today’s top ten reasons why I adore mandarin
Thursday 26 February 2004 | I like a cookie
10. When I drag myself to the PO hoping for a parcel from the Film Critic, and there isn’t one, she has sent me New Yorker clippings in an envelope decorated with Southwestern state postage stamps on the front, and Rubens and van Gogh themed credit card stickers on the back.
9. Though she’s as environmental-like as I am, and even more so, and loves sea otters and vultures and doesn’t shave her legs, she also understands the visceral thrill of extremely expensive German autos, and why downshifting a standard transmission around a tight curve can be nearly orgasmic.
8. Similarly, while she appreciates gentle folky guitar-driven strains and whispery soprano female vocals, she also understands why sometimes one just needs to flagellate oneself with the Pixies or Radiohead, and why on other occasions one has to get down and dirty to obnoxious grungy antifeminist hiphop of the “Shake Your Tailfeathers” variety.
8b. Which is why she bumped and ground with me in the yoga studio this summer after skit night, causing her spouse to whisper to her, “We must go shag immediately,” and a youthful proto-monk to double-take and notice me.
7. And also similarly, while she mindfully consumes organic homemade quinoa-yam bread and dips her cabbage leaves in wheat-free tamari, she also well comprehends the occasionally desperate need for a meal of nothing but Spud Puppies and chunks of costly Vermont white cheddar, ideally devoured while watching Rules of Attraction and/or Nine Queens.
6. I don’t have to explain to her: who Mary Gaitskill is, why I talk to the Possum, why it’s so great when George Clooney gets that look on his face in Out of Sight after his attacker falls down the stairs and shoots himself, why it nearly kills me when I get an email from the Film Critic beginning: “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. You.” followed by about fifteen hard returns, why I have sometimes felt I didn’t deserve to breathe air, why anyone would ever be drawn to gay vampire porn, why extra-small sweaters and t-shirts are invariably much better than the allegedly small ones, why it’s terribly important to have the right head-bandanna for cleaning the pool at dusk, and why I’m petrified by the thought of someday having to clean out and sell a little ranch in East Texas.
5. She knows all about the menstrual faeries and their capricious ways—how they can have you skipping in the autumn leaves one moment and huddled on the bathroom floor retching the next, and no one can tell you it’s not so.
4. She’s, like, really hot. Julia Roberts, shut up and go sit over there. Scarlett Johanssen, don’t even start with me. Juliette Binoche, get yo big ass outta my way. From wide phthalo eyes down to her long long legs, girlfriend, she’s so money and she’s maybe even finally starting to know it. There will be no sexier MSWs in all of Blighty, I tell you. Probably even the entire EU.
3. She has exquisite taste in British husbands, who come accessorized with thousands of jazz CDs and a double-bass, and who look devastatingly hunky in Zen robes.
2. She once said, to a yokel from my home state who asked leeringly if she had a boyfriend, “She’s my boyfriend.” She meant the Unnarrator.
1. She…I…um…she…oh fuck yeah.
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