Category: categories

I just joined the Top Ten Blog. Stop by, won’t you?

3:53 p.m.

Yesterday, I had stir fry for lunch. Last night, there was rice in my bra.

(That could totally be a haiku.)

3:53 p.m.

I was having a pleasant afternoon, when I grabbed some Chinese food for lunch and my fortune cookie ambushed me, “You lead a double life and enjoy pretending to be something you are not.” Youch. I know fortune cookies rarely tell your fortune, but when did they start telling you off?

2:45 p.m.

The only really funny five-word Webby speech was Google’s: “Google gives great… search results.”

11:15 p.m.

The New Yorker‘s fabulous blurb about “Riverdance” on Broadway: “Not the Lord of the Dance with his shirt off and the leather truss. The other one.”

12:20 p.m.

One of my favorite love poems:

I wish I were close

To you as the wet skirt of

A salt girl to her body.

I think of you always.

Akahito

12:22 p.m.

I’ve been doing some impromptu modeling around the office, which tends to happen when you work in a building full of trade publications. Anyway, I finally (finally!) have my very own banner ad:

It’s for the WEB2001 Conference, and as you can see, I’m totally a guru. You’ll also find an itty bitty me on the catalog cover:

And you can kind of see my butt on the June edition of Intelligent Enterprise.

11:14 a.m.


Me: That poor girl. If she’s alive, she’s in some hotel room right now going, “No, Noooooo!”

J: What is up with the Bon Jovi one on the right?

Me: No one’s going to go into hiding looking like that.

J: (Mock news-broadcaster voice:) Levy may have recently joined a big-hair rock band from the early eighties.

10:03 a.m.

Evan says:
“If one were to try, I bet one could discern at what points in the last three years I’ve had a girlfriend based, not on the content of my blog, but simply by analyzing the number nights in a given month I’m making posts between the hours of 1:00 AM and 5:00 AM. I let you figure out the correlation. (2:04 AM)”

In other words, he’s free man, ladies. But for how long? Let the frenetic email flirtations begin!

11:22 a.m.

A small slice of my 4th of July family reunion:

Me: You’ve got a big hunk of something in your teeth.

My sister Raina: (Smiles winningly, and moves her face closer to mine.)

Me: Ugh! Stop it.

Raina: It’s sexy.

Me: (Running my finger seductively over my peeling sun burnt shoulder.) No, this is sexy. Mmmmm.

Raina: I’m going to keep one of these teeth things at home, so I can have one ready when I go out.

My cousin Ryan: You’ve got a collection of dried chives.

Me: I think Madonna had one of those, hers was 14kt. gold, though. She’s into those felt syphilitic moles now.

Ryan: There’s a whole line of possibilities. Like fake boogers.

All: Gahh!

Me: 14kt. gold fake boogers!

Raina: That reminds me! I have a story.

Me: Do we want to hear this?

Raina: It’s not about boogers.

My cousin Ben: If it’s not about boogers, I don’t wanna hear it.

Raina: So I come home from work and there are tampons all over my lawn. I guess the kids found a box of my tampons and they were playing with them. I’m running around totally embarrassed scooping up tampons before the neighbors see.

Me: What the hell was the baby sitter doing?

Raina: She probably just thought they were playing out front. Anyway, Trevor comes outside the next morning and says, “Where are all my pop guns?”

11:10 a.m.

Apparently a geriatric beefcake calendar has made its subjects porn stars in their convalescent complex. The women won’t leave them alone. This quote is fabulous:

“They have gone hysterical,” she said, since the calendar was first circulated through the complex. “They don’t care if those men are 80, 90, 104 – – as long as they’re breathing. And those men are now so conceited. They press their pants, they’re putting on ties, their teeth are clean.”

4:53 p.m.

Jane Kenyon is my favorite poet. Below are two short reasons why, but you really should read Otherwise and Let Evening Come.

The Shirt

The shirt touches his neck

And smooths over his back.

It slides down his sides.

It even goes below his belt�

down into his pants.

Lucky shirt.

Biscuit

The dog has cleaned his bowl

and his reward is a biscuit,

which I put in his mouth

like a priest offering the host.

I can’t bear that trusting face!

He asks for bread, expects

bread, and I in my power

might have given him a stone.

4:31 p.m.