u s e y o u r h a n d s

I know what I’m doing in May.

I recently purchased my very first iPod a few weeks ago. The video kind. The 30 Gb. And I heart it big time. And yes, I’m going to get rhapsodic about technology that’s years old because I’m behind the curve. So if you’re reading this and rolling your eyes, remember what it was like when you first got your bright shiny iPod, too.

It makes every walk to the train a music video. On Tuesday, I dodged pedestrians with my doe-eyed stomp to LCD Soundsystem’s “Yr City’s a Sucker.” Monday’s wistful journey was powered by The Arcade Fire’s “Kettles.”

It makes every workout a fight for your life. Last night, I worked out many frustrations on the treadmill (on 5 with a 3 incline, btw) to Ninja High School’s “It’s All Right to Fight.”

And it makes train and bus rides damp and feverish with Leonard Cohen’s “I’m Your Man” looped over and over.

Shiny iPod, you make me want to paint my nails and fling myself through the streets.

So how is it, iPod vets, that you don’t pirouette in the streets and sing out loud? Because I’m having the hardest time.

Lately, when I’ve been aggravated with or bemused by a co-worker, I’ve taken to imagining them (when I have knowledge sufficient to do so) as children. The tall female executive who exudes a lack of confidence that can’t be unrelated to her time as an adolescent ballet dancer, trying so hard to fly with a body of substance and always, always falling short. Or the young girl who seems so tormented by the possibility of rejection that she’s all artifice, like Magic Shell over melting ice cream.

And this is what I did when I popped in a VHS tape I’d picked up from the local library. “Martha Stewart’s Entertaining: Buffets.” I know Martha’s story: daughter of an alcoholic dad, make-the-best-of-it-mom, sister to, like, six siblings, model, stockbroker, caterer, divorcee, wife, mogul. But watching her on this tape, filmed in 1988, made me see something else in her — an incrediblly scared, very small girl striving for acceptance through excellence.

The video is also — once your overlook Martha’s breathy delivery, twitchy camera contact and “Runaway Bride” eyes — fucking hilarious. Martha advises her viewers to “take your poaching pan with you to the fishmonger’s to ensure you pick a fish of the proper length.” You could do that, MS, or you could just measure the fucking pan. You know, whatevs. Or at the end of the video, when Martha is showing us how to set a festive, fun table. She recommends mixing up linens, flatware, tableware, etc. Which is a great idea, but Marth’ mixes up a set of French Bakelite, vintage linen napkins, a hand-made tablecloth, rose glass, and crystal. For a party on the deck. But nothing is funnier than when the Mar-vel states that “a fun way to serve a dessert buffet is in a cart” which she wheels out, two or three times bigger than a wheelbarrow and filled with hay, statice and roses.

Each little touch, carefully rehearsed and thought through, did indeed present a lovely picture. Yes, adding a little gelatin atop your salmon studded with mandolined cucumber and radish slices does add shine. And thank you, Martha, I appreciate you planting the idea in my head to wrap a porn loin with leek bows. But you poor lady, you never mention what any of the food tastes like, or if your guests will feel relaxed and ready for fun. Like you can will peace, success and love if you just move heaven and earth to create three perfect dinner party hours. The effort is laudable, though the goal is not at all attainable.

And her recipes are boring and bloodless. Her only talent is wrapping paper, spun sugar, fog.

We need to put in a fence and get new windows installed on the porch. Anybody got an in at Andersen or Pella?