Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Summertime, and My Living Is Meager

From an article on, about the papal conclave and the celebration after Benedict XVI's election:

The new pope asked cardinals to dine together on bean soup, cold cuts, a salad and fruit, Meisner said. The nuns who prepare their meals didn't have time to plan a special menu, so there were only two special treats -- ice cream and champagne.

That's right, Papa J-Ratz busts out the Cristal when he gets down. He ain't into havin' sex OR makin' love, but just give him a nun with an ice cream cone and he'll lick it like a lollipop and maybe, just maybe, shake it like a polaroid picture.

And to his Sister Beyonces and Mother Superior Lucy Lus, don't worry that you'll never get a cool nickname like "God's Rottweiler." The Lord called you all to his service, and you all serve equally; Benedict XVI acts as God's mouthpiece, the College of Cardinals and all of the bishops sagely guide Jesus's flock, and you, y'know, make them dinner. Those fruit plates are for the Lord, though. Never forget that.

Now get the Pope some sprinkles.

Italy is currently the focus of my life, what with PopeFest 2005 in addition to my entire department attending a conference in Milan. Because I am an assistant, however, I have been tapped to hold down the fort in New York. With the absence of anyone higher than me on the corporate food chain (coupled with the staggeringly heavy burden of indignance that I am not in Europe on someone else's dime) I have decided to take advantage of my current situation like a rich kid in a John Hughes movie whose parents jetted off to France for the weekend.

I'm starting off slow (deciding that shoes are unnecessary when I'm at my desk, hiding in the handicapped bathroom stall and reading for forty minutes), but I fully intend to make this office a bitchin' house party by Friday.

If I can even convince myself to come to work on Friday. Today is the first day I haven't had to bring any kind of a coat to work, and I'm fighting that it's-spring-and-therefore-time-to-blow-off-all-commitments-and-sit-on-some-grass-until-I-burn-off-my-top-layer-of-skin-completely-wait-is-that-the-ice-cream-truck-ok-get-me-a-sno-cone kind of feeling. After five months of serious cold I can't help clenching my every clenchable muscle whenever I exit into the great outdoors, braced to walk right into that brick wall of winter air. When I leave the subway and find it a very comfortable seventy-two degrees with a slight breeze, walking to work is a whole lot more like walking to the gallows than usual.

Since it's so warm I decided to wear sandals to work today. Lack of clean socks were another factor in my decision, but that's neither here nor there. I'm wearing an incredibly unexciting pair of yellow flip-flops I bought for about two dollars from the college bookstore. I think they were supposed to be shower shoes, and they look about that sophisticated.

Despite the fact that they're kind of ugly, I really like these shoes. I like them even though they also make a horrible noise when I walk, which is why I'm wearing them today (when no one's around and I could do a little tap dance on my desk if I wanted to and what are you gonna do to stop me).

However, if it weren't for the dumb noise these sandals make I would never know how many New York City men are really, really into feet. Building on last fall's episode with a schizophrenic who wanted to "respect" my feet, I was shocked to see the number of men who, at the sound of an approaching pair of flip-flops, jerked up like prarie-dogs scanning the horizon and immediately began to search for naked toes.

It was bizarre. At first I thought I was making it up, but I was convinced I was truly surrounded by sexual deviants when no less than four male pedestrians stared at my feet from halfway down the block, making eye-contact only at the last possible second solely to impart that sheepish, creepy, "caught me!" look.

I just don't get it. My feet are nothing special. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that feet are generally gross, especially when you look at them (as I do) like mutated hands. I just don't understand the sexual appeal of the most monkey part of us. Not that I'm judging, though. If feet are what do it for you, then live it up. Fondle some toes, lick some soles, massage some ankles until your heart's content.

Just not mine, because I'd kick you if you tried.

My point is this: all I'm looking for on these crazy streets, in this anonymous metropolis, is a decent man. A good, old-fashioned man. A respectable man. The kind of man who doesn't care about my feet, but who will--assertively and unabashedly, in the spirit of the forefathers who founded this great nation on the basis of tradition, freedom, and good moral values--ogle my boobs.


Blogger ERL said...

i am officially in love with your blog!!

3:07 PM  

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