28: Je suis voitre "sucre maman".

My younger brother Patrick only has to shave every two weeks. Which is about as often as I shave my legs. I wonder if he gets shit from his friends like I did when I was in school. My friends would ask me when I last shaved my legs and my answer was always something like “Last summer.” At this point in the conversation, I would be banished from the bathroom or wherever else we were hanging out. We would usually all be sitting on the edge of the bathtub or on somebody’s bed, chain-smoking, gossiping, and putting on makeup. I wanted more body hair. I kept thinking of ways to grow more so I could participate in the delightfully grown-up ritual of shaving it all off. Was there a market for body hair? I know that you can get wigs for your head, but what about wigs for your whole body?

Ew. That’s so gross.

The Monroe Street bridge reopened Monday after months of reconstruction to no fanfare. I walked out for lunch at 3:00 pm (I always eat that late in the day) and was delighted to see taxi cabs zipping over the bridge, down the street, towards downtown. Of course, my delight disappeared when one of these vehicles nearly ran my flip ass over. That was not so good, especially as my land speed is about the same of a three-toed sloth. Pretty pathetic when I have more toes than those hairy little things. You’d think having more toes would make you faster, right? Not at all.

Turkey Day is upon us, and my mother’s card has arrived in the post. I haven’t put it up yet, but I think I’ll tape it to my refrigerator. It shows Garfield eating a pumpkin pie. “Garfield?” you ask. I’m confused myself, but thank you for the lovely card, Mom.

I had a nice, slow weekend. I watched television Friday night (my guilty pleasure, “Popular”, is on the WB). I baked corn muffins, made pancakes, and had Kevin & Michael over for breakfast Saturday morning. After they left, I napped and visited Sean & Michelle that evening for some Eddie Izzard and Thai food. This set me up perfectly for the day of paid sloth that I enjoyed Sunday.

I spent Sunday burning CD’s at work and doing some early Christmas browsing. I was there mainly to watch the playback server and to make sure that it was playing the data recorded back in August for Comdex. Comdex, in case you don’t know, is a huge computer trade show which happens annually in Las Vegas. I don’t do the trade show circuit, and this was one of those times where I wish I did. I would have gladly spent a few days in Vegas working the booth, handing out RealTick t-shirts and flirting with retired men in Easy Spirit sneakers, just for the opportunity to spend a few days in Sin City on the company dime. According to Jeremy, there wasn’t a lot of time to party, but I’m sure I could have squeezed in a visit to Peppermill’s Fireside lounge if I had the chance. Sniff, sniff.

So something’s been bugging me since the weekend. I was home Friday night, watching television and drinking endless amounts of RC Cola, when I saw a commercial for an episode of “7th Heaven” featuring the Olsen twins. If you don’t know who the Olsen twins are, then you must not have watched the seminal 80’s sitcom “Full House”. I won’t describe the show now, but know this: the Olsen twins milked their childhood exposure on the show, getting book and video deals. They are now worth over $10 million each.

And they’re only 13.

So when I saw them on television, both of them making out with bland, non-threatening preteen boys, I had a mini-meltdown. They were kissing boys and I wasn’t. They had $10 million in the bank and I didn’t. They were famous and I wasn’t.

So what is wrong with me? I was supposed to be a genius. I could have been a prodigy. I squandered what little talent I had as a child on making friends with the wrong children and eating pork. I took piano lessons for two weeks before my piano teacher’s cheese-eating — she’d yell at me, the Kraft slices falling out of her mouth and onto they keys — during our weekly lesson drove me crazy. Every diary I’ve tried to keep has degraded into a mess of pink and purple ink scrawl which read “I thought he liked me. Am I too fat? Is it because I’m a smoker? Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!”

When Anna Paquin was 11 years old, she won an Oscar for “The Piano”. When I was 11, I won the District 11 spelling bee sponsored by the New York Daily News. When Steve Winwood was 17, he was the lead singer of The Spencer Davis Group and had a hit single, “Gimme Some Lovin'”. When I was 17, I was smoking cloves, sneaking into Club USA, and searching for obscure Smiths singles in the Village. When Robert Plant was 19, he was in Led Zeppelin. When I was 19, I was drinking Old Style and fooling around with sleazy fourth years (okay, just one but he was *really* sleazy). I’m a has-been, and I haven’t even really been anything yet. I still ask people what they’re going to be when they grow up because I haven’t quite figured that out myself. My agony never ends.

I was watching “Jawbreaker” on television last night. One of the female leads in the movie gives her phone number to a boy by — get this! — writing it on his hand. That was so sexy. People don’t seem to do it anymore. Cell phones are great, but typing some cutie’s number into your phone does not compare to taking his hand, opening his palm, writing your number on it, then gently closing his fingers over it. That’s so slick. If I were in any way interested in meeting boys, I would *totally* do this. And put the numbers in my cell phone later. You might argue with this, say that you never have a pen. But you should always have a pen, a floaty one preferably. Not only can you use them to write things down, but in a pinch you can use it as a weapon on the subway.

This leads me to my lists of what are and what are not sexy. In Style magazine does this every year, just like every other magazine on the planet (People, Gear, Horse & Hound). But they pick a list of sexy celebrities and photograph the celebs with their sexiest thing. The stupidest (yeah, it’s real word — I looked it up) sexiest thing would have to go to Julia Roberts, who in last year’s issue picked “wings”. What? Wings!? You can say all you want about Julia — she’s sexy, she’s rich, she’s talented — but WINGS?! I can do better than that. So here we go.

SEXY: Jude Law, fresh cotton sheets, Courvoisier, Bonne Bell lipsmackers lip gloss, James Coburn when he was young (esp. in “Our Man Flint”, “In Like Flint”, and “The Magnificent Seven”), the “Nightlife” sequence in “Viva Las Vegas”, “Just Because I’m A Woman” by Dolly Parton, cold soba noodles, Grace Kelly

NOT SEXY: Richard Simmons, satin sheets, Mountain Dew, Chapstick, French braids, Jocelyne Wildenstein, Oklahoma (the musical and the state), “Elvira” by the Oak Ridge Boys, ramen, Gwyneth Paltrow

And the ultimate in un-sexy: Michael Douglas’ ass. I know he just married Catherine Zeta-Jones in a lavish wedding at the Plaza hotel, but does that really prove anything? We saw his bottom in “Basic Instinct” and you would think that a rich actor whose father was also a successful would have an ass like a baby’s. Could anybody else’s ass be any more pampered than his? But no. It’s as pockmarked as Tommy Lee Jones. And whose ass is pockmarked? What do you have to do to your ass to produce pockmarks — grate it?

The world may never know.

Cheers,

Jasmine

“I’m Dick Cheney, yes, I’m the real Cheney

All you other Dick Cheneys are just imitating

So won’t the real Dick Cheney please stand up?

Please stand up . . .”

“Please don’t knock it/ Until you rock it!”

Quad City DJ’s

*playlist*

Led Zeppelin – D’Yer Maker & Kashmir; The Kingmen – Louie Louie; Patti Smith – Be My Baby; Wu Tang Clan – Gravel Pit; Digital Underground – The Humpty Dance; Melanie C. – Goin’ Down; Bjork & Thom Yorke – I’ve Seen It All; SWV – Right Here (Human Nature remix)

*blog*

http://home.uchicago.edu/~toneill/wedding/

http://www.emotioneric.com/

http://www.itsc.uah.edu/~criswell/asciipic.txt — he is *so* hot

http://www.marlysmagazine.com — the coolest girl in the world

http://www.richardbey.org — I still laugh at the memory of the “Mr. Punyverse” contests he used to hold

http://website.lineone.net/~goldenholden/wherekim.htm

http://www.seabeecook.com/ — you don’t have to be the kid of a former Seabee (like me) to enjoy this

http://www.nerve.com/Dispatches/Bars/liquorLicense/lasvegas.asp

http://newsweekinteractive.net/nw-srv/issue/12_99a/tnw/today/nm/nm02th_1.htm — like i said, she’s not sexy

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~ by Jasmine on November 21, 2000.

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