I kinda want to avoid their being labelled as health food because they’re not really.  They’re just a less horrid way to “cheat” for natural dieters.  It’s a kind of, “If you’re going to do something wrong, do it right,” thing.  I hope that it will serve as a kind of “gateway drug” to get people hooked on eating naturally.  I do want to inspire some shock and awe when I tell folks that each of the spice cakes only has a tablespoon of sugar and two tablespoons of honey in the whole thing, and that was just for the sake of moisture and browning.

We’ll see how things go.  This is the first time I’m selling without specific requests.  So I’m doing some semi conventional and some more nourishing.  Even the conventional ones are going to be old fashioned.  I know they’ll sell well because it’s just like Great Grandma would make it…well, sort of.  I’m using yogurt instead of less exact soured milk.

Also, much like my hometown, there is a full spectrum of shades to choose from: asphalt noir to blinding blanc.  I should also clarify that the reason Moroccan guys are such reflexively self fucking dumbasses is because they are among the most handsome until they hit the wall at 30.  Like women, they are pretty until they start to age, so also like many women, they are cruel and stupid until they get some life experience under their belts.  By then though, their looks are gone.  Most Moroccan guys, sadly, start to prune-ify and grow massive pelts of hair everywhere except their heads by 27-35.

They swear to God though, that they are doing you a favor by speaking to you.  To be fair, in some cases, they are.  Much like Black guys in the U.S. they’re weaned on game.  So just because a Moroccan guy looks like a hairy troll by 30 doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a fan club.  If all you want out of it is sex, then you’ve come to the right place.  As manwhores go, they rival Romanians.  Just don’t get attached.

If you, like me, have a tendency to get attached though, I recommend nondescript mixed Sabras (born Israelis) with Ashkenazi fathers, the Polish, and the Russian.

…and with that, I’d like to share my thoughts on someone I encountered Saturday night, and make a few points.

Hypatia and I had just finished watching a show and dancing at the Polah, a pub downtown.  We were about to wait at the bus stop when a couple passed us.  The guy radiated strength and yet a strange refinement, even though he was wearing flip flops, some loose sweatpants, and a plain white t-shirt.  The girl, medium height, slim but not emaciated, with long dark brown hair, was actually dressed for casual going out.

It was obvious that this was a post coital situation.  He was walking her from his place to the bus stop.  What was striking about his appearance, aside of the masculine but well bred poise, was the eye patch.  He did not do as most would here, and wear a medical patch, glasses, a glass eye, or something that looked like hospital gear.  We’re talking satin black pirate patch with the slim strap at a classy angle.  One could tell he looked in a mirror and smiled.

He also had a slight limp, barely noticable with the rest of his poise, and lots and lots of scars.  I commented to Hypatia, “Damn, 50 Cent just passed us.”  We all had a nice conversation in which I found out that he was injured in a car accident, and that he’s actually old enough to remember pirates vs. ninjas…and of course prefers pirates.

I noticed that he sat while his girlfriend stood.  There wasn’t a whole lot of hand holding or other PDA.  He didn’t even kiss her before she left, just ordered calmly, “Call me when you get home to let me know you got there safely.”  Her mouth said the word, “Okay,” but the tone made it sound more like, “Yes Sir.”

As a favor to him, once Hypatia, I, and the girlfriend got on the bus, I made sure to continue the conversation Hypatia and I started earlier about femininity.  She was within earshot of my nutshell version of what went wrong and how a woman can fix being a bitch.  She was listening interestedly, but trying not to be too obvious.

Meeting a hot guy who is so in the ways that matter is a pleasure in and of itself.  I was happy that he laughed at my humor, and happy to drop a little knowledge on the girl that might one day save her place with him, if he’s looking for something long term.

This guy is an example of what’s right about real Israeli men.  As they say, here, if an Israeli guy is a pussy, he’s among the biggest pussies in the world, but if an Israeli guy is a man, then he’s one of the best of men in the world.

Last night, I finally got to see Jacuzzi after some weeks.  She’s been working really hard as a waitress while working on her portfolio for design school.  So we took the opportunity to meet since she has a rare night off, and her boyfriend is one of the DJ’s.

Most of the crowd were kids I didn’t know, but there were a few of the old freaks there.  While we were dancing, Dana commented that for some reason, whenever she’s with me, weird guys start gravitating towards us.  I told her it’s because I’m still an oddly perky fat chick, but to be patient.  In a few months, it’ll be dirty old men.  She laughed.

Not all the guys hovering around were so weird though.  Some, I’d be tempted to actually talk to, if I was younger.

I was wearing the same jeans that I wore in the full body shots I took awhile back, but now they fit too loosely.  I kept having to pull my pants up, and the slippery leotard didn’t help.  Thank goodness I wore a waist sash.  Yes, I’m getting into the “old lady chic”.  Like I’ve said before, I don’t want to be MILF.  I want to be MISWY (marry if she was younger).  So I’m dressing sexy but smartly…classic look with some bohemian flair.

The music was really good.  I was pleasantly surprised that the DJ’s, Jacuzzi’s boyfriend included, were actually manning the turntables instead of just playing a rotation of canned house.  I hate it when so-called DJ’s play pre-recorded rotations of standard 3-4 minute songs that all have that “plinky-pause” in them.  When that happens, you’re slowing down or stopping every darn 3 minutes.  It’s annoying, and impossible to get a good groove going that way.  Dance music in a club is for dancing, not just listening to while driving or something.  Pauses should be at least 10 minutes apart, if that.  I like a DJ who is actually present, and these guys were…so much so, that they worked in shifts.  They’re harsh slave-drivers of themselves and their audience.  I likes.

They work every Saturday night now at the old Pasha’s building.  That place changes names so much, almost nobody remembers what it’s called except that for a longer time it used to be Pacho’s.  If you like minimalist house, this is the place to be.

Broken Fingaz block party poster

It was alot of fun.  I met Shaniqua and a friend of hers there, and we ended up meeting two new friends, Beret and GossipGirl.  Some of the pack and extension were there.  I also saw some people I hadn’t seen in awhile.

…and for the first time in 15 years, I had disappointed/jealous guy and woefully distracted player issues, and was offered unlimited free beer.

At some point, Shaniqua and her friend wanted to go get some beer.  In their rush, they missed noticing that a guy I’d met a few years ago stopped me and gave me a hug.  While girls around him were circling like so many sharks, and occasionally flirting, he somehow held me in focus, thanked me for teaching him how to make cheese back then, and offered me beer…as much as I want.  He was running the stand with a friend of his.  His friend was cool with it too.

So we’re talking, and he’s doing the natural protective-territorial body language-touching thing, and apparently one of his bitches got a little jealous, and imposed.  He shoots me a look (exasperated eyeroll) because by now he knows I’m pretty fluent in Manian.  So I grinned, chuckled, and stepped back to watch the show.  One by one, and often not very patiently, each of his bitches in the vicinity did their attention whoring thing.

I drank my beer, and returned to my friends.  He caught up with me later, but then had to go back and man the stand.  It was certainly interesting.

Later, dancing near Shaniqua, Jules, and I, was a familiar face.  So I asked him if he was who I thought he was, this AWESOME jazz guitarrist I’d seen playing at Cafe Netto some years ago.  I stumbled over some Hebrew to try to express to him how great he was, and how happy I was to finally see him again, and he blushed and stumbled over some English…and then out of nowhere comes Diva, a very flamboyant, old school Gay friend of mine, piss drunk and nearly falling over.

So I had to be a gentle(wo)man, and gave the guitarrist an apologetic look, half dancing with Diva, and half trying to hold him up.  I realized from the unmasked disappointment and pouting, that my relationship with Diva was being misinterpreted.

…but being me, I cared more about making sure my friend was okay.  So Diva was the priority.  I managed to convince him to let me walk him to the Carmelit station.

After the party was over, Shaniqua and I went with the new friends to a felafel and grill in hadar.  Then we came home in a taxi, and the driver who happens to be from New Jersey flirted with me a bit.  So all in all, it was a strange but good night.  Apparently, the weight loss has made me less invisible.

I’m not going into a former fatty sluttery phase though.  I’m way too old for that.  I’ll just enjoy the attention, and muse to myself about people’s superficiality.