I had to drag my ass to Philadelphia last night for an event we were hosting for an important client. The client, a large local ad agency, gives us a generous share of business annually. So we pulled out all the stops in a private dining room at the Capital Grille in downtown Philly. The spread was expansive and featured baby lamb and veal chops, lobster, crab and beautiful beef filets that you could slice through like butter. Complimented with a tasteful selection of wines and gift bags chock full of Halloween swag, our guests left fat and happy and hopefully, induced to sign off on a generous business settlement for 2007. The unspoken quid pro quo--it is the nature of the work we do.

The guests were comprised mostly of media planners and directors. Now, maybe I'm getting old, but they are all starting to look the same to me: Petite brunette women in their mid-20s. Dressed in a mix of H&M and Zara and shod in Nine West, they're still peppering their sentences far too frequently with the word "like."One has the feeling that they are better suited to speculate who Lindsay Lohan is dating than to discuss the latest Neil LaBute play. It's a tough gig. Most of them are fresh out of college and want to jump into the glamorous world of advertising. It ain't so glamorous. In reality, the hours are long, the pay is low and the only perks these folks know are the big nights out with people like us. These media girls recommend and place millions of dollars of business, but the demands of their clients often burn them out in short course. No wonder I can't keep them straight. There are new ones at every event. Curiously, the ones that leave the agency side migrate over to our side of the business; an irony never lost on me when they call to inquire about a job.

Also attending the dinner was a senior director for the agency, Fred, who has been in the ad business 30 years and has the reputation to match. He brought his wife, Georgianne, with him. I was enlisted to entertain him and his wife at my end of the table while the sales team juggled the 20 media girls at the other tables. Now, if I have any skills in life, I think it's this: I can shoot questions at you all night long to get you talking about yourself, I can tell a few odd anecdotes to keep you entertained and I'll keep your glass filled to keep your head light. Fred is a verbose chap anyway, so we had no trouble conversing. However, I was entranced by Georgianne. A fair African American woman in her late 50s, she had an ethereal quality about her that was soothing. Her snow white hair was perfectly coiffed and she was elegantly dressed. She had beautiful skin, without a line on it and it reminded me of the flawless quality of Lena Horne's complexion. When Fred was distracted by someone else momentarily, I had to chance to finally interrogate Georgianne.

She was as fascinating as she looked. She works as a family therapist a few days a week. She holds multiple college degrees. She plans to get her PhD when she retires, "for fun." She has six grandchildren, loves gardening and she has a terrier named Jack. That was all interesting, but what struck me was the melodious lilt to her accent which betrayed intriguing origins. Of course, I had to ask where she was from and then, the real story came out.

Born and raised in Kentucky, she grew up in a small town. She mused about her large family and the events of her life which were rich and detailed. She's writing a book about it called "Swatting Flies." The led into a discourse about the origins of blue grass and then, of course, to southern food. This course of dialogue lit her up. Fred abandoned the conversation and we moved closely to conspire privately. Any onlooker would have assumed from our animation that we were discussing the war in Iraq. By the end of the night, we were swapping recipes for greens (she slightly disapproved my method of adding cayenne and beer to the vinegar, but she gave me an excellent method of preserving them in the freezer in case one gets a hankering for them in the middle of winter). When she left at the end of the night, she gave me a warm embrace. I'm always glad to make a new friend.

P.S. On the long drive home in a rented Taurus with Jewels and the Glamazon, I was witness to their duet of The Fifth Dimension's "One Last Bell to Answer." I can honestly say, I never want to hear harmonies like that again.

I know people walk a lot in this city, but it still amazes me to see people wearing tennis shoes with suits. In this day and age of stylish, affordable and pedorthically correct footwear, we're still wearing bright white New Balance sneakers to speed us on our way?

Sorry to say it, but women are especially guilty of this heinous sin. I think nothing makes me cringe more than seeing a woman in a tailored suit, black hosiery and white tennis shoes (extra demerits for the little tennis socks with the balls). I daresay, the very sight of such a thing almost made me violently ill this morning. Don't these gals read "Glamour"? That fashion sin falls under the top 20 fashion don'ts of all time, sandwiched between "too much bling" and "butt cleavage."

Someone in the office explained the genesis of this trend to me. During a transit strike in the 1980s, commuters literally had to walk to work. Being practical, they reached for the most comfortable footwear available. Long after the trains and buses were up and functioning again, the habit had already become ingrained. And like bad lore, it's passed generation to generation. It's times like these when we really are in want of the fashion police. A couple of citations and you'd be trading up for a pair of Mephistos, too.

I admit I often make bad footwear choices as well, albeit at the opposite extreme. I sometimes wear too high a heel, too pointed a toe, too tight an ankle strap. I realize that one day when I'm crippled and bent from years of footwear excess (and those tennis shoe wearing gals are walking double time right past me), I'll be sorry for having not been more prudent in my choices. But right now, I don't give a rats ass.

Aunt Stella is 92 and my inspiration. She's sharp and witty and inimitably stylish. In her younger days, she worked at a exclusive, high end boutique in Manhattan and she handled many celebrity clients. In photos from that time, she is dressed to the nines. Robed in a Christian Dior "New Look" dress, with gloves, hat and glamorous stiletto pumps, she defined elegance. She never gave up her pointy high heels and would never have been caught dead in a pair of tennis shoes. During last December's transit strike, we had a conversation about people putting their tennis shoes on again to undertake a walking commute. Stella snorted, "I would never do that," she said, "We had a strike once and I walked all the way from the City to Astoria wearing a pair of high heels." God bless her and her hammer toes too.

I know I have a nerve, being so critical of a person's right to comfort. But with so many stylish comfort alternatives available, it just seems wrong not to take the higher fashion road. My mother always said, "Better to be looked over than to be over looked." Yes, and better someone look at your face than your feet. I'm just saying.

I went with Stormy to see the American Ballet Theatre today. I'm not big on full blown ballets as a rule--I'd rather clean a septic tank than sit through the epic that is "Swan Lake." I mean, it's lovely to watch for about ten minutes and then it starts to seem redundant. I don't think I have a full appreciation of the intricacies of ballet technique and choreography. Maybe it's my short attention span. Maybe it's the seats which offer you as much leg room as the worst seats in coach on a plane. I'm not sure.

I decided to go today because ABT was offering samplings of their repertoire. It's kind of like passing up the entree in favor of the appetizers. That suits me. A little bit of something without having to commit to the full production. The season is offering selections from famous choreographers, including George Balanchine, Twyla Tharp, Mark Morris, Jerome Robbins, Lar Lubovitch, among others.

What made me commit to today's program was the inclusion of Agnes De Mille's "Rodeo." I like Agnes' style: big, round, obvious gestures, lots of character inter-play and humor. She's like Martha Graham with a whoopee cushion. Her choreography is bold and audacious and it explodes off the stage, resonating to the the very back of the theater. It has the same exuberance that Michael Kidd's work does and that's what dance really should be...for me, anyway. No recoiling waifs. No padding onto the stage with deliberate little mincing steps. No long pauses and longing gazes. Nah, put it in my face. Make some noise. I dig that.

Another thing I love about "Rodeo" is Aaron Copland's rousing score. It soars. You'd recognize the music, even if you've never seen this piece. A few years ago, it was employed for a beef commercial--the tagline was: "Steak. It's What's For Dinner." (Copland must have been spinning in his grave). The orchestra was truly en forme today. Yes, the Debussy was lovely and the Mozart/Philip Glass compilation was interesting, but the Copland piece really swung. Or whatever the philharmonic orchestral equivalent to swinging is.

When I was little, I begged my parents until I was blue in the face to go to ballet class. After two months, I was thrown out of the group. I remember the ballet mistress saying to my mom, "This girl will never be able to learn ballet. She's far too clumsy." Not one to admit defeat, I took tap dancing instead which, in fact, did suit me better. I have a feeling Agnes did tap too.

I had a good and hearty cry last night. I just had a terrific case of the blues, which is pretty rare for me. It was just one of those dark days, I was over fatigued and circumstances were such that it seemed highly appropriate to give in to an emotional enema.

It's perfectly natural to have a healthy bawl, now and again. Sometimes because you are nursing the blues,or sometimes for no reason at all. Stimuli will serve as the catalyst: a sappy movie, a song that reminds you of some sweet memory, a noise, a scent, a place. Sometimes the very notion of a symbolic situation is so overwhelming, you can't help having an emotional reaction to it. But not in public. I deplore the twinges of a sad emotional tug when I'm in public. It's painful to resist it. Odd facial contortions are usually my save here, although they can be easily misinterpreted as painful irregularity.

I try not to give in to tears in public and never, NEVER, at work. I always thought showing that kind of vulnerability in a competitive business environment undermines your credibility. Ironically, I work with a lot of women who don't embrace that opinion and the worst offender is Norma. She is often in tears, usually stress induced and I'm usually the one comforting her. One day, a co-worker called and indicated they could not come to the office because their dog had died. This news drove her to copious tears. I was so moved by this tender display that I called her "sweetly sentimental," a reference that she found offensive. "I'm not sentimental," she snapped, wiping the path of mascara that ran down her cheeks, "That indicates weakness. I am empathetic." Semantics.

My family laughed easily, were bawdy and fun loving. For people so expressive in this regard, it is peculiar that we did not cry in front of each other easily or often. If tears were involved, you sequestered yourself away, nun-like, in your room, or my favorite hideaway, the bathroom, till whatever jag you were experiencing passed. I still have to leave the room and make a quick trot to the bathroom during sad parts in films or if I hear a song that moves me. Old learned behavior. It surely needs to be undone.

This furtive behavior must be just my own trip. Fang has a wildly soft heart. He can be counted on to sniff and emote freely during a sad film. He has seen the final episode of M*A*S*H maybe 50 times and each time he watches it, he's dabbing his eyes with tissue. When Marv needs a good cry, he watches his old reliable weepie, "Terms of Endearment." The opening music sweeps up and he's already going for his hankie. I even saw Jewels with glistening eyes after his beloved Jack Russell, Harry, passed away.

There's an electric scene in Ingmar Bergmann's film "Fanny & Alexander." In the aftermath of the death of the family patriarch, the family stands restrained and cold, presiding over his coffin in their parlor during the wake. After the inhabitants of the house retire for the evening, the widow returns to the parlor alone and proceeds to unravel, wailing with the full breadth of her pain, howling like an animal. I always remember that scene for its cathartic truth (and well, it scared the shit out of me). Now that's a proper cry. That's the way to do it. I mean, if you're going to do it.

We caught a matinee today of "Little Miss Sunshine." I won't ruin the film for you but there was a scene where the dilapidated VW bus they're driving is gradually falling apart. The driver honks the horn to respond to another driver that's cut him off. And the horn gets stuck, emitting loud and wobbly intermittent beeps. This struck me as so wildly hilarious that I was doubled over in my seat convulsing, my face awash with tears...of laughter. The best kind

Since I am doing some self inflicted penance today for some rather impulsive and foolish online behavior last night, I'm keeping it short today. I'll be back tomorrow in full swing providing I can trust myself on the keyboard.

Hollaback Girl sent me one of the greatest catalogs I've ever seen in my life. It's full of remarkable novelty gag items. My office at work is a warehouse of things like this, from bacon air fresheners to the boxing nun hand puppet. This catalog, Archie McPhee's, offers wonderful stuff like Evil Clown Nesting Dolls, The Obsessive Compulsive Action Figure and Cap'n Danger Stunt Monkey. The products are organized by category and include such whimsical items like Unicorns & Ninjas, Pirates, Jesus, Sushi, Monkeys and Evil. Most notably, there is a dedicated category for Bacon/Meat. How perfect is that?

Check it out. There may be a bacon wallet with your name on it:

http://www.mcphee.com/categories/meat.html

This has been one hell of a surreal week. Full of funny, weird and downright unexplainable happenings and it's not even Friday. Here's a random sampling:

- I had a five minute conversation with Aunt Bert about the virtues of wearing a hat year round. We were talking about the Mets and then she suddenly said, "You know heat escapes from your head, don't you?" The art of the segue is not a particular strength of Bert's.

- On a conference call, the various participants are asked to record their names prior to linking into the group. I decided to introduce myself as "She Who Must Be Obeyed." It was met with dead silence from the other participants.

-The Glamazon is posing online as a 26 year old Brazilian model in order to entrap her evil lying boyfriend. She found out he purchased membership to a "Meet Brazilian Singles" website and she located the profile he had posted there. In her duplicity, she toyed with him, sending him e-mails to fuel his ardor, then she dumped him when he suggested a meeting. I read the profile she created for her "alias," and when I got the part that said "languages spoken," I had to tell her Brazilians speak Portuguese, not Dutch.

-There's been a great deal of discussion about whether one would fuck Bill Clinton if given half the chance. It's a split vote, thus far.

-I got embroiled in a rather lengthy debate about the pros and cons of grilling in the nude. Curiously, "Brazilians" were part of that discussion as well.

-I buy breakfast at the same Japanese deli every day. The Eggman (Santiago, the fry cook, who makes my egg white omelets) leaned over the counter today to look at the boots I was wearing...which seemed weird. He correctly identified where I bought them. He lingered a little long in his admiration, which made me think, 'Oh no. The Eggman has a foot fetish. I hope he washes his hands.'

-I've sought advice from my Magic 8 ball three times this week. Each single time I shook it and turned it upside down for an answer, it read, "Go To Your Happy Place."

-I actually had my underwear on backwards for half a day on Tuesday. I didn't recognize that the discomfort this inflicted was in fact NOT due to PMS bloat.

-I accidentally referred to Stormy as "Cat Woman." And she was standing right there.

-There was a man in a jumpsuit (Exterminator? Air conditioning repairman?Escaped prisoner from Rikers?) sitting on the floor next to the entrance to the ladies room yesterday, completely absorbed in a game of Sudoku.

-Two men, a diminutive Japanese fellow and a very tall American man, stood together on the subway, conducting a loud and vibrant discussion in Japanese. It was like watched a badly dubbed movie.

-The mailroom guy came into my office and said off handedly, "Forget Disneyland. This is the happiest place on Earth."

How's your week?

My friend who lives in the Village recently asked me, "How do you like living...up ...THERE?" Up there? You mean on Mars?

I knew what she meant. I hear it often. My friend who lives in a 500 square foot box in the heart of Greenwich Village is confused by my desire to live uptown. Cynics refer to my neighborhood as "Upstate Manhattan." I prefer to call it "NoHar" (short for North of Harlem).

It's a cozy little community settled just between Harlem and Washington Heights. I'm on the west side, in a turn of the century building near the banks of the Hudson River. Having moved from the Upper West Side, which was a little too WASP-y for my taste, this place has come to suit me. I lived in San Francisco for a long time and felt the mix of cultures that worked together so effortlessly there was community ideal. This is close.

I hate to funnel money into rent so after a year's residency as a renter in Manhattan, I wanted to buy something. I found the apartment I live in now advertised in the New York Times. It was a co-op, the price was right and the square footage was comparable to a house in California. Unheard of in Manhattan. I called our real estate agent and she was surprised. "Oh, you're such a pioneer!" she exclaimed. It was hardly my intent to make a statement. I seek only a few things: Enough room to stretch out in my home and a total mixed bag of humanity around me. This seemed to fit the bill.

The neighborhood is tight, made up of Dominican and African American families who have lived here for generations. On a Saturday, the street is full of vendors pedaling tropical fruit, vegetables or bootleg CDs. The air always smells like cilantro, fried chicken and freshly peeled oranges. We've got the best hospital in Manhattan two blocks away. Harlem, with its wonderful restaurants and the fabled Apollo Theater, is nearby. Columbia University, only a twenty minute walk. It's really quite a wonderful place to dwell. It's a genuine community.

When we first moved here, the logal bodega owners, grocery store cashiers and dry cleaners eyed us with cool suspicion. Now, we're on a first name basis. I see the regulars on the street, a few I know by name, and we're all cool. After a year, finally integrated into the fabric of the community. Part of the scene of characters. I like that.

It was the right call. What my Village dwelling friend doesn't realize is that I have three times the living space that she does and in a neighborhhood that statistically has 23% less crime that where she lives. Pointless to bring it up. It'd be boorish to be smug.

The hot summer months in particular remind me why this neighborhood is special: People come out to the streets to congregate. On a sweltering Saturday, folding lawn chairs line the sidewalk. People gather to lounge and chat. Radios play a ball game, samba music or hip hop. Kids play stickball or football in the middle of the street or hand ball against the side of a building. A hydrant may get opened, eliciting shrieks of pleasure from a gaggle of children who romp in the gush of the water. There's pure and easy life around you and everyone simply belongs to this little part of the world.

The cover of the New York Daily News, one of the fine journalism standards of this town, carried a headline that screamed in 64 point type "GETTING UGLY!" The cover also featured an unflattering photograph of Sen. Hillary Rodham Clinton. Well, it's getting close to election time and the political infighting is reaching its nadir.

Sifting through the papers when I got to work, I was horrified to see the headline referred to a snide comment made by Clinton's opposition, former Yonkers mayor John Spencer, in regards to her appearance. Specifically, he said, "You ever see a picture of her back then? Whew. I don't know why Bill married her." He backpedaled a bit, suggesting she had some "work done" and that she "looks better now."

Sen. Clinton took the high road and replied, " It's unfortunate that when you don't have anything positive to say about the issues that we can get off in some pretty swampy territory." She had to say that, of course, but I was was appalled. She's an accomplished politician, there are key campaign issues at hand and this asshole is dissing her looks?

I guess things haven't changed as much as I hoped. For all our accomplishments and progress, woman are still judged and valued by appearance. And it's considered acceptable. I doubt anyone ever said, "You know, that Tip O'Neill is a hell of a politician, but he should consider having microdermabrasion."

I guess I shouldn't be so surprised. The captains of industry are still mostly men and a lot of them are still members in good standing of the old boys club. When I look at a successful entrepreneur like Donald Trump, I admire his tenacity and shrewd business skills. But when he makes a comment to a woman, his language is patronizing and reeking of sexism. He embodies this archaic innuendo. He'd lose the front of his comb over if he ever took that tone with me.
A woman can compete on the world stage, yes, but she better look good when she enters it. In the industry I work in, there's still a lot of old boy attitudes. The former senior VP of our group, an old boy himself, enforced a strict rule that the women who worked in the organization had to wear skirts on sales calls and to trade shows. Pants were verboten. I cursed that sick sadist everytime I had to wear a skirt in Chicago in the middle of winter. I once overheard this man, our boss, having a conversation with an important client. The client said, "You have a lot of pretty women on your sales team." Our boss said, "I only hire pretty woman." I wanted to sucker punch him when I heard that. It wasn't so much the blatant sexism of the statement; it sent the message that we were successful in our work only because we looked good, not because we slogged our asses off to get there.

I worked for a time in the international market and found this attitude often prevailed overseas. Several clients felt it was perfectly natural to follow up a business dinner with a proposition to get horizontal. I often wonder how my successor in the job, an affable guy named Dave, responded when he was asked for a blow job after dinner. Just wondering.

I'm no flag waving feminist, but I hope they'll be a point when we're judged on our merits first. I've worked for the last twenty years straight and know I've earned everything I have now through hard work. We all have. Will attitudes change in our lifetimes?

As for Hillary, well, she'll have the last laugh. She'll easily win re-election to her Senate seat AND she gets to fuck Bill Clinton. Turnaround is fair play, no?

The phone rang at 9:53 pm on a recent Wednesday night. "Project Runway" starts at 10 pm and most people know not to call on the precipice of the opening credits of my favorite show. Cursing under my breath, I picked up the phone. The moment I lifted the receiver, even before it made it to my ear, someone was already speaking at fever pitch. "I'm talking MEAT, baby. Prime motherfuckin' Porterhouse! Yeah!" Ah, it's Reubin.

He'd just come from a client dinner at the famous Peter Luger's in Brooklyn. He and two other diners consumed a side of meat the size of a small coffee table followed by copious portions of creamed spinach and potatoes au gratin--the classic steakhouse regime. Ruebin knows I dig a good steak dinner, so he had to call and gloat. It's par for the course in our relationship.

I met Ruebin in 1997 when our company acquired the publications he was working on. Ruebin came with the deal. On our first meeting during the integration process, we connected instantly. He had (and has) that boisterous energy of a person who eats life. He's irreverent, funny, fearless and larger than life. Combined with a booming New York accent and an earnest loyalty for people he cares for, you either love him or hate him.

By our third meeting, we settled the terms of his job and squared away the business details. As he was preparing to leave, he hugged me and then hiked his leg up on my desk and blew out a fart. "That's for you, baby," he said simply. Now in most cases, one would be thinking "WTF?" but in this case, the gesture made perfect sense. It was his way--as odd as this sounds--of saying we understand each other. We've been as thick as thieves ever since.

When I met Ruebin, he was married with a young son; his wife is now expecting their fourth child. He lives and works in upstate New York, but at heart, he's pure city boy. He grew up in Manhattan and had a very rough childhood. His father was a professional pool player, who died young. His mother had issues with substance abuse, so Ruebin was sent to live with relatives on and off while battling his own demons. He went upstate for school, got clean, met his wife and turned his whole life around. He never looked back. The street smarts he acquired for early survival only helped to drive him to succeed in his career.

He sells advertising and he's brilliant at it. A certified master of persuation. For example, if a client declines a $10,000 ad program, Ruebin can verbally reposition the same program in such a way to convince the client that they are getting more for less money, and in the end, he'd close the deal..but now at $30,000. The client happily signs off every time. I still can't figure out how he does it.

Watching him in action is like watching Kabuki theater. It's mesmorizing. I have a fond memory of an important client meeting at a trade show. As Ruebin was talking, he was gesturing wildly, as is his habit, and for emphasis, he did one of those hip-hop type crotch grabs. I think (hope) I was the only one who noticed it. As we left the meeting, I said to him,"Was there a reason you felt compelled to grab your nut sack at the end of your sales pitch?" "I'm just closing the deal, baby," he replied. And damned if he didn't get the business.

We travel together for business a couple of times a year and we always have a marvelous time. We work hard during the day, but come the evening, the hair comes down. There's always a big steak dinner with a gaggle of boisterous clients, sometimes followed by an outing to a dance club--me, Ruebin, the group of clients and inevitably, other people we pick up along the way, like a big dust bunny of humanity. He deeply cherishes the security and the comfort of his home life and family, but when he gets on the road, he just wants to tear loose (and I mean this innocently--dancing till 3 am, guilt-free clothes shopping, eating a piece of meat the size of his head--things his wife keeps in check when he's home).

I enjoy him so much because we're similar in too many ways. He once observed, "If you and I ever hooked up, we'd be flat broke [from shopping], fat [from our big dinners] and fucking all the time [from our bawdy exchanges]." He's right. Good thing we're friends instead.

So this is my valentine to my pal, Ruebin. You're a doodle, man.

If she were still living, my mother would have turned 73 today. It still seems odd that she's gone because despite her absence, there's not a day that I don't hear her voice in my head, chastising a bad clothing choice or encouraging outrageousness on my part--she liked my outrageousness. I miss her.

We certainly didn't have a traditional relationship. My mother was not naturally maternal (dad was the one who dosed you up with Alka Seltzer when you had a tummy ache or cuddled you when you were scared). She really couldn't handle us kids vomiting (she famously said, " I don't want to see this. It makes me sick to my stomach."). A cookie baking PTA mom she was not. She never sugarcoated anything when having to tell a hard truth. Her favorite catchphrase was, "That sounds like bullshit to me."

Conversely, she strongly encouraged our creativity, intelligence, humor and independence. She was what you would call the "fun" parent. She was the one who allowed us to invite 50 kids over on New Years Eve to turn the house upside down. For mom, the more the merrier. She thrived on the society of people.

She was born in England and never lost her accent or her love of English trappings: English food and Cadbury chocolate, paper pull crackers with the crown and prize at Christmas, plum pudding, tea and biscuits, bangers and trifle, Monty Python and EastEnders on PBS. She used the accent to her advantage when a cop would pull her over for a driving violation (she was a dreadful driver) and she always charmed the cop out of the citation.

She was a proud career women at a time when women didn't traditionally work outside the home. She's the one that encouraged family togetherness through group activity---water skiing, camping, sailing, the Liverpool gin rummy matches on Tuesday nights (although we all know that Grandma cheated). She loved to travel and thanks to this penchant, we were privliged to see the world when growing up. I was fortunate to enjoy a wonderful childhood and indeed, my parents were the reason why. And thanks to mom, we had enormous fun, sometimes to my dad's despair.

Unfortunately, when I moved into my teen years, the wanderlust that has always been part and parcel of my nature manifested itself. Combined with the usual teen angst, I was a handful. My mom never put up with it and we had our fair share of arguments. Once I left home at 18 to go and fulfill my desire to take on the world, our relationship changed. We were never wed to the notion of the traditional mother/daughter dynamic. When I matured, we became friends. In essence, that was the relationship that worked best for us. We spoke candidly to one another and genuinely enjoyed each other's company. This became the nature of our relationship that lasted until her death.

My parents divorced in 1995 and my mom, who had married when she was 20, made up for lost time. Men were always attracted to her--she was slim, dressed beautifully and was always perfectly groomed. She was the kind of woman that men love and indeed, my boyfriends in high school were all infatuated with her. So in this new period of her life, she began dating a series of men. One in particular, was 35 years old...when she was 65. She'd call me to gush about her vibrant sex life, which at times I found annoying (but only because my mom was getting a lot more action than I was!).

She began to travel extensively and long periods would go by before I'd hear from her. Unlike my dad who I would e-mail every day and call every Sunday, I'd get the odd call or e-mail from mom from some exotic location out of the blue. But on the occasions when we'd get together, we'd pick things up right where we'd left them.

My favorite photograph of my mother was taken when she was 69 years old. She was on holiday in Italy with a boyfriend (younger, no doubt) and the photo shows her sitting astride a moped in a form fitting sweater, black leather skirt, 3 inch pump heels and oversized sunglasses. She has a smile of abandon on her face and a halo of blonde hair frames her glowing face. That photo alone sums up the woman that my mother was: glamorous, adventurous, fearless, fun.

To her credit, she remained very close to my dad and they enjoyed time together as friends. Without her help, the caregiving during my dad's final illness would have sent me over the edge. She put her whole life on hold to help care for him, although at the time, none of us knew (and neither did she) that she too was terminally ill.

She lived her whole life on her own terms. And as expected, she died on her own terms. When her illness got to the point where she was uncomfortable and there was no amount of morphine to ease her pain, she wanted to end her life. She was living with me in her last months and announced this intent to me one day, without drama or fanfare, just matter of fact. I believe her words were, "Well, I'm done now. I'm ready to go." Since we couldn't accommodate her legally, we simply asked visiting hospice to provide us enough Ativan and morphine to keep her in a half comatose state until she passed away naturally a week later. I did so with peace because I know it was exactly what she wanted.

It took me a long time, most of my life actually, to understand and appreciate the character of my mother. She was a woman ahead of her time who never gave a rats ass what people thought of her. She was vibrant, a wild extrovert. She was one of those people who lit up a room when she walked in. As I get older, I see a couple of my mom's characteristics in me. And for all the disagreements and basic differences that existed between us, I'm grateful that we came to fully appreciated the strengths of each other.

We're not a religious family so we never discussed "where people go" after they die. I personally think we end up somewhere, I'm just not sure where, but I like to think that where ever or what ever that place is, the party got into full swing when mom showed up.

My twin brother Marv is a cameraman for a news station in San Francisco. In truth, he has an auteur's eye and can present the simplest images as three dimensional art. He's won several Emmy awards and been nominated for multiple more. He should have gone into film; he's that good. We tease him endlessly about his "The Homeless on Thanksgiving" and "The Veterans on Memorial Day" packages, but he does bring a certain verve and stylization to each piece that is uniquely his own. I am proud of him.

The genesis of his skill started at an early age. As children, we would take my dad's Super 8 camera and film one another tearing up the house and doing our Bionic Man impressions. Little did we realize that the photographic results would later show up interspersed with the family vacation footage in Hawaii. A little awkward, but so incredibly hilarious. We were hooked.

Marv took the lead. Having mastered the Super 8 camera, he decided to make his own versions of shorts. We all worked on the script. Any spare body in the house was pressed into acting/extra service. Even the mailman, once, when he had the misfortune to have his route coincide with our filming schedule, was recruited. Game on.

I remember the first outing was called "Laurel & Hardy In The Old West." Marv directed and acted as one of the leads. We patched together some backdrops and took over our kitchen as our studio. People were costumed, lighting (floor lamps without shades) positioned and filming commenced. I recall I played a heavily mustached villain named McVarmit. The shoot was slow because it was interrupted by real life: one of the dogs wandering into the shot, the kitchen phone ringing or Grandma striding into the kitchen set, oblivious, with the sole intent of making a cup of tea. When we chastised her, she'd say, "Love, I'm gasping for a cuppa!" We realized that location shoots would be necessary for future works once this fine feature was in the can.

Location shoots meant our back yard. We had a very large yard around our house--an orchard, many large and sheltering eucalyptus trees, paths and spacious banks of oleander bushes. It was a heavenly haven for us as children; it would be ideal as the background for our shoots.

At about this time, Marv went to his first horror movie and clearly found his oeuvre. Our lives would never be the same.

His freshman effort was a gem called "He Kills At Night." He persuaded MaryCatherineFullofGrace as well as our good friend Anus into taking the leads. I think I was I was the grip and tea maker on that shoot. At a young age, Anus was over six feet tall, and he was often tagged for the roles of the homicidal maniac in Marv's films. In this film, MaryCatherineFullofGrace was stalked throughout our house by the madman (Anus in a bad mask). In the film's climax, she is chased into our orchard where we had dug a "grave" for her to fall into to be await her doom at the hands of the maniac. Now please note that the grave was about the size of a puddle indentation and Marv commanded MaryCatherineFullofGrace to fall into it with resignation and distress. She hopped into it. Marv never was happy with that shot, but his direction didn't specify "method."

He continued to churn out little films and time passed. I went away to college. When I would come home on the odd weekend, Marv was always ready to press me into some sort of film duty. He clearly had a passion for it, a gift. I always participated in some way.

Marv's masterpiece finally came about when I was a sophomore in college. He was in a filmmaking class in college and they had an assignment which would be screened to a wide audience as part of a "film festival." Marv was wildly inspired. I was pressed into acting duty--as was my boyfriend at the time, an affable guy named Greg White--as was the long suffering but always cooperative Anus (aside: that sounds like a prison drama, no?).

This opus was called "Models of Madness" and involved a couple (me and poor Greg) who set up a booby trapped haunted house to mess with the neighborhood kids. It all goes terribly, horribly, wrong when the monster models we've set out suddenly come to life and start killing their makers. OK, that's the premise. In retrospect:

1. Would have been helpful if Marv told me I'd be doing a lot of running in this film. I would have worn a bra. All you see my forehead and tits a-flapping.
2. Poor Anus kept running into walls. There was a bag on his head.
3. In an nod to a more "mature" film, we incorporated profanity in this film. The opening line from Greg was, "That'll teach those god damn kids from fucking with our shit." We thought we were so bad.
4. My Buick Opel skidding out on the head of one of the zombies. Great shot save Marv's saying (caught on film), "Yeah! Awesome!"

In the end, the previewed film at the festival had parents and their chidlren running from the room, horrified. Small chidlren in tears. People objecting. Success.

Come on, Marv. I'm ready for the sequel.

An open letter to my boys in orange and blue:

AW, EFFFFF!

Well, you gave it a good shot. The defense was spectacular. Special props to Endy Chavez for that superhuman save in the 6th. Give that boy a raise. But the offense was lacking. I don't envy Mr. Beltran the position of being last to bat in the bottom of the 9th with two outs. Honey, we all felt your pain. Trust me.

Thanks for a great season and memorable post season. We'll get to the series next year.

I'm reminded of those little kindnesses between strangers, now and again, which reinforce the true natures of our humanity. And I'm glad, because the world sometimes seems quite hard and daunting. In the vernacular of the universal lounge singer, I'm going to bring it down a little now.

This week, the 300 millionth American was born, establishing a record high milestone. Gee, that is an awful lot of people on 3,537,441 square miles. To cite an old cliche--the world is getting smaller and there are more and more of us in close proximity every day. Instead of cursing the forced interaction with strangers at every turn, perhaps now is a good time to employ the civility of the manners our parents spent so much time trying to instill in us.

No, this is not a new and benevolent Chicken&Waffles you see before you. I'll still blurt out the odd "Eff You" to the thoughtless, deserving jerk and will utilize a mean sucker punch if pressed into need (read: I am a victim of a mugging). But on days like today, I'm reminded that despite the big world we're in, people are, by nature, kind and compassionate. It's not clearly evident. You've got to focus and remove the blinders that we wear everyday to edit the force of humanity.

Today, I observed the following shining examples of considerate behavior:

People gave others in need a seat on the subway. I heard a pleasantries exchanged. Doors were held open for others. Someone held the elevator without being asked. Someone took the arm of a blind man on the street to help him navigate the crosswalk. A man waiting to get in a cab graciously extended his hand to assist the older women getting out the cab. Three people reached out to help up a woman who tripped on a curb. Two strangers said good morning to me today on my way to work, salutations I emphatically returned with a smile. Why not? The world looks mighty welcoming from this view.

Obviously, people really were reading "Goofus & Gallant" in "Highlights" magazine at the dentist's office.

To end, a quote from that old sage Sly Stone seems appropriate (and if you're singing it, don't forget to hold the final "I" in the last line for a few bars):

I am no better and neither are you
We are the same whatever we do
You love me you hate me you know me and then
You can't figure out the bag l'm in
I am everyday people, yeah yeah

Okay, enough love for tonight.

LET'S GO, METS!
One more game and the series is OURS!!!

Marking yet another kooky new trend at work, Mamela is now breaking into the odd song at unexpected times during the day. Between Jewels, Mamela and me, we just need a fourth and a booking agent and we can quit our day jobs...not that this will be happening anytime soon.

Following a lively acappella version of "Been Around the World," we started discussing various songs and some genius (OK, it was me) posed the following question: Of all the songs in the history of music, can you isolate a top 20 list of songs that you simply couldn't live without? Sure, you could live without them, but you'd be miserable for their absence.

A daunting task, right? I compiled my list, as best as I could on the spur of the moment, but did so without hesitation. These are always the first songs I download on my media player at night, the songs I'd first load on an iPod if I owned one, the songs I've listened to so many times, I could work out the chord progressions on paper. These songs have a uniquely special place in my heart, bar none. It was a shame I had to limit it to 20.

Anyway, here are my top keepers:

"My Life Story" by Gladys Knight & the Pips
"Summer Soft" by Stevie Wonder
"I Don't Want to Go Home" by Southside Johnny
"You Don't Know Me" by Ray Charles
"Stardust" by Louis Armstrong
"Lovely Day" by Bill Withers
"Telephone Song" by Stevie Ray Vaughn
"September" by Earth, Wind & Fire
"Satisfaction" by Otis Redding
"Moody's Mood for Love" by George Benson
"You See the Trouble With Me" by Barry White
"Let's Stay Together" by Al Green
"Respect Yourself" by the Staple Singers
"Company" by Ricki Lee Jones
"I Want You Back" by The Jackson Five
"Tempted" by Squeeze
"Street Life" by The Crusaders
"What's Going On" by Marvin Gaye
"With a Little Help From my Friends" by Joe Cocker
"Down to the Nightclub" by Tower of Power

OK, don't make me beg. What's on your top 20 list?

Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the donkey they drove in on. I'm awfully cranky.

I think there's a good reason why and if you're willing to continue reading, e-mail me your address and I will send you flowers tomorrow for your forbearance tonight.

I've been on a serious diet for the past three weeks. Not the odd "I think I'll fast for a day to clear out my colon" or "I'll eat only lentils for three days so I can fit into those skinny jeans." No, this is a balls-out, must atone for a summer of sin kind of diet.

Jewels sort of summed it up for me. He recently rubbed his belly like an expectant mother and said, "You know, it's a lot of work to keep this weight on." I wish it was. What I do know is that it IS a lot of work to take it off.

I don't regret a moment of any of my sinning, of course. The lure of fried foods at street fairs, copious plates of BBQ, an ice cold beer on a hot day. It's heaven. The summer was made for my kind of sinning. Which is why I spend fall working it off. I recently pulled all my winter clothing from storage and was alarmed that last season's pants and slim skirts were snug in the hips. I started to get the feeling I was being followed and realized it was my ass. I can't shake an overly morbid fear or developing a double chin or underarm wattles. Playtime is over.

What works best for me is a strict no sugar/no alcohol/no carb diet, which technically is totally contrary to my way of life. It does allow swine and cheese (in doses), so I'm not totally adrift. A few months of this and I'm back to my fighting form. I've learned how versatile soy can be (although steer clear of it baked as a bread substitute unless you enjoy the taste of a kitchen sponge). It's advantageous that I really like green vegetables. You develop a new appreciation for members of the nut family. Hot sauce becomes a fast friend.

Today, I felt grumpy thinking about those few foods I was missing in particular. Fried wings and margaritas from Ariba, Ariba. Vegie burgers with bacon from Artie's. Sesame bagels with scallion schmear from H&H. Ribs slathered with spicy sauce. Grits with cheese from the Tick Tock Diner. Sauvignon blanc and gin martinis. Lamb gyros with extra tsatsiki sauce. Quaker Oats porridge with raisins on Sunday mornings. Granny Smith apples. Cheese gougeres from Artisinal. That's really it.

When I got home, I opened the closet and glared hard at the pleated wool pants from Banana Republic, the mauve pencil skirt from Anthropolgie, the black knit sheath dress from Zara. Mock me now, you bastards. In only a few more weeks, I'll be the one laughing.

Time to go heat up the soy burgers for dinner.

Today I was pressed into civic duty and had to report downtown for jury duty. This is hardly a unique opportunity--everyone is called upon and suffers at one point or another. But I was downright giddy at the notion. In all my years, I've never been summoned for jury duty. Finally, it was my turn to view the inner sanctum of our justice system at work! I felt like Jimmy Stewart marching through the capital building in "Mr Smith Goes to Washington." Patriotic fervor beat in my breast! I now had an important role to play in the system! Such awesome responsibility!

My first view of the century old superior court building along Legal Row was awe inspiring. It's a grand stone edifice with commanding Georgian columns, one that I recognized as the setting for many "Law & Order" exterior shots. I mounted the steps with my best regal bearing, attempting to be worthy of the graveness of the occasion.

After a thorough interrogation through security ("Hey, watch it with the electronic wand, mister!"), I was ushered up the fourth floor where the general jury room was located. In my excitement, I arrived a little early (OK, 40 minutes early), so I was just the second person there. I believe the first person, a woman who looked as old as the building, may have just slept there the night before because no one had bothered to dismiss her. Eventually people began to filter in and indeed, it was a perfect cross section of humanity, eventually totaling around 130 people.

The general jury room is a large auditorium which features a series of exquisite Art Deco murals on each wall, painted in 1938 by an artist named Winthrop Turney. They represented various New York monuments (Rockefeller Center, the Manhattan skyline, NY Public Library, Grant's Tomb, etc), and were beautifully realized in the typical style of WPA mural art. I reveled in their beauty. Little did I know this would be the highlight of the day.

They treated us to orientation, which included a video showing how justice was meted out in the medieval days (I think in order to illustrate how much the justice system has improved since then). Then a judge gave us a pep talk. A clerk advised us to finish our paperwork. Enough already! I was ready to go!! CallmeCallmeCallme. I was like a dog who needed a walk.

So they called name, after name, after name. But not mine. I retreated half heartedly into a book. Sent e-mails on my Blackberry. Kept peering up for the sight of a court officer needing some fresh blood.

After nearly four hours of waiting, a new series of names were called. Towards the end, I heard my name, followed by "You are Juror #26." Hot damn! I was out of the chair, bolting off to the assigned courtroom.

There were 40 of us prospective jurors in the court room, each waiting our turn to be interrogated by one of the three attorneys. Then they explained the logistics of the case--a medical malpractice case, with the plaintiff suing two orthopedic surgeons. Aw, Shit. Given the nature of the business I'm in, I knew I was done. Sure enough, they grilled me with a few questions, seemed to assume that I had the doctors' backs in this matter and bid me back to my seat where I waited another three hours to be dismissed.

When I left, the clerk handed me a sheet of paper guaranteeing my dispensation from service for another four years. Walking toward the elevator, I saw a young woman whom I recognized from my jury pool, chattering into her cellphone. She was whining, "Can you believe I got picked for this stupid malpractice trial? It's such a pain." No honey, it's supposed to be a privilege.

Building management is doing necessary renovation work on the apartment building I live in. The edifice is almost 100 years old and well, it needs the old nip and tuck to remain standing. This particular procedure has been rather laborious. It has been ongoing since the day I moved in, well over a year ago. Six days a week, 10 hours a day, with only a rest on Sunday, the jackhammers are active. I've become accustomed to the noise, the dust and the presence of workers on a scaffold right outside my window. In fact, when I got up this morning, wearing nothing but a tank top and underwear, I spied this welcoming image (above) squarely in my dining room windows. This is really starting to cramp my-walking-around-the-house-naked style.

This is such a New York thing. Can you ever imagine a building without some sort of scaffolding encrusted around it? Because of the age of the buildings that populate this fair city, the work is neverending. Seems they finish one bank of buildings and move to the next, eventually rotating back. I appreciate the need for it. I cherish the antiquities of the building I live in and I'm grateful my co-op board cares (although let it be noted that the board's care requires an 18% increase in maintenance fees inflicted on poor slobs like me annually).

There's always been scaffolding around this building from the day I first saw it. I hope I'm still living here when it comes down. I probably won't recognize the joint.

This image courtesy of Hollaback Girl. I can hardly wait till the double album is released.

On the topic of longevity, Bill Maher opined, "Which would you rather have? 50 Sammy Davis Jr. years or 150 Ken Starr years?" Is that a question? Seriously? Sammy all the way, baby.

Much can be said about the attributes of clean and virtuous living. A long life is equated to the maintenance of moderation and careful measurement of excitement and caution. I applaud those who endeavor to be on this earth for a century. You're a better man (or woman) than me.

Once you get over 30, you will start to see physical changes. (Wait till 40. You'll need duct tape to keep your boobs upright). You'll have an epiphany and you will stare hard at that fork in the road and map your path. Will I be Sammy or Ken? If you decide to go to Pilates every day and use Pam cooking spray instead of olive oil and if green tea suits you better than a gin and tonic--then God bless you. Enjoy your long life.

If you go down Sammy's road, there is some good news. Despite your best intentions, as you age, it becomes challenging to exercise your bad habits with the gusto of your 20s. It's hard to finish that third martini. I really can't remember how to roll a joint. The only gymnastics I execute really well in the bedroom involve farting. And apple fritters just don't taste good with Heineken anymore.

Taking Sammy's path means more than vice, though. Sammy lived large, which included vice, but he also savored every moment here, even if the face of adversity. He had a short life, but a damned full one. So, from my way of thinking, what's the point of living a long life when it's dull? I think you have to grab each moment and live it with some noise. In the book "Auntie Mame," the character of Mame Dennis spouts one of my favorite lines of all time. She says, "Life is a banquet, and most poor sons of bitches are starving to death."

So go out dancing all night. Smoke a Partegus if you want one. Have sex on a plane. Skip. Have a Denny's Grand Slam Breakfast at 3 am. Sing "Danke Schoen" on Karaoke night even if you suck. Wear a bikini if you want to. Learn to surf. Belch the alphabet. Break some rules and have some fun. Live.

All I know is that when the good Lord says, "We've had quite enough of you," I plan to go with my cheeks sore from laughing, my feet aching from dancing in bad footwear and my belly full of a platter of Carolina pulled pork. I will go smiling.

Double D and I exchanged e-mails this week about our respective fall wardrobes. I so wish she and I still worked together as we once did in San Francisco. With her keen fashion sense and sharply honed eye, she could easily green light a smart fashion choice...or veto a bad one. And she was always right. Alas, Double D moved on to North Hollywood for adventure and her gorgeous David, and I moved on to New York for adventure and loathsome cockroaches. Thanks to geography, we can't visually present ensembles for the respective thumbs up or down, but we can share opinions through e-mail.

With fall descending on southern California (which means temperatures are in the 70s), Double D was conflicted over her fall wardrobe. She asked what I was buying. I really had to think--I have been remarkably restrained thus far. I've added a few wrap dresses to the mix. A black and white mod cropped peacoat. A blood orange colored corduroy jacket. A vintage red faux crocodile purse. I'm eyeballing a zebra trench coat and a red wool military jacket, but I'm a little concerned about my lack of an overall game plan in piecing together fall clothing choices. Tsk. In October no less.

However, I've more than made up for it with shoes. The shoes that are being shown this season are bold and audacious and, I, seduced, have forged ahead without hesitation. Of course, I had to buy a pair of black stiletto boots, because, well, one always needs a new basic boot every season. A pair of plaid ankle boots. Black lace-up stacked heel boots for casual Fridays. Patent leather slingbacks. Houndstooth ankle boots. Black suede ballet flats. And the kick ass beauties I am wearing today: sangria red patent leather peep toe pumps with four inch heels.

I loved them on sight, seductively posed on the display, the light reflecting off them in Christ-like fashion. Slipping them on made me feel mighty. Strutting around the carpet in the shoe department like Tina Turner, I knew I had to make them mine. Perhaps some foresight would have been useful here.

As a Manhattanite, I do not own a car, so I am pretty reliant on my feet for locomotion. I can walk, even run, in most shoes, even three inch heels. When I put these on this morning, I rose up like a giant. I'm literally six feet tall in these shoes. I loved the sensation. Navigating the stairs to the subway was perfectly manageable and I basked in the feeling of authority as I stood eye to eye with most the men on the subway. However, once I got downtown and started the walk to work, I found that my usual strident pace was tempered. The heels are slim and elegant and I'm no Nicole Richie. One hard misstep and I would have taken out a few pedestrians like bowling pins. I also found walking in a straight and decisive line oddly challenging, as if my internal GPS was off. I kept weaving to the left, like a pollen-drunk bee. Once I had to steady myself by grasping onto a scaffolding support. A most auspicious start to my power stroll into the office.

I staggered into the office, ankles vexed, wondering if I'd made a poor choice. I was desperate for Double D's opinion. At that very moment of wretched indecision, I passed a fellow I work with. He works in the health and beauty industry so he's reasonably attune. Bless him, he actually stopped and said, "Wow! Those are some shoes you got on. Very nice."

I'm keeping them.

I'm not really a dessert person. Given the option, I'd rather have an espresso or another glass of wine or a seductive little cheese plate at the end of a meal. As I get older, my desire for sugar and sweets has diminished considerably. Most people I know are mad for chocolate, but I've little taste for it, a trait I'm proud to say I share with Hollaback Girl. In fact, I think we first bonded when we revealed this mutual chocolate indifference to one another.

It is important to accommodate those who do like their chocolate so I keep a candy jar on my desk to offer something to nibbly colleagues when they stop in. Perhaps it's a sad reflection of my needy character that I must employ cheap inducements like candy in order to entice someone into my office, but whatever the motive, it works. I enjoy a steady stream of visitors popping in for their daily fix.

Jewels is one of my favorite visitors. While he is working off the wrapper of a Kit Kat bar, he will amuse me with one of his witty barbs, a dance number, even a verse or two from "Sweeny Todd". Jewels is a dangerous influence on me, a pied piper of vice, but he's been unsuccessful luring me out for sweets. Now and again, he'll creep in and whisper in conspiratorial tones, "Come on. Let's sneak out of here and go to Billy's Bakery for cupcakes." It just doesn't have the same hook for me as, say,"Let's go suck down a pomegranate margarita from Rosa Mexicana."

But in truth, I'm not so damn virtuous. I have to reveal a secret, one which might subject me to a little bitchslap from Hollaback Girl or The Dog Whisperer.

There is but one dessert that I do covet, but by virtue of geography, I have not had it for a number of years. Warm memories are the thing that lashes my affection to this sweet--some would say revolting--confection. It's red velvet cake with white icing. I adore it.

I haven't made an earnest search, but I've never come across red velvet cake in any capacity since I've lived here. The last time I had a piece, years ago, was in Gettysburg, PA while I was on a civil war monument trek with Marv and MeiMei. MeiMei likes her sweets, but she did not love the ruby red slab of cake we had that day at a roadside diner. Honey, I certainly did. I may have actually licked the plate and emitted some furtive groans of epicurean pleasure while finishing the last of the icing caught on the edge of the plate. I practically had an out of body experience--sublime.

Like most of my preferences, I can't explain this leaning. I just give in to them. From the first time I tried this confection (and it's probably safe to say I tried it at MaryCatherineFullofGrace's house), I was hooked. Maybe it was the vibrant red of the cake, the silky texture and sweetness of the icing. Maybe because it looked like the Polish flag when sliced and laid out on a plate. I don't know. What I do know is that if I come across it in my travels, I will forgo eating for an entire day in order to savor a slab of this gooey goodness.

I was watching the Food Network recently and saw a rerun of a wedding cake competition. The selection of pastry chefs competing for the coveted title hailed from all over the US and had very distinctive cake design styles. One of the competitors was a colorful character named Raven Patrick De'Sean Dennis the 3rd, but everyone called him Cake Man Raven. Apparently, Cake Man Raven owns a well known shop in Brooklyn and he specializes in...red velvet cake. When I heard this, I had to take a deep breath. Within reach.

I mentioned this to Jewels this week. He extracted his Metrocard and held it up like a golden ticket. "Let's go," he said breathlessly.

A little shout out for the Cakeman:
http://www.cakemanraven.com/

Something tells me the topic of the week is going to be sex. Nint, stop reading, please. Your parents are going to kill me.

This morning at work I received a series of e-mails, all with the word "penis"(misspelled) in the subject line. Here's an actual sampling of three that came through in the first hour of work alone:

The head of your ppenis is so sensitive
This tonic tab was created to help your pennis!
My peenis is always hard and is able to move without interruption!

Hello? When did I grow a penis? I have noticed, if you'll pardon the expression,
a surge in the volume of penis oriented messages showing up in my work e-mail in-box lately. Someone out there in e-mail land seems to be laboring over the impression that I am a man with some serious erectile dysfunction problems. Today alone, I received no less that ten messages, all concerned with my rigidness and staying power. Well, it's nice to know that someone cares.

What's more disturbing is the fact that important e-mails from clients are ending up in the spam firewall quarantine file. Urgent business matters languish in the wasteland of suspect message land, yet the penis messages are sailing right through without a moment's hesitation. Clearly, they must have that edge of urgency, that say, a $100,000 project sale does not.

Anyway, I took this delicate issue to our IT manager, a rather cynical man who let's just say is not particularly noted for his boisterous humor. I thought for sure that the subject of these particular e-mails might get a smile out of him. But no. He explained, very matter of fact, "Well, they're getting through because they're misspelling penis. The spam filter doesn't recognize it. It they spelt it P-E-N-I-S, you'd never see it." Well, thanks, chief. That was helpful.

Since I am burdened with these e-mails, I was intrigued to see what they were actually offering. I was staggered to find that I was able to access a few of these sites from work (which no doubt landed me on the IT police watch list). It's also amazing that I can read how to sustain an erection for six days, but yet I can't access the Victoria's Secret website to order an IPEX bra because access to the site is restricted. Clearly, maintaining an erection is far more important than proper breast support.

I also had to note that since these e-mails are clearly directed to men, the messaging is disturbing. The implication suggests men must be longer, thicker, harder, long lasting, etc, etc in order to satisfy a woman. So it's our fault? Listen, I think most women are just happy to have the high hard one...and more than once a month. So unless you have real problems, don't knock yourselves out, guys.

Now if today's post doesn't get a comment from my friend the Dick Doctor, I will be sorely disappointed.

On Monday mornings, the Glamazon and I enjoy a sit down over our morning coffee to swap summaries of our respective weekends. My weekends are usually pedestrian, you know, a concert, a walk in the park to look at leaves changing, some creative cooking, maybe a baseball game on TV. As I recount the details of my weekend activities, she will nod in polite acknowledgment. My speaking first is really a formality. We convene essentially to talk about the Glamazon's weekend which centers around her complicated love life.

Now to preface the dialogue we had today, some background on the Glamazon and her current relationship. The Glamazon is a very girlish kind of woman. She is 50, yet she has the countenance and femininity of a young woman. She's very ladylike and rather old fashioned in her views on men. She would never call a man or ask a man out for a date (which is a completely alien concept to me. I've never been passive about that kind of thing in my life). Growing up, she was always the prototype good Jewish girl. She got good grades in school, was conscientious in her work, strives to please her mother--she does all the right things. She doesn't swear and admittedly, has never smoked a cigarette or taken drugs. She doesn't even know what a bong hit is.

She married young, but her marriage broke up a few years later. Since her divorce 20 odd years ago, she fell into a pattern of dating bad boys. In the many years I've known her, she's moved from one bad boy relationship to another, resulting in tumultuous and unsatisfying unions. Through all of these relationships, I have leveled armchair psychology at her suggesting why she chooses men who are bad for her. The answer is obvious: She's been the perfect girl her entire life and by selecting inappropriate and dangerous men, she's acting out (badness by extension without actually being personally accountable). She always nods in agreement with this theory, but yet she returns to her bad boys.

Her current relationship has endured for three years. He's a charming, handsome and sophisticated man, but he's apparently also a pathological liar. She's forever catching him in his fabrications and the inevitable confrontation is followed by fights, resolution, rinse and repeat. Like many women, she thinks she can change him, so she stays with him in her attempts to reform him. And every Monday when we meet for our coffee, she relates what wrong this man inflicted on her over the previous weekend. I daresay, it's becoming sport.

Today, we had our usual conversation over coffee, focusing on her distrust of him. Today's exchange struck me so much, well you know I just had to write it down. This is a faithful recounting:

Glamazon: He faked sex last week.
Me: Umm...how is that possible?
G: Well, you know, he didn't..you know. (hands gesturing wildly in little circles). Me: What? It's pretty hard to fake sex if a man can't get it up.
G: Oh, I don't like that kind of talk. That's not what I meant.
Me: YOU brought it up. How does a man fake sex?
G: Well, he..you know...could..do it, but he didn't...
Me: YES???!!!!
G: Well, you know...finish..
Me: You mean he didn't come?
G: Oh, please. Well, if you put it that way.
Me: I am putting it that way. How do you know?
G: (nervous sigh) Well, you can tell. He wanted me to think he did. He's a liar.
Me: How can you tell a man is faking an orgasm? I mean, the outcome is pretty obvious, no?
G: (takes a big sip of coffee)
Me: Did he give you the impression he was coming? Did he put on the whole show?
G: (ambivalent nod)
Me: So how can you tell he was faking it? Can he tell when you're faking it? Do you fake it?
G: We're not talking about that. We're talking about him.
Me: So, he pretended to come but you thought he didn't?
G: Yes.
Me: I guess it wasn't a convincing performance? Did you call him on it?
G: (gets up) I need more coffee.

It is the highlight of any Monday.

We don't have any family in New York with the exception of Fang's aunts, a trio of sisters who live in a Polish section of Queens. These lifelong New Yorkers range in age from 84 to 92, but they're sharp of mind and tongue and entirely conversant with any topic in the news today. The read the New York Times AND the New York Post daily and watch Jon Stewart and David Letterman. They like a good meal, a glass of wine and a hearty laugh, so passing a day with them is an easy pleasure. Yes, they are a bit hard of hearing and they tend to talk over one another, so a conversation between two people usually evolves into a conversation with six people, with everyone talking over each other just to be heard.

Aunt Bert lives in the house that her husband built after they were married 60 years ago. The eldest sister, Stella, lives in the apartment upstairs. Aunt Fran is a few minutes away. This trifecta of women couldn't be more different and occasionally they bicker, as siblings do. Sometimes during the recollection of some nostalgic event in their remarkable long lives, one will interrupt the other and contradict some perceived inaccuracy in the story. And then six people are talking over each other again.

While their company, conversation and warmth are enticements enough to lure me out to Queens, they are particularly known for their generous hospitality. A bountiful meal for every visitor is their mantra. If the meal is taking place upstairs at Stella's apartment, you know there will be well cooked meat or chicken and a variety of no less than three boiled root vegetables. The aunts grew up on a farm in rural Long Island, the children of poor Polish immigrants, so it is their nature to rely on vegetables to flesh out a meal. I've no qualms with root vegetables save the cooking of them fills the air with a distinctly fart-like smell.

Now, if the meal is taking place down in Bert's place, loosen your pants because you are going to eat. Bert is the aunt I identify with the most. She is lively; always the life of the party. She's a woman who has lived out loud her entire life. She is the peacemaker between Fran and Stella. And she's the woman who will say, "What's a little butter? Have a little butter. Enjoy it today, as much as you like and worry about it tomorrow." She is also the woman who will pat my backside and say, "You're getting a little round back there, no? Well, me too. Sit down and eat and worry about it tomorrow." I adore her.

We went out to Queens today to raise a glass to celebrate the Mets three game sweep over the Dodgers last night. I knew maintaining my low carb diet was in danger the moment I walked in. Bert's dining table was set and she announced, "A new Polish deli just opened so I had to buy some things for us to try for dinner." Now, Polish food is similar in many ways to southern cuisine. There is lots of orange food that employs a fond intimacy with pork. The diet was doomed.

And so it came--pierogi stuffed with cabbage and mushrooms, covered with sauteed onions, butter and sour cream, bigos or hunter's stew, with thick pieces of pork back in it, kielbasa, potatoes, salad and curiously, a big platter of fried chicken. And a cheese babka as big as your head for dessert. And then she sends us home with leftovers.

I'll get back on that diet. Tomorrow.

Two things MUST be said this morning:

Go, METS!

Rest in peace, Buck O'Neil.

I went to a dance concert at the New York City Center last night. This event, entitled "Fall for Dance," is a week long festival that showcases various genres of dance and features a different program each night. Tickets are only $10 and are kept low with the lofty intent of exposing the general populace to a broad range of dance they normally may not see. It's a very egalitarian concept.

I went with a friend from work, Stormy, who is a sarcastic person generally, but has a surprisingly sentimental love of dance, particularly ballet. I've gone to some dance events with her and found it surprising how conversant she was in choreography, musical scores and dance technique. I mean, this girl played hockey. Who knew?

Now for $10, you need to go into the theater with an open mind. You're never sure what might come your way.

The first selection were ten brief works from the Pacific Northwest Ballet. The company of eight dancers performed to the accompaniment of a piano only (And because I know Todor will ask me--the pieces were all composed by Bartok). It was breathless, fanciful, pleasurable, a joy to watch. So far, so good.

The next piece featured a soloist wearing enough fringe to look like a Yeti. His piece consisted of spinning and faux capoiera movements to some Brazilian music for 15 minutes. Stormy said, "That was interesting." I said, "That looked like a guy on LSD at Burning Man." It did.

Things started spiraling down from there. A modern troupe called Random Dance took over the stage and contorted themselves for 25 minutes to a three note variation of a techno pop melody followed by a very loud Marilyn Manson song. When it was over, the nebbish man sitting behind me said to his wife, "What was that song?" She replied, "Marilyn Manson." "The killer?" he asks. "No," she replies, "You're thinking of Charles Manson." That exchange was the highlight of that piece for me.

The next selection was called Under the Skin and it offered the clever use of a video of two writhing people projected upon a backdrop of two real life writhing people. By this point, I'm wondering what street will be the best place for me to flag a cab to get home when this is over.

The finale, and Lord, it was a finale, were an ensemble from Barcelona. Two guitarists and two seemingly drunken compatriots who scratched themselves and uttered "alle" every two seconds provided the backdrop. Complimenting this quartet, were two male flamenco dancers who strode onto stage with a bravado that seemed more inherent of their nationality than the character of the dance. They flipped their long hair, snorted, postured and indulged in a heel stomping dance-off between one another for the next 25 minutes. It was so over the top, I wasn't sure if it wasn't more a display of homoeroticism or machismo.
I may not like it or understand it, but I got my ten bucks worth. And a cab on 7th Avenue.

On our internal work web homepage, there is a little HR section that highlights all the respective holidays and representational events of the month. It's October, so some of the more obvious commemorations are "Breast Cancer Awareness Month" and "Hispanic Heritage Month". As no organization is dare neglected, there are often quite a few listed each month. Eyeballing the list today, I was struck by the following: October is National Clock Month. Huh?

This sounds like the by-product of a bunch of scheming Swiss who didn't feel quite so neutral. Or maybe some lobbyists from Timex. Did our government sanction the celebration of the timepiece with the same gravitas given to honoring Hispanics, breast cancer victims, the mentally ill, the disabled and those other--dare I say--more worthy recipients of commemoration?

How does one celebrate the clock in a fashion that would be respectful to the depth of it's position as one of October's poster children? Do we embrace the grandfather clock in the hall with a heartfelt passion? Do we stroke the face of our wristwatch to reinforce the depth of our reliance and gratitude? Do we send a Hallmark card to Seiko? Is there a nonprofit organization one can donate to in order to fund research to support the advancement of the clock?

Perhaps an even more important question to ask is: do we really even like the clock? Thanks to the clock, our lives are measured out in minutes and seconds. We know where we must be at all hours of the day. We rise each day at the instigation of the numbers of the clock (which is reinforced by clock's evil brother, alarm, which for all we know, could be a celebrant for the month of November). The clock reminds us that we're working more than the standard 40 hours a week that we're supposed to be working. It reminds us that we're late for something or that a deadline is hanging over our heads like a mallet. With its brooding and hollow tick, tick, tick, it reminds us how lonely we really are sometimes and that our lives are ebbing away. You want to celebrate..this?!

A certain relative has one of those gimmicky gift clocks that has a different bird illustration on its face to represent each of the numbers. When the clock strikes twelve, the respective call of the hour's featured bird blares forth to note another hour of time has passed. Every time I visit, the Canadian Goose that sits squarely at 3:00 squawks like he's on his way to slaughter...and what's worse, sometimes it gets stuck and a repetitive honk continues until the battery is removed. No, I have no love for the clock.

I say fuck the clock, but celebrate time. Measure your days with the rising sun, the twilight of the evening and the fanciful way the light moves across the sky throughout the course of a day.

I saw in the news today that Tamara Dobson died this week due to complications from multiple sclerosis. If you grew up in the 70s as I did, you'll remember Ms. Dobson. Maybe not by her stage name, but by her screen persona: Cleopatra Jones. Between her and Pam Grier, these were my power women role models. They took guff from no one, they strode the streets like they owned them, and they rebuffed advances with a well place stiletto planted squarely in a man's chest. They were glamorous and confident. I wanted to be Foxy Brown. I wanted to wear hot pants and a feather boa and take down the drug dealers with a quick extraction of the shiv tucked between my cleavage.

Girls growing up in the 70s had very conflicted role models to choose from. To my young eyes, there seemed two extremes: docile girlishness or hardcore feminist. There was the dreadful Marabel Morgan, she of "The Total Woman" fame. This was the infamous book that suggested women subjugate themselves exclusively to men and sport Saran Wrap to greet their husbands with their evening martini. Conversely, there were amazing women like Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan. There were "could go either way" role models like "Charlie's Angels" and "Three's Company" and Cher. Yet, none of these inspired me like the characters of Cleopatra Jones, Foxy Brown, Christie Love and Sheba Baby. These were women who were strong, confident and respected by men, yet they commanded authority without ever compromising their femininity, sexuality and flamboyant fashion sense.

My mother, a liberated woman in her own right, also practiced this compromise, although in a much more white, middle class kind of way. She had a career and she heartily endorsed women's rights. She always encouraged me to go after anything I wanted, regardless of perceived walls or glass ceilings. She ordered me to ardently pursue my career goals, to take life on my own terms and to never surrender one's goals and desires for a man. She particularly insisted that I always pay for my half of the bill on a date otherwise "you may have to put out." I've stayed true to her directions in my life so far. However, I will admit, even when I did pay half the bill, I sometimes did put out...but only because I wanted to. Christie Love would have done the same thing.

I have an old Cleopatra Jones t-shirt in my drawers somewhere. I'll have to dig it out to wear tomorrow, if anything, to honor the memory of a truly treasured role model.

A quote from the author Camille Paglia suggests urination is yet another factor that distinguishes the value of the sexes. To quote, "Male urination really is a kind of accomplishment, an arc of transcendence. A woman merely waters the ground she stands on...there is no projection beyond the boundaries of the self." Or as a succinct sage summed up, we're all either wall sprayers and puddle makers. That seems a rather simple analogy, but let's recognize that having an appendage does offer certain advantages in the ease of bathroom use.

I can't begin to count the number of times I've come out of a theater at the end of a movie and stood in an endless snaking line waiting to use the ladies room, all the while gazing with envy at the available open door of the gents. I envy that men can urinate without having to partially disrobe. I envy that they don't have to sit down on a toilet seat that is sometimes suspiciously wet. I envy that a man can pee discreetly outdoors if he's without a nearby facility. And most of all, I envy, greatly, that a man could write his name in the snow with pee if he wanted to. I once tried and never got past the first letter (You try it. My first name starts with an "M" and let me tell you, knocking out that "M" alone took a lot of fancy footwork).

The general school of thought suggests there is a reason why men need a trough to pee in. They're messy. I have friends who are training their young sons to sit and "pee like a girl." I don't have the heart to remind them that girls are not much neater once their perfumed facades disappear behind a public bathroom door. And it's to that end I'm compelled to expose some universal bad bathroom habits about puddle makers and attempt to draw some scary parallels between genders that Camille never considered.

-To their credit, women are consistent hand washers after they use the restroom, but they are also prone to splashing copious amounts of water on counters without wiping it up and leaving dirty paper towels on the floors if they miss tossing it into the bin. I mean, why would they pick a dirty towel off a dirty floor if they just washed their hands? D-uh.

-In the ladies room at my work hangs a sweetly scripted sign : "If you sprinkle, when you tinkle, please be neat and wipe the seat." Clearly. there are several people who don't speak English because in some cases, only a leaf blower will make that seat inhabitable. I have to wonder--are you people STANDING on that seat when you use it?

-Women have the habit of chattering on in mindless conversation with one another when in a bathroom. I prefer the anonymity of my bathroom experience and feel alarmed when a disembodied voice suddenly says to me, "I love the sweater you're wearing today." I believe most people have trouble talking and peeing at the same time and what's more, I'm a little revolted by the concept that someone else is peeing while talking to me. I suspect men do not chat about the box scores while hovering over a urinal, so please don't yak at me while I'm secluded in a stall.

-Girls, this one is the clincher. I have lived with men my entire life and the one bathroom trick they have perfected is The Courtesy Flush. Sometimes I walk into a public restroom and reel from the general stankery with only one thought: Jesus, did a cow shit in here?! I'm begging you. There is a reason they call it the courtesy flush. By incorporating this habit into your regular routine, you are doing all your fellow puddle makers a great and noble service.

Really, Camille. We have bigger things to resolve than the patterns of our pee, no?

I go to a hair salon a couple times a month for the luxury of having my hair blown out. Chiefly I do so because it's a Herculean effort to do myself, but I also do so for the pleasure of having someone wash my hair. The resident serf assigned to shampooing duty is a flamboyant young man named Darleesh. I've learned that it pays to tip Darleesh a few extra dollars, because the man evolves a simple hair washing into a day at the spa. He scrubs my scalp like I've been at sea for six months and then he massages every square inch of my skull and neck while talking about his favorite recipe for lamb vindaloo. I enjoy the experience so much that I almost feel guilty.

I think it's the same reason I indulge in pedicures, Yes, it's important that a girl is always well groomed, but I also truly adore the way Rupa kneads my feet and calves until I'm practically speaking in tongues. Listen, there is a reason we pay for massage. Yes, it feels good, but there is something wonderful in being touched.

Now get your heads out of the gutter, people. Yes, that kind of touching is absolutely wonderful too, but I'm we're on a different subject plane here.

My point is simple. When people touch--even in a totally professional or anonymous capacity--it reminds us that we're alive. I do believe it's in our nature to touch; physical expression is as important in communication as verbal expression. I'm sure when our ancestors were in the Cro Magnon period, they had to express pleasure, anger, dissatisfaction and joy in some respect and likely demonstrated this through touch. How unfortunate those last few centuries of rigid social patterns have resulted in the uptight creatures we've become today.

Regardless of certain repressive mores, you really see the true nature of people at key times, say, in the wake of a disaster. At a moment like that, all dividing walls of anonymity crumble and it's natural to see strangers embracing or reaching out to one another. Of course this is a manifestation of compassion, but it also demonstrates that our first, true instinct is to reach out to others, to feel that core of life in the simple touch of a hand. I remember clearly after 9/11 here in NYC, alot of people, even strangers, touched easily and earnestly as a means to feel unified and safe.

My closest friends, and you know who you are, are witty and warm and effusive in their expressions. I treasure people who embrace others with a genuine affection. I like men who are secure enough with their own sexuality that they think nothing about embracing other men with the same affection that women express with one another.

This morning on the subway, I was seated between a man and a woman. It wasn't so crowded on the bench as to be uncomfortable by any means, but by virtue of the seats and the number of bodies pressed into them, some body part was bound to impose on a neighbor. The woman at my left was unfazed by the intrusion of my thigh against her, but the man on my right was downright put out. He looked down at my intruding limb, tried to reposition his body, snapped his newspaper sharply, huffed and twitched with clear indignation and then crossed his legs so to isolate his body from any offensive neighbors.

I think that poor man needs a hug.

While I am passionate about the topic of southern food, it's probably fair to offer up a few caveats. Not all southern food is good eatin'. There are a few things that still smack of mysterious danger and from my view, should be approached with all due trepidation.

Scrapple is probably more indigenous to Pennsylvania, but as far as I'm concerned, it's clearly the missing link of all nasty pork variations so it must be cited here. Since it appears to look like an innocuous pork sausage patty to the naked eye, further research had to be undertaken. Scrapple is typically made of hog leftovers, such as the head, eyes, heart, liver, bladder, and other scraps, which are boiled with any bones attached (often the entire head), to make a broth. Once cooked, bones and fat are discarded, the meat is reserved and cornmeal is boiled in the broth to make a mush. The meat, finely minced, is returned and seasonings, typically sage, thyme, savory, and others, are added. The mush is cast into loaves and allowed to cool thoroughly until gelled. OK, there are some key words here that guarantee I will never eat scrapple. They completely lost me at the mention of The Head. No one should ever be compelled to eat any part of any creature's head. EVER.

Digest that. It's all downhill from here.

Puddin' meat is a Southern variation of scrapple. It's essentially the same thing except it contains lots more liver. Internal organs are also on that "avoid all costs" list.

Squirrel pie is considered quite a delicacy. A client from Huntington, WV once sent me his favorite squirrel pie recipe as part of his Christmas greetings. The delicately transcribed recipe suggested one capture, kill and skin your own squirrel so the meat will be absolutely fresh. I had an unfortunate image of chasing around Central Park with a machete, hunting down the source of my dinner, followed in close pursuit by the SPCA and NYPD.

Souse is a kind of head cheese. The very notion of the words "head" and "cheese" together evoke foul images of sexual infections. And there's that whole creepy head thing again.

Pork loaf is the southern version of what people in New Jersey call "pork roll," both of which are distant cousins to our notorious friend, Scrapple. It's a blatant example of abusing the good pork name.

Make a note of this because I rarely say this, but there are some foods that shouldn't be deep fried. Dill pickles are one of them.

Hog maws and snouts sound like something you'd see festooned on the alter at a satanic ritual..and we're waivering in head territory again.

You can't fool me by using such a cuddly little downhome word as window dressing. I know chitterlings are a pig's small intestines. There is no amount of batter and deep frying to make this foodstuff even remotely appealing.

Southerners love their ice tea and agreeably, I like it too. But the version that is still up for debate is sweet tea. I've had some variations that made Kool-Aid taste like a fine pinot noir.

So my fellow gastronomes, what's on your list?