BY Jodi

06/01 Direct Link
In late summer 2001, my dog, noticing that many neighborhood dogs besides him had white-tipped tails, wanted to start the White-Tipped Tail Club and create and distribute business cards as free membership into the society. He couldn't decide how much of the tail would be considered the tip, and whether a beagle, whose tail was more than 50% white, could be deemed acceptable. He didn't want to appear elitist. He scrapped his plans on September 11th, though, not wanting to hurt or offend anyone by the similarity of his club's initials to that of the World Trade Center. Good boy.
06/02 Direct Link
The above-ground pool doesn't care that it's above-ground, it just cares that it's filled with cool water to soothe the bodies that have been roasting in the sun all afternoon. It doesn't care if it's not as "prestigious" as the pools pictured in the magazines that it sometimes sees lying open on the picnic table a few feet away or the chairs in which the hot people had been lounging. It's happy to be a place where people can splash and act silly. It doesn't need to be fit for swimming or diving. It's happy to do what it can.
06/03 Direct Link
The kid across from me on the subway is way too old to be tickling his mom, and I'm pretty sure she knows it but doesn't want to have to go through whatever it is she'd have to go through to get him to stop it right now, here in public. This kid apparently is the type who'd need to be yelled at 50 times to get him to stop doing it, and the mom is resigned to mortification for the duration of the ride. I can already tell, this kid's going to have a really hard time on dates.
06/04 Direct Link
If ever I start to doubt whether working at home is the best option given that I could make scads more money in a so-called traditional office, I will remind myself of this: Where else can I work in cargo pants, a tank top, no underwear, and bare feet; quaff as much damned iced coffee as I want; flop on the bed for a nap without warning; occasionally have the boyfriend over for, y'know, afternoon tea; and shout a delicious stream of obscenities at the top of my lungs, all without supervision (discounting my ever-watchful cat), and still get paid?
06/05 Direct Link
No, thank you, public yoga. I've tried you several times, at my gym a few years ago and in my friend G's class last July, and although I will say that you would make an excellent addition to my workout regimen, there is no way in Bikram hell I want to be confined in a room with that many bare feet, especially those that aren't maintained as well as one would hope given the frequency of their exposure. But still, even when the feet have enjoyed the benefit of a pedicure, I don't want to be surrounded by them. Namas-toe.
06/06 Direct Link
I'm trying to be one of these girls who has no problem coming to a strip bar with a good guy friend, who's so evolved and open-minded that she doesn't mind being the only girl in the room whose tits aren't on display, that she's fine and dandy being the only chick in the room who no one's looking at twice. Yeah, I'm too classy for this joint, the men in the room are too piggish to even appreciate lean brunettes with barely-B-cups, and why would I want them to look at me anyway. Of course I'm lying to myself.
06/07 Direct Link
I always feel like an imposter when wearing a dress, like someone – a kid in a diner booth, a wizened crone on a bus, a drag queen – will take one look at me, raise an eyebrow to rival the McDonald's arch, and say, "Yeah, right, who do you think you're kidding, sir?" High heels are no problem; I feel like I've earned the right to wear them. But a dress? Not so much. Put me in my cargo pants and tank top to show off the arms that the gayboys admire, and I feel so much more like a girl.
06/08 Direct Link
At the kitchen counter in semi-darkness, I'm eating cherries straight from the bag I bought them in, unwashed, and haven't even bothered to do so much as tear off a sheet of paper towel into which to spit the pits but instead have been doing so directly into my palm, like tiny pulpy hearts, along with the collection of stems. I'm not giving these cherries the respect they deserve, I'm not tasting each delicious one individually the way I should, I'm cramming them into my impatient maw like they don't cost six dollars a pound, like a rich rabid raccoon.
06/09 Direct Link
In the face of all of the mind-boggling, soul-crushing, heart-wrenching acts of unspeakable animal cruelty that we're exposed to on Facebook and witness when away from our computers, I see many people commenting that they're ashamed to be human. To those people, I say this: Don't be ashamed of being human. Only be ashamed if you are not humane.

* * *

Having opposable thumbs does not give human beings the right to thumb their noses at the responsibility they have to speak out against the abuses heaped on the shoulders of other species whom they deem less intelligent or worthy of respect.
06/10 Direct Link
Frankly, he was in love with the whole family, from little Bernadette (who names a baby Bernadette? That's a name one acquires in middle age, isn't it?) and her toddler stickiness to Grandma Graham Cracker and her grin that alternated between perfect dentition to gap-toothed goofiness depending on the vagary of her dementia, and all the rest of them in between, every last stubborn, well-read, well-fed, well-watered one. He married Marcy as much for the company of this crazed, infectious clan as he did for her auburn hair and lush hips, and she knew it, and loved him for it.
06/11 Direct Link
For the few minutes it takes for my new ATM card to be created, the bank guy and I face each other from opposite sides of his desk. I tell him I preferred the blue and red color scheme when the bank was Commerce and that the green of TD Bank is too money-like.

"What do you do?" he says.

"I write stuff."

"Really?" he says. "What kind of stuff?"

"Very short stories. Sometimes they're true, sometimes they're not."

"That's cool," he says. "You should write one about me."

I tell him I will. But I don't.

(Does this count?)
06/12 Direct Link
Your li'l Croc-footed kid may have said the cutest, darnedest thing this side of pudding-pop-faced Bill Cosby, guaranteed to tug at the fallopian tubes of every Redbook-reading mommy this side of the Atlantic, but Melanie Beeman insists that Billy, her imaginary son's, use of "umbrella cord" instead of "umbilical cord" is the darnedest of the darned. Although I want to tell her that's not even cute, I just say that maybe it's best left to kitchen humor when among her family.

"But I don't have a family," she says.

"Can't you just invent one?" I want to say. But don't.
06/13 Direct Link
What should I write? What haven't I said that needs to be said? What memory of my childhood, snippet from high school, nugget from a travel here or there or everywhere, what boyfriend or family member or co-worker or friend or imbecile at the gym or jerk on the bus still interests me enough to write about him or her or it or whatever? Is there anything left to say? Have I run out of steam or gas or whatever it takes to pull words from wherever they reside inside me? Does any of it even matter anymore or anyway?
06/14 Direct Link
It's sometime last fall, and I'm on a date with Receding Hairline Guy #6 at Tea Spot. I've known from the get-go that he's not my physical "type", but his photos depict him as outdoorsy, full of vim and/or vigor –so I think, okay, maybe he's a rugged fella eager to tell stories about his adventures.

Ten minutes in, he tells me he didn't accompany co-workers to lunch because the five-block walk was too long of a jaunt in the chilly weather. "I don't do well in the cold." I make a note to stick to men who prefer coffee.
06/15 Direct Link
Ben's standing at the corner of 76th and Amsterdam, outside the JCC, twirling a silver-colored aluminum baseball bat as if it were a majorette's baton, admiring the way it picks up the reflection of the peach-colored sun setting over Broadway. Several feet away his mom gabs with another mom here to pick up her kid, impervious to Ben humming Madonna's "Lucky Star" with perfect pitch. Fifteen minutes later, inside their Classic Six on West 81st Street, Daddy's home from Wall Street, pitching imaginary balls to Ben in the front hall, wondering if the boy's ever going to perfect his swing.
06/16 Direct Link
It's bad enough the kid's getting his hair cut in a salon overrun with ladies, instead of at a $10 barber shop where he can feel like a boy, surrounded by combs and Barbisol and shaving cream instead of all manner of "product" and blow dryers, but oh, does his flubby "blonde" mom with the gnarled toes have to insist he wants his hair even shorter, so the stylist brings out the electric clipper that turns him from a rough and tumble 10-year-old into a sullen miniature shnook, no doubt a shorter version of his dad and just as heckled?
06/17 Direct Link
It's not fair that my friend Allison and her boyfriend James look just as gorgeous and adorable in photos as they do in real life and my boyfriend and I don't. It's just not fair that our cuteness doesn't translate photographically and that instead of looking like we're having fun fun fun, we look like we're squinting into the flash of a nuclear blast. We don't do well with pointing the camera at ourselves and freezing ourselves in a pose. A third party needs to catch us off guard and in action. We're at our best when animated and un-self-conscious.
06/18 Direct Link
I have the worst sense of direction this side of a compass assembled by a blind, one-armed, three-year-old girl. If you ask me which way to go and I say right, don't let another heartbeat pass before turning left with a vengeance. When trying to situate myself in this city, I must always remind myself that Seventh Avenue runs south and have to face oncoming traffic so I know that my right hand is east. If I enter Macy's through one door and exit by another, I am as lost as if you'd spun me around blindfolded for pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. Ahoy!
06/19 Direct Link
I'll never understand the appeal of the rodeo and how anyone wouldn't think it was anything but abusive, cruel, and humiliating. Like bullfighting, it's based in the desire to "slay the beast" or at least subjugate it to the mighty macho will. Screw any notions of tradition or lore. At its abuse at its core.

Animal acts in the circus should, likewise, be abolished. Anytime I see parents and their kids merrily coming from the circus, I want to drag the parents by their ears and ask if they like knowing their kids have just witnessed abuse.

This is entertainment?
06/20 Direct Link
The stunned kitten lies on its side, a filthy gray and white lump on the sidewalk, enough out of the way to avoid the oblivion of foot traffic. It's early, though, so maybe that's why no one else has scooped it up and placed it in her purse the way I've just done, taking care to keep it unzipped just enough so the kitten can get air without falling out. Once home, I suds the little guy in the kitchen sink, and wrap him in a towel to squeeze out the water. Oh, how Beanie Babies have fallen from grace!
06/21 Direct Link
I went out onto my patio and blew a referee's whistle three times to alert the inconsiderate trumpet-abusing schmuck who insists on littering the airwaves with his incessant atonal garbage that IT 'S ALMOST 10:00 P.M.

I'm laughing like a fucking lunatic. After the third crazed blast, a woman called out, "Hello???" and I darted inside, turned off the lights, and cackled.

After the third shriek into the night, the imbecile continued blaring, as if 3,000,000 decibels of frustration hadn't even existed. I think he paused for a millisecond, but that was probably a glitch in my own internal motherfuckerboard.
06/22 Direct Link
Ice cream while watching/listening to Tin Pan in Central Park, street fair fried Oreos for you, my adorable boyfriend, a stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge (yes, with photos, damn it), the discovery of more of the East Side (although of course our allegiance is to the West!), bowling with our boys, more park picnics, another jaunt to the 70th Street pier, a ramble through The Ramble, and whatever and wherever else we want to go in this grand city. And let's not forget miniature golf, with a windmill or a clown's mouth, somewhere in New Jersey. Dare we Dairy Queen?
06/23 Direct Link
Mid-November, at an upscale restaurant, and frustrated that I'm the only one on our date who's demonstrating she's not a candidate for an autopsy yet, I disappear into my tiny chocolate cherry bread pudding in order to secure a few precious moments to occupy my mouth with something other than one-sided banter. He's offered as much of his crème brulee as he has of conversation, and once he's devoured it he asks if he can taste mine and I oblige. Later, when I'm unwisely in his apartment, he wants another kind of dessert, but this time I don't. Check, please!
06/24 Direct Link
When you're walking your dog, IT IS THE DOG'S TIME. it's not time for you to yammer on your cell phone, text like there's no tomorrow, or shuffle around acting like you'd rather be doing anything but walking the dog. It's not time to hurry him along as he sniffs for the best place to do what he's out here to do. It's not time for you to yank on his leash so you can rush home to True Blood. This is THE DOG'S TIME, not yours. Stop being so goddamned selfish. He's the best friend you'll ever fucking have.
06/25 Direct Link
Any discussion of past transgression has been zipped into a heavy-duty body bag, carted off by a garbage truck, and dumped into an unidentified landfill. I hope bullshit is biodegradable, because I'd hate for some post-apocalyptic teenager to stomp through the heaps one day and stumble over this seemingly impenetrable mass in enormous boots, and curious as to what's inside, unzip it all in a post-modern version of Pandora's box. But for right now, I'm selfish enough to be glad to be rid of it. And no, I didn't bother toe-tagging it. If unearthed, I don't want it revisiting me.
06/26 Direct Link
The other day a trainer friend at the gym told me that one of his clients thinks I don't like her. She's right. I have no time for "poor little me"-sters, whose six-figure salaries afford them the luxury of a personal trainer thrice weekly to whom they cry (literally) about their terrible lots in life. Lady, I don't give a fuck about your "issues". Whatever your deal is, does it really warrant the perpetual scowl and the air of entitlement? Get over yourself. (And no, Mr. Trainer, it's not up to me to befriend this unfriendly harridan. You're kidding, right?)
06/27 Direct Link
Gay Pride with my boyfriend, my best gayboyfriend, and his boyfriend, with a fantastic spot on Christopher Street near Gay, spangles and bangles and sparkles and bare asses and pastied jiggling tits and stilts and feathers and eye shadow and wigs and oiled boys dressed as sailors and girls strutting their stuff no matter how much stuff they have, and way too loud music and way too much yelling close to my ear, and my feet hurt from all the standing even though I'm in my lesbianic Birkenstocks. I couldn't be happier, in my favorite city with my favorite boys.
06/28 Direct Link
Happy six months, my darling puppy boy!
Happy six months, my darling puppy boy!
Happy six months, my darling puppy boy!
Happy six months, my darling puppy boy!
Happy six months, my darling puppy boy!
Happy six months, my darling puppy boy!
Happy six months, my darling puppy boy!
Happy six months, my darling puppy boy!
Happy six months, my darling puppy boy!
Happy six months, my darling puppy boy!
Happy six months, my darling puppy boy!
Happy six months, my darling puppy boy!
Happy six months, my darling puppy boy!
Happy six months, my darling puppy boy!
Love, Jinx!
06/29 Direct Link
To My Adorable Boyfriend, Ardent Devotee and Hungry Devourer of my 100 Words for the past six months:

Thank you, as always, for being my biggest fan. You have no idea how much it means to me that you take such delight in reading what I write. (And no, I'm not being facetious!)

When you are done reading this month's words, I want you to write me one of your own, in response to one of mine. Make it serious or funny, witty or straight, a series of short sentences or one long compound maze. Whatever you want.

06/30 Direct Link
I have a small yellow mesh bag of various-colored little (and very cute) potatoes that are a bit past their prime. Every time this happens (this is not the first, obviously) I solemnly think, "Anne Frank would have been *thrilled* to have these. I should be thankful." And then stand in the kitchen, stymied and paralyzed, unsure what to do with them and realizing, wow, I sure do have it rough.

I turned them into oven-baked chips, which I devoured without a fork in under three minutes. No doubt this same portion would have fed Anne's entire annexed household. Oy.