5

So, I’m practicing walking around without grimacing as the icy wind taunts me with its, well, icy wind. I am tired of looking like the frigid cold is cutting through my spleen with one of those slightly serrated butter knives, even though that’s what it feels like while I am out in the cold for too long. I want to look like one of those expressionless, Botoxed women I see jaunting around the chic town in which I work, albeit with more clothing. Yes, on the surface, my actions sound like a folly, but I have a goal. So, we have a windchill of 5 degF today. Yes, 5. I went out for a walk at lunch. I walked to the supermarket. It’s about a half-mile away from my office. I discovered that it’s all about relaxing the face muscles when you’re walking in 5 degree weather and you want to look like you’ve had Botox instead of scrunching your face up like you’ve just had a sip of sour milk. I found that it was working. My face was relaxed and I looked like I didn’t have a care in the world, even though my major organs were freezing and on the verge of shutting down due to hypothermia. But, relaxing your face works better when you also relax your shoulders. So, if you were driving down the main street of my little corner of suburbia today and you saw a woman walking like she was in some yogically induced stupor, that was me. The only downside to this experiment was that it was so cold that none of the idle rich were out today to see my triumph.

dosa

So, I was at this Indian restaurant with a friend. We ordered our usual curries and set about to enjoy them. A spectacle seemed to arise at the table near us. The waiter brought out what can only be described as a two-foot long burrito. Everyone in the small restaurant turned to watch the waiter deliver the interesting looking food item to the eager restaurant goers. We were intrigued. What was this food? We were amazed by the flurry of excitement that surrounded the lucky recipients of the curious dish. We wanted all of the adulation and attention that those people got. We asked around and found out that the dish was called a dosa. It was a large crepe filled with curry or potatoes. My friend and I decided that next time we met up for Indian food, we were going to order the dosa.

The day finally came. We were so excited. We ordered a dosa. We wanted the throngs of restaurant goers to turn in amazement as the waiter brought out the two-foot long curry-filled crepe. We sat in eager expectation, waiting for our dosa to arrive. Our excitment turned to sorrow when the waiter came out with our dosa. Instead of bringing out the entire dosa on a large platter, the kitchen staff, probably thinking they were doing us a favor, cut the dosa up into bite-sized pieces and arranged them on a platter. No adulation, no head-turning, nothing. We both felt so let down. We ate the dosa and enjoyed it, but it was a bitter enjoyment. It was an enjoyment marred by the disappointment in not receiving the dosa with all of the pomp and circumstance afforded those restaurant goers we saw those many weeks before.

Indian food just doesn’t taste the same anymore. It has a sadder, more lonesome taste now and maybe it always will.

spoon bending

So, I was sitting at Border’s, drinking a cup of tea and eavesdropping on the cell phone conversation of the woman sitting next to me. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. She was so loud that she was talking over the Elvis Costello I had playing on my iPod. So, the lady informed whomever she was talking to that she was a psychic. Apparently, she wanted to write a book on being a psychic. I would think that it would be hard to go out in public if one was a psychic. All those people bombarding you with all those thoughts. So, I decided to test her. I wrote some things to her down in my notebook. Nothing nasty, mind you. There was no response on her part. Either she isn’t a real psychic or she was ignoring me. I guess I’ll never know.

omelets

I learned something interesting about my sister yesterday. I was reading the website of the professional organization she belongs to and I found that before she had the title of vice president in this organization, she had a brief and tempestuous rule as Breakfast Czar. I have so many questions about this. First, why didn’t she ever tell the family she held a royal post? I wonder if she was too bashful. Maybe she thought we’d insist that she wear a crown and carry a sceptre. Those sceptres can get pretty heavy…from what I hear. And of course, the more people that knew about her rule, the more chances there could be riots in the streets, plots by Bolsheviks, etc. You know, my sister and I look nothing alike. Could there be some sort of mystery here? Was she descended from some royal family and then secreted away to the vast wasteland that is the Mitten, only to regain her crown for a few brief years. As she lives her life in seclusion…well not really seclusion as we recently had coffee at Starbucks…but as she lives her life in anonymity, I wonder if she misses the pomp or the parades or even the serfs that were her life while she was Breakfast Czar.

snow

I work in a very chic town and sometimes just don’t understand the inhabitants. So, it’s cold out today. Bone-chilling cold. I go out for lunch. I’ve got long boots on, mid-length coat, scarf, mittens…the works. I’m still freezing. The wind is whipping in my face, the snow is blowing in my eyes, and I’m grimacing, as one would do in such a situation. Well, walking down the street, coming towards me is one of those negative body fat, idle rich that we see so much around town. She’s wearing Ugg boots of course, skinny jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. No coat and her hands and head are bare. She looks perfectly poised. I don’t even think the snow was snowing on her face or hair. She has some sort of aura that repels precipitation. How do they do it? How is she not as miserable as me? Do they teach being meteorologically poised in 7th grade around here? How does one not scrunch up one’s face is disgust while being hit in the eyes with snowflakes. I need to know the secret.

deeply personal information about me...

my favorite word is "froth."

Victoria's Secret

I've always harbored this secret aversion to wearing ripped underwear to religious functions. I always feel that I were to do that, G_d would know. But, if one subscribes to religious beliefs, one would assume that G_d would know any time I was wearing ripped underwear, at the gym, at work, etc. But, I can't bring myself to go into a religious institution with ripped underwear on.