Mar 7, 2000

As I was circumnavigating the toilet bowl of the restaurant last night with a piece of paper towel wiping away the vomit from the latest bulimic assault it had endured, I wondered about the identity of the vomiter. It's part of the pleasure of being a hostess: spot the bulimic. I also wondered why I had been saved from this fate. I love to eat and I also love to fit into my tightest pants, the logical extension of this conundrum is to throw up your food. However, you're either a puker or you're not. To me it's just too radical, all that peralstisis in reverse. So I just prefer to oscillate between the two: eating a lot and then eating less/fitting into pants; ocassionaly the extremes are tempered by regular visits to the gym or during periods of interferon injections taken to ameliorate the ravages of hepatitis c on the liver. Interferon is probably the most effective diet drug you will find on the market (by prescription only and with the slight drawback of flu like symptoms, depression, suicidal ideation, hair loss, muscle wasting, dry skin, loss of libido, intestinal problems, fatigue and anemia.) I can't imagine puking several times a day is any better, but that's just me. On a lighter note: yes the loins never lie, was that not the first sweet smell of spring in Manhattan today? I smiled at people and they smiled back; such sweet pleasure this simple wave of delight at another passing soul. Guthrie, C and M's Chinese girl arrives in New York on March 29th. They asked me to be her godmother.
- rachael 5-10-2000 4:44 pm