Regarding High-Heeled Shoes

I don't wear heels very often. Or ever, really. The thing is, I'm something of a klutz, and have a hard enough time navigating the world in flats without killing myself. Case in point: The Young Man and I were watching TV in my living room the other night. I got up, put my slippers on, walked into my bedroom, stepped on satin pajama pants and fell, banana peel style, into a heap on the floor, bruising up my knee in a most spectacular fashion. Upon my return to the living room, he said, "What happened in there?" I explained. He shook his head at me. It's not the first time, you see. Or the second. Or twentieth.

I mostly managed the chunky platform period during the late 90s, because I had a solid base to stand on. And I can usually wear a wedge without incident. Other than that, though, I stick with flats. Interesting Jess trivia: my yoga balance is extraordinary, as was my ballet balance back in my dancing days. It's my walking balance that gives me trouble.

So you may wonder, then, why I made this impulse buy today:



Yeah, me too. We'll see how it goes. I'm wearing them with my pajamas right now, and so far, so good. Of course, I'm also sitting down. Wish me luck!

Paper Trail

My goodness! Getting a new job at a monster-sized company certainly does come with a lot of paperwork. Oh, did I forget to mention that I have a new job? Because I do. And instead of celebrity astrology, I'll be working on food content. Which means less funny work stories and more riding off into the sunset with Tyler Florence. You know, in my head. Actually, I'd prefer Anthony Bourdain, but he's not part of this job.

The good news for you is that I expect to be a lot more motivated going forward, both in work and in life, which means more blog posts for you. Bon appetit!

Regarding Kitty Litter and Unfamiliar Penises

Yesterday was one of those New York City days that makes you (well, maybe not YOU, but certainly me) want to throw some shit into a bag, go to Port Authority and just hop on the next bus to like, Nebraska or something. The city literally kicked my ass yesterday, and I didn't really have the energy to fight back.

The culmination of my Very Bad Day ended on my walk home from work. It's not a short walk -- it takes me between an hour and an hour and a half, but sometimes the demons need to be exercised, and I had to stop by the vet's office anyway, so I decided to go for it.

At the vet's office, I had to pick up some very expensive little pieces of paper to put into the kitty litter box and measure whether or not Mulder's glucose level is off. He's got the diabetes, you see. As I walked down Avenue A, near Tompkin's Square park, I decided to take the pamphlet out and read the directions as I walked, so I could go home, get it done quickly and then order my sushi and settle in to watch American Idol from the night before.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man approaching me.

"Excuse me, Miss." He said. I ignored him, picked up my pace and studied my pamphlet just a little bit harder.

"Excuse me, Miss." He repeated. Again, I ignored him. After he repeated it for a third time, I gave him an impatient glare. He looked down. My glance followed his. His fly was unzipped and his penis was in his hand.

Shocked, I quickly looked away and started walking away fast. As I got farther away, so did the sound of him laughing.

The thing is, you see a lot of shit if you live in this city. A 40-year-old woman singing Crazy for You into a karaoke machine at the subway station. That chick who used to dress up like a superhero and walk drunk girls home late at night. Handlebar moustaches. You kind of get to a point where nothing bothers you or shocks you anymore. When I got a second-long glance at a stranger's penis, though, I couldn't believe how shaken up I was. And I really was. So I guess I'm not as desensitized as I thought.

It was nowhere near as amusing as when I was in college and my good friend CVS Mike would whip his out intermittently and say, "Come on Jess. Look. I just want to know if you think it's small or not," while I covered my eyes and shrieked, "Put it away! I don't want to look!" Now that shit was funny.

The Mystery Redhead

I wasn't going to mention this, but the tabloids are going to be all over it and I wanted you to hear it from me first. I've been sort of dating someone sort of famous. He's married and all, but he swears he's going to leave his wife for me. It's a big mess -- she keeps calling my house and yelling "Whore!" when I answer. Also, some kid keeps leaving me voicemail messages asking why I'm trying to steal his daddy away. Whatever, we're in love. And thankfully, he had a prenup.

Anyway, there's a potentially damaging photo that's been leaked to the press. Here it is:



Photoshop art courtesy of The Young Man

So now you know. Yes, Stephen Colbert and I are officially an item. Jealous?

Mystery Meat

Most days, I would rather have a #2 Extra Value Meal from McDonald's than anything containing nutritional value. I've recently been trying to shave off a few pounds in anticipation of bikinis and Brighton Beach and all things summer, though, so with the help of my trusty Food Diary (which gives me sad faces daily letting me know that it is VERY DISAPPOINTED IN ME), I've been trying to aim a little higher in the healthy eating department.

So, despite saturated fat's sweet siren song this afternoon, I decided to head down to Cafe 75 for a salad. I selected my ingedients; roasted chicken, avocado, roasted corn and croutons. I selected my dressing; a splash of oil and vinegar. I grabbed my little roll and I was off.

The funny thing is, when I was selcting my ingrediants, I don't recall asking for ladybugs:



Appetite successfully supressed!

The Giggles

I'm assuming Comedy Central won't sue me for posting this, as they have an "embed" option on their videos. Also, Viacom, FYI, I don't have 600 billion dollars. Anyway, The Young Man and I were watching The Colbert Report last night, and when Stephen Colbert got to the part about the turtle and the duck, I started laughing and couldn't stop, which made TYM start laughing, which made me laugh even more, and it went on and on until I had tears streaming down my face and nearly caught the hiccups. I had another bout of the giggles thinking about it on the subway this morning, and also watched it about an hour ago, causing me to laugh out loud and my office neighbors to wonder what, exactly, is wrong with me. It's also not even that funny, but I'm obviously a little off, and if you are, too, you might enjoy this:

What Passes For Mushy At Chez Cavefish

Me: So what's your plan in terms of officially moving out of here?

The Roommate: Well, were you planning on moving out in September?

Me: Yeah

The Roommate: I'll be moving out then. Or whenever you are.

Me: Are you sure? That's so far away.

The Roommate: No, no, it's totally cool. I can't leave you and Manhattan cold turkey.

Me: That seems silly when you already have a fabulous new apartment in Brooklyn.

The Roommate: I may be excited but I don't do well with change. Seriously, don't make me!

Me: You're evicted! End of the month!

The Roommate: I will miss you too much if I have to leave now.

Me: Don't say shit like that to me when I have PMS. I get all misty and crap.

The Roommate: Oh, sorry. Well, fuck you.

Me: Much better.

Subway Riders Are Lunar Tunes

I noticed about midway through the week that people were fucking nuts. Like, worse than usual. Gawker noticed, too. I thought to myself, "Jess, I wonder if there's a full moon a-comin'." And indeed there is! Tomorrow. That might explain what I witnessed on the F-Train yesterday.

I have an uncanny ability to enter the subway car where the crazy people are. Always. Yesterday morning, I made a mad dash for the first car right before the door closed, and bleary-eyed, grabbed onto the middle pole and tried not to fall asleep standing up. I surveyed the car. Most people were seated. An attractive Dick-in-a-Suit type was standing near the door. I noticed a seated man watching him angrily.

"What the fuck are you doing, man?" The seated guy yelled to Dick in a Suit. It immediately became obvious that seated guy was actually Crazy Drunk Guy.

"What did I do?" Dick in a Suit retorted loudly, with an attitude and vaguely Bostonian accent. "You tell me, what the fuck did I do?"

Crazy Drunk Guy pondered this. For a moment, it seemed he had forgotten what incited his rage in the first place. Finally, he regained his composure.

"What if that was your motha sitting there?" Crazy Drunk Guy said, bobbing his head at the girl sitting next to him, who quickly got up and moved to the other end of the car. I, like many other riders around me, had no idea what he was talking about. Dick in a Suit thought hard about the question.

"Are you talking about me putting my hand in my pocket?" Dick in a Suit asked. "Is that your problem? I was PUTTING MY HAND IN MY POCKET. Things are not always what they seem, my friend."

Crazy Drunk Guy mumbled something about "that faggot shit."

"That faggot shit? Is that what you said? You wanna go right here?" Dick in a Suit puffed out his chest and got louder with every word. Crazy Drunk Guy got up. I frantically looked for another place to stand, because if they started throwing punches I was definitely going to be in the line of fire. It also occurred to me that Crazy Drunk Guy could have a weapon of some kind.

Crazy Drunk Guy stood there for at least five minutes, staring down Dick in a Suit. The entire subway car watched in nervous silence. Finally, Crazy Drunk Guy reached his hand back to get some momentum, aimed a punch about five feet to the left of Dick in a Suit, and nearly fell over. Embarrassed, he grabbed a pole to steady himself and walked down to the other end of the car, sending the girl who'd fled him earlier scurrying back. Dick in a Suit laughed and got off at the next stop, 34th St.

The train hadn't even left the station yet, when I heard a familiar voice down on the other end of the car.

"What the fuck are you looking at, huh, motherfucker?"

Just an average day on the F-Train. Gotta love it.

My Friends Are Awesome

Text message received this morning from a friend who shall remain nameless:

I farted in yoga class yesterday. My boyfriend had to leave the room because he couldn't stop laughing.