That oh-so-l3vitr4 message is plastered all over the pages of my statistics service, reminding me that I could cyberspy on my readers in much more depth if only I were willing to pay, pay, pay. And for months now I've been wanting to include it in a post, because really the eighth-grader in me is still as green and lively as she was twenty-seven years ago. Twenty-seven years ago. Egad.
Just a few unconnected thoughts. Well. They are connected by my usual preoccupations: vanity, pruriency, tilt-a-whirl ego, what have you.
Today a twenty-four year old man tried to ask me out. No obvious deformity was in evidence, and he appeared to retain the use of all his limbs, teeth, mental faculties, and social skills, though his English was a bit halting. I'm going to hire a private investigator to see whether anyone in my acquaintance arranged for this occurrence as a sort of birthday morale boost.
Tomorrow we take off for two days to join my family for Passover. I'm roasting about twenty pounds of root vegetables (both white and orange sweet potatoes, rutabaga, parsnip and carrot) with red pearl onions and fresh sage. Does that sound like enough root vegetable for twenty-two people? We're Jews, remember. We don't drink a lot at holidays—bizarre as it sounds, we actually eat. I also have to cook two quarts of the Italian style haroset that I started making a few years ago and which is now demanded instead of the usual raw-chopped-apple-and-walnut type. It has lots of dates, prunes, golden raisins, apples, pears, ground almonds and pinenuts, along with the usual cinnamon and sweet wine.
This is what happens when you have a daughter of great personal loveliness, if you're me: you release a tiny fraction of your persistent, intensely neurotic desire to be lovely whenever there's an event that will potentially showcase both of you; instead, you lavish considerable attention on tarting up the child. This afternoon we bought the Jellybean a gaw-jus dress, lacy stockings, and a little white crochet cardigan; I don't know what I'm wearing tomorrow and need to do my laundry.
If you missed the opportunity to say 'Happy Birthday' to me in my covert pre-birthday attention-begging post, here's your chance to do it now. If you have already wished me a happy birthday in that venue or elsewhere, consider yourself encouraged to devise some other way to express your deep appreciation of the wonder that is me. If you like.