who feel they have no choice but to move out.


I actually gave this some thought (you know I'm an artist and all).

Instead of feeling sorry for this colorful lot of artists, poets and others, I came to the realization that all the people who they interviewed to be polite, were full of malarkey.

New York has was and will always be expensive. But there are 5 boroughs: Brooklyn, the Bronx, Queens, Staten Island and Manhattan.

The problem is that everyone wants to live in Manhattan; people have these silly dreams
of coming here and making it big. Stop with the whole Sex and the City/Breakfast at Tiffany's/Woody Allen thing. I'll make it here and be a big star--will you?


I say cool it, Holly Golightly, Sara Jessica, etc. and remember: Woody makes movies in England, now (that's what happens when you sleep with--sorry--marry your daughter).

Let me offer some advice --

Stop trying to live in the cool places. To be cool, you don't live in a designated area. Cool and artistic isn't Manhattan, Chelsea, Williamsburg, Park Slope or Dumbo. If you would stop posing for a second, you might your find your laces are untied; your pants are too tight and you're paying too much rent.

Me, I live in S.I. and you know what? I'm perfectly happy, I pay a fraction of what I would
for almost all other places. So is this thought of as a smart move? No, more or less, I'm derided with usually the old "isn't that where all stereotypical N.Y. people live?" This usually comes from someone who lives in Brooklyn (tell me you understand the irony). I actually had someone ask me if Staten Island had hospitals. This was coming from someone who lived in New Jersey out in the boondocks no less. Oh yeah, I lived in Jersey for almost 2 years. I would rather drink bleach than go back to that place (OK--I miss Jose Tejas and Vintage Vinyl being only 10 minutes away, but hey, that's why God made cars).

One last thing: haven't you noticed that all the "New Yorkers" are people who aren't from N.Y. (Ohio, Nebraska, Texas--wherever--then they come here and tell us how tragically unhip we are). Hey, go ahead--pay4,000 a month for a 2 bedroom apt. But how will you afford the lattes?

Fancy gentlemen do nothing for me

Men, what's the matter with men today? Let me opine on a "relevant" subject.

I don't now how or when, but it seems overnight, normal guys adopted the stance they were becoming suburban housewives. Fancy frosted hair do's manicured nails, waxed eyebrows and chests and the spray-on tan that gives you the orange glow of an Oompa-Loompa. It's all so sad; what happened? Why would any hetero guy want to look like this? More importantly,what woman finds this attractive?

Really- tan, wax, powder and pomade yourself into oblivion; you do your thing. I want you to be as happy and perfect as you can be.  But you must understand, I just feel that a man should never smell better than his girlfriend. Grooming should be shower, get the crud from under your nails, pluck the stray hairs and use deodorant; there you go, you look like a million bucks!


Let me give you an example of all this foolishness:

I went to get my eyebrows waxed; sitting next to me, a man instructing the woman how to perfectly arch his brows. His girlfriend was standing right next to him, watching this whole scene transpire. I just couldn't watch; actually, it had more to do with the woman working on my brows--when someone has a large sharp pair of scissors. you turn your head in any direction they want.


I guess sometimes, I would like things to go back to the way they were. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go back to sitting on my porch, drinking lemonade and back to my fine whittling.

This public service announcement was brought to you by LeFig

Girls, what's the matter with girls today (here I go getting all uppity)?

Women used to care about themselves, used to have goals; get an education and try to go
someplace in life. Now it seems as if every time I turn around, it's another story about some dumb broad who sent a naked picture of themselves through the Internet, and now shocked! that it got in the hands of the wrong person.

Maybe we used to have a sense of shame; now it's become "I did a stupid thing, but now I'll become an Internet sensation." Or "I'm free; I just want to express my sexuality". Please stop--you're making me nauseous. Express yourself, okay; how about doing a little interpretive dance, write a little poetry--why does it always end up becoming just another cog in the wheels of the machine of stupid?

Sorry; maybe I'm just old school, but all this nudity, all this in your face behavior, it seems as if it's the work of somebody not getting enough love, or somebody has a boyfriend (always a real piece of work) that can just talk them into anything: "baby, you're beautiful, come on, let me show the world how beautiful you are"--girls still fall for that drivel, I guess.

And we know what happens next. Once a normal gal turns into a freak job with bleached blond hair, duck bill lips and clown boobs (sort of a cross between Victoria Beckham and Pam Anderson, very creepy), she's a star. I would think If I was an actual porn star, I would be pissed that these gals would jump on my turf. But then again, all of you are spreading your legs and/or having sex on camera, so what's the difference?

Women used to have a sense of self; its hard to imagine a time when we couldn't work where we wanted, lead the lives of our own choosing. It's no wonder so many women from the 70's were so damn angry; trying to get a job and some fat bastard with a cigar wants you to be his secretary. That meant sitting on his lap while he called you honey and smacked you on the ass.

When did it go from "ladies we can do it to 10am stripper pole classes"? Really, you would never see a guy putting up with this crap. Maybe when a rash of men are coming out of cars going commando I might change my tune.

And please, If you do not understand what "going commando" means, just ask a 12 year old,

I'm sure they can explain it along with "Rainbow parties", sipping syrup and pulling a train. I must go now; I feel ill.

Hello, my little bluebird

So my little breaded veal, how's life treating you? Happy and full of good cheer? Ready to greet the day like a ray of sunshine? Probably not; more or less, it's the feeling of being a diabetic who just had their big toe amputated and the person closest to you just gave you a box of chocolates and a pair of flip flops--and they smiled giving you your gift. Always remember this my minions: a good attitude will get you everywhere and a lousy attitude will get you to read my blog.

Even though there are times I go through crippling self doubt (enough to put Brian Wilson back in his sandbox), I somehow manage to go through the routine. Listen, I know I'm an odd gal and strange things set me off. At the supermarket, I have to fight an odd urge to squeeze the cheese balls (big yellow or wine colored, covered in nuts; tell me they don't just scream "smash me please!"). When I was a kid, I used to mush the Wonder bread. It drove my mother crazy to the point where she stopped taking me to the market altogether. All around N.Y. are loaves of mutilated bread with my finger prints all over them.

So let me tell you about a dream I had: I'm a bluebird flying along. A hunter catches me in his sights, shoots me--I fall, a dog picks me up and drags me to the hunter. He takes one look at me, throws me into the bushes, and I die alone, only to be picked apart by a family of squirrels.

What does it all mean? Now, I seek a metaphor that could closely resemble who I am.
The graceful bird, the mythical unicorn, cheeky monkey or just a clever horse. I would probably be the pig. Born under the sign of the pig (or boar--whatever you prefer). I don't know what my sign signifies, just that I was told quite a bit in my younger days that I had ham hands. Apparently, I had a propensity for dropping and breaking things (ham hands seemed silly; shouldn't it have been hoof hands? Furthermore, I've never actually seen a pig pick up anything but who knows?

While I still have you here let me share this story with you.

When I was a teenager, at 2 in the morning, I found myself being followed by a group of youths for about four long blocks. They walked behind me, making oink noises and throwing beer cans at me. The beer cans were empty of course; why would you waste good beer on a sow? So did I have a girly meltdown? Fly into a rage? No, I finally got home and suppressed my feelings with carbs. The great thing is I get to write about it and tell you the boys who did this all wound up dying in a fiery car crash, hit by a drunk driver. I don't know this for sure, but this is my story and I end it as I see fit.

Have a sunshine day my little sparrows; remember to avoid the hunters.

Can't be happy all the time, can we?

I feel a bit of the old January sadness. Everyone seems so cheery; people still say
"happy new year" to me but I just don't feel it. I guess I have other things on my mind.
(and no, it's not just that Starbucks stopped using the Christmas cups this week).

Let me pose this question to you: do you ever feel that you're a bit behind the times? At my ripe old age, I do feel as if I've been phased out of the workforce. Well, everyone uses a computer, knows everything there is about computers and I don't. Well, I'm kinda behind the times, and trying to catch up. Maybe if I can get my typing skills up to 40WPM instead of 19 WPM, maybe there's hope (I know; its sad).

So what can a gal do to kill the time--read a good book? Nah, let's see what's on TV.
So what's on in Jan.--NOTHING! It's all show cast-offs; thank you, writers strike. Actually,
thank you, greedy companies for not paying writers pennies on the dollar, you bastards. Really need the money, don't you. Let's see... shitty bosses being cheap; I may know a thing or two about that subject. Keep your chins up, writers; I would doff my cap to you, if I had one.

Unfortunately, now what we are stuck with are the usual suspects: reality show crap.
Drug addicts, sluts, sad fat people, Orange County whores, matchmakers, bickering couples in faraway lands, bitchy designer wannabes, crappy dancers, song contests and desperate former stars with some "day in the life reality show"; great, thank you VH1, NBC, ABC, CBS and Bravo for adding so much to the TV screen.

In my little mind, Jan sucks. But I will say one good thing--it's 60 degrees for the last two days, so if this is global warming I say bring it on.

And one last thing: just so you know, I do enjoy the misery of others. I kinda hope Britney Spears kicks the bucket and I still hold out hope that guy from the Subway sandwich commercials gets fat again. Screw him and those awful bready sandwiches.

Some climb mountains, others just use a tredmill

You have to admit, the language can be salty, but I sure do know how to spin a good yarn.

So I joined a gym. Nothing funny about it, 15 minutes from my apt.; 50 bucks a year.

There I am on the elliptical trainer,
as I sweat away last night's steak dinner, I notice all
the gym rats dribbling in.

I'm sure you may have seen these types: the woman who uses the treadmill for 10 minutes, gets off comes back another 10 minutes back and forth; are you on or off ? Make up your mind, lady. The senior citizen on the bike with her hat, leg warmers, wristbands and yellow water bottle (all she needed was a leotard and the song "Maniac" playing in the background). The gentleman sitting next to her on the bike, wearing a ski cap, jeans and work boots: "pardon me sir, have you ever been to a gym?" Okay, I thought it; I didn't ask the man. Would you? He looked like a mental patient.

The last, always my personal favorite... Muscle guy lifts some weights, preens in the mirror,
more weights--grunting, groaning slamming the weights down; ecch, get a room you steroid- filled freak. And for the love of Pete, stop slamming the weights down; I can feel it from across
the room.

One last thing--to use the equipment you must put your name on the list. People circulating
around the machines; some one gets on, you hear "are you on the list? " The list, the list; OK, we get it--the list. You would think it was to get into some exclusive club. Silly people; after a month, they probably won't come back.

When you care enough to send the very best; when you don't send the cheap card

Once a week you run errands, pick up your prescriptions, tampons, Rolaids, candy, maybe the ''Road Songs" CD, (always loved "East Bound and Down" by Jerry Reed; I say buy it--make the bandit proud). But no matter what, I'm always drawn to the card aisle. For the love of God, how many cards are out there; how many occasions in one's life really needs a card? Does the amount of love you feel for someone really mean buying some $5.00 card with fancy script, hand cut silhouette, glitter or dried flowers ?

What happens when it's a friend, one of those "okay I need to buy this person a card, but emotionally I'm just not there". You probably check the price: let's see this is $3.99, but this card is $1.75 and it says enough. Maybe it's the friend who you never see anymore; the card you pick has some little squiggle drawing of a forlorn "Kathy"-type, (horrible cartoon strip, never funny). On the inside, "Happy Birthday--thinking of you", which really means, hey we don't see each other much, but see--I made an effort; I did my job. In those situations you never want to say too much; don't pick a blank card--you could run the risk of somehow offending. You never want to be mean when sending a card, or so I've been told. My idea of sensitivity is sending a diabetic who just had their big toe amputated a box of chocolates and a pair of flip flops.

The most fun are the relatives: the drunk uncle, the knocked up cousin, the distant mother or father, the stepbrother that inappropriately touched you when you were 12. My fave would be the niece that just got out of rehab. Little Miss Methmouth is now clean and sober and you want to show you care. Maybe a card with a watercolor painting of a bunch of boats (looks like a reproduction of one of those "starving artist" sale paintings). If someone really did paint this, they deserve to starve to death. The card itself would say "I know you feel adrift, but soon it will be smooth sailing". Translation: "stay off the ice, dimwit and maybe we might think Promises rehab and a good set of dentures was worth the money".

If you still feel unsure about buying a card, always remember: there's always the 99 Cent store.
Get a card with a kitten on it. Who doesn't love a good kitty?

Call me Elizabeth, Liz, Lizzy & Liza with a Z if you're into the whole brevity thing...

I'm in a movie quoting mood, so get your video store knowledge flowing.

Video stores -- a relic of the past. What are they now? Places to buy video games. You and your silly World of Warcraft; I have no patience. Grown men playing games all day.

For God's sake, man, get off your couch and do something. Please let me opine obsessives.
I'm sure Halo seems like pure heaven, but you smell--your couch has the imprint of your ass on it, your friends--friend, ok; your Mom's worried about you. Even the girl you have tied up in your basement since last year misses you (actually she has Stockholm syndrome, but I say
hey, use it to your advantage).

There's a world out there to be discovered, my massive ponytailed, mustard stained T-shirt wearing pal. Think of all the crappy jobs you could do, people to humiliate you, and the general sense of anger and rage you can feel towards others. Remember what a famous go- getting New Yorker once said--"someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets". Ah, words to live by.

Does anyone remember the story about the couple who let their kids starve because they were so wrapped in their video games? No, this isn't a joke--they literally forgot to feed them. What am I missing? God, people are obsessed, aren't they--the Gamers, the Trekkies, Star Wars--yes, I know the Sandpeople go from side to side; its just not that all encompassing . Besides, Anakin Skywalker wound up being a whiny twat; such a let down.

Let me leave with this thought--has anyone out there noticed that The Dude from the "The
Big Lebowski" and Lance from ''Pulp Fiction'' look eerily similar? I'll just put it out there;
discuss, debate.

The ol' whippersnappers need to get the what for from me

There are many things I regret: from the minor--using a sun lamp three inches from my face, without sun block (my face looked like pink puffer fish) to the time I bought a pair of shoes
1 size too small (it was the only size they had; hey they were adorable). Unfortunately, I then
walked around N.Y., turning my feet into a bloody mess. Maybe sometimes I drank too much. Maybe I didn't take school seriously enough. Then there's the monumental; things you said that you wish you could take back--you feel as if they've changed the course of your existence. I bet right now you might be wincing at the thought of your grand faux pas.

Maybe it's me. I've had a strong sense of shame all my life; the old right vs. wrong. You do something bad; hence, you feel bad right? Why does it seem as if no one has a sense of shame at all anymore: I do what I want, when I want--screw you. And why does it seem the ones doing it are all younger than me and couldn't give a flying rat's ass?

The one thing I find interesting about getting older is how much disdain I have for the youth.
Age gives you that great force field of indignation; no, not the old "in my day" speech, just the way things are going the youth today do seem like a cavalcade of schmucks.

They were mollycoddled as kids, can do no wrong as teens and now in their early twenties are covered in tattoos and piercings, sitting in Starbucks with laptop all day long. Why don't you
have a job? What do you do all day? I would love to have the life of leisure; why, in fact I've written about it, but I can't--I have that pesky thing called rent. Whatever happened to having tattoos that you could hide; you know, if you had a job. I love when women have tattoos on their necks; nothing says classy like having "Tony's Girl" blazoned across one's throat. I want that woman handling my cash at the bank.

It's just my opinion--I can just imagine the parents of some of these winners. Probably out there, a couple worked their fingers to the bone to send Fred to college, only to find he's in debt
from his second life habit. His avatar name is Thor--he's quite the lady killer for a cartoon; his
girlfriend's avatar name is Luxana, a raven haired goddess (!)--actually, she's a Midwest lump with two kids and probably has a bunch of dumb tattoos--a bunch of cherubs and fairies.

Me, I don't have kids--don't want them and I can't imagine what it must feel like to be the parent of some of these wretches. Parents, I would say I feel for you , but I would make me a liar and that would make me feel shame.

Desperately seeking superficiality

You and I may have similar traits. Maybe a love of films, music, good bottle of white wine or
mixed drink ("Love potion" -- banana liqueur & gin; very tasty). Maybe you and I love tasteless jokes: "what do you say to the woman who has two black eyes"? Answer--"nothing she hasn't been told twice already". Okay; if you're laughing, you know this is a joke; if your mouth is agape in horror, remember somewhere in the recesses of my brain the synapses aren't firing at 100%. Either that or I can just blame it all on my parents.

Even with all my personal flaws people still seem to like me, especially men. Well, the types
that either troll Facebook at 2 in the morning and have a duffle bag filled with torture porn, a rope, shovel and bad intentions. Or maybe the guy whose My Space profile has a
picture of someone who looks like Clive Owen, but in reality seems to to be a 300 lb. gentleman with a mullet and possessing the social graces of Ted Bundy.

Maybe it's my way of looking at the world that stops me from enjoying some things in life. For some reason, everyone I know loved the show "My So-Called Life"; me, I would have rather drank bleach then have to sit through that self-important hour long "teen drama" of the horrible '90's. Did the people who made the show ever go to high school? Sorry; really pretty girls with the porcelain skin, perfect hair and slim bodies didn't have the problems--try being 50 pounds overweight, have acne, pissed-off & warring parents, dyslexia and no privacy--that's high school, boyo. Of course it probably says something about me that I'm writing about
a show that's probably been off the air for 14 years. Yes, just call me relevant; next, I'll discuss
whether "Red Dawn" was a piece of cold war propaganda or could Quincy really do his job as ME and solve crimes at the same time (please bring that show back; just to hear ol' half a larynx speak would be worth it).

For all my bravado I really am a sensitive gal. I have a keen idea of the inner thoughts and personality traits of others. I'll tell you who you really are and just what you're thinking. In the end, dispensing thoughtful, sage advice. Now if I could follow my own advice, then I would have it made; instead, I wisely chose not to. One can't spend too much time thinking of one's self can we and let's face it; without something to have neurosis about, how would I exist?

Don't bogart that cigarette my friend

I have never been one to get on a soapbox about anything. I have my opinions and such. If you want serious commentary or political dissertation this isn't the blog. I just feel that the cigarette hysteria is a bit much for me. No, my dad isn't Fred Marlboro and I don't think smoking is ''cool''. Well, I used to; it had that whole chic Euro thing and gave all the shy girls something to do with their hands; oh yeah and it tasted good. I'm not saying for or against cigarettes, I'll say instead the pungent aroma never bothered me much.

Remember the good old days? You would see smokers everywhere, restaurants, movie theaters and airplanes. Remember bars? You can still go to a bar, pickle your liver till it looks like an olive, but you can't smoke. And as far as I can see in films nowadays, they have "special" ratings for smoking, and it's always after "mild scenes of violence". What a bunch of pandering sissies. The only time you see a smoker nowadays, there usually a Terrorists, and European. Yes, people the threat to this great nation is... a bunch of French guys filled with ennui. Stop, please stop.

Yes, I know the old amputeed foot guy and hole-in-the-throat-where-the-voice-box-used-to-be are very effective commercials, but don't you think somebody warned those guys? And they would probably still be smoking if not for the fact one guy can't walk to the store to get the cigs and the other one has no throat? Just a sick observation; sorry, no really, sorry.

In conclusion, I am a big proponent of free will. You want to smoke, go ahead, if twenty years from now you get sick and they remove your larynx and you sound like Neil Young circa Trans-- hey, if you're happy, what do I care? So ol' Lucille Ball voice--smoke up and have fun until those crazed Frenchmen destroy our American way of life.

Couldn't change if you tried, my little Bavarian cream pie

New Year's Day--anything different yet?

So how's the resolutions coming along? Did you get up this morning have a bowl of bran flakes and decaf tea with a wedge of lemon (no milk, no sugar) and go out for a hour run, then some weight training? Nice to the kids, the spouse? Bills in order? Have you finally balanced the checkbook? Let me guess: last nights' festivities consisted of probably a bit too much wine, champagne and many, many mixed drinks. Was it the old "pass me another Long Island iced tea, it's so sweet, how could I get drunk on that?" scenario?

This morning you woke up green and pasty. Your tongue is the color of vanilla yogurt. You drag yourself out of bed and go to the first Dunkin' Donuts you can find (like that's hard; that orange and purple house of caffeine, lard and sugar are everywhere): remember--Starbucks, one block ,the next block Dunkin Donuts, Starbucks and so on and so on. So at the pleasure palace of carbs, you get a Great One sized coffee, a glazed, strawberry frosted and a Boston cream donut(wait, get a whole wheat donut for later). Crawl back to your apt, unfurl your goodies and watch TV.

Now you can feel bad seeing all the commercials for Bally's and Jenny Craig (Valerie Bertinelli I can take, but that freak Kirstie Alley made me want to rip my ears off and I have cute ears, mind you). "Have you called Jenny yet? No I haven't and I won't, thank you, now kindly let me wallow in my burger of shame and milkshake of regret.

On a personal note, I had a quiet night; some bread, shrimp and cheese, watched a doc on the Sundance Channel. Ecch, how delightful. I'm such a little fruit, after the movie, I talked about Latin American cinema with my husband and we took our Puggle, Miso, out for a walk.

My worst New Year's hangover was about twenty one years ago. Just a bunch of silly teenage geese going to every bar on Avenue A that would serve us liquor. How many? All. So after many hours of drinking "Blue Whales" I found myself at a friends house, with an urge to vomit. I was such a good friend, I waited to hurl after I left the apt., just did it in the street and a cab. Got home eventually and put a bucket next to my bed. How cute; like a little Bukowski in training. Many hours later I awoke, dragged myself into the living room; my Mom watching a Gilligan's Island marathon, barely looking at me. All she said was "I made a ham; eat some and take out the garbage." Translation: "I don't know what you did last night; I don't want to know. Eat some ham because we are Jews that laugh in the face of God." Or something like that.

Enjoy the hours you have before you have to put on your happy work face.