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We've been broken up for as long as we had been together, and I'm no closer to not missing him than I was at the outset. "They" say it takes half as long as the duration of your relationship to get over it, but that's bunkum. I miss this motherfucker to the moon and back, out to Pluto, even if it's supposedly not even a planet anymore. Maybe it's on that non-planet, in a parallel or perpendicular universe there, that he and I are prancing and warbling and dancing and whirling. The dish wants to run away with the spoon.
In the mid '90s I had a boyfriend for a few months who I would swear smelled faintly of cigarette smoke when he picked me up in his car. He didn't smoke, and neither did his roommates, so I chalked it up to mysterious grossness and never asked about it. Years later he confessed he had a cigarette-smoking fetish that he wished I'd indulge but never dared ask, so in order to get himself going, he'd smoke before picking me up. I'd rather be regarded as smokin' hot than hot, smoking. I suppose in me he didn't meet his match.
Editor's (my) note: Do NOT be alarmed, dearest friends, Romans, countrymen (or all three simultaneously) if, when reading my "batches", you come across a few that sound duplicative of others I've already written in a given month. Sometimes I'll "send" one, thinking it met my rigorous standards for such vaunted status, and then, reading it over, realize, oh no, I could've tweaked it a skosh. And so I do. And post it again, with improvements. This is annoying nature of the perfectionist beast. This is what also makes me send friends follow-up notes to emails or texts, correcting any typos.
My friend Bob takes naps before he goes to sleep. This is the equivalent of having a snack before dinner. I, on the other hand, sometimes nap not too long after having woken up, or have a snack (not along the lines of dessert, though) after having eaten dinner. Wouldn't it be better for both of us if we just tacked extra time or food onto our naps or dinners so we won't have to perform these activities in two parts? I'm going to start thinking of these add-ons like a cute little "P.S." at the end of a letter.
Sometimes I miss hanging out with her, but I'm still not up to making any overture toward "connecting" again in an attempt to repair or resume our destroyed friendship. Her words were vindictive, hurtful, and completely out of line, not the sort spewed of temporary anger or frustration but the sort that have been festering under the surface for ages and finally released in a furious torrent. An unleashing, a lashing, an excoriation. The brutality of her email still makes me cringe, not because any part of it "resonates" with me or rings true but because she thinks it does.
So pretty here, flower petals strewn by the pond's edge near this rock on which I perfect on this sunny morning in Central Park. So pretty, that is, if you're not one of the flowers who have been robbed of their petals, stems still standing proudly, wishing they could tattle on the heartsick, lovelorn crybaby who used them to determine whether or not a certain "he" loved her or not. Although they're pleased she's unloved, still, they're sad, because they know that others just like them will suffer the same fate in her quest to get the answer she wants.
My laundromat dryer has three minutes left. A guy who is my "type" folds his stuff at a table. One minute to go, and he starts talking to me as if he knows me. I respond, as if I know him. Turns out he's the neighbor who used to live in the apartment in front of mine, whose ass I frequently threatened to kick at all hours thanks to his incessant, raucous party-time bullshit. He's kicked the cocaine, gained much-needed weight, and is super-nice. We should date, just we have a great "how we met" story to tell our friends.
I've never been a big fan of honey. I don't care if it's the crappy supermarket kind that's probably just corn syrup with honey flavoring that people squeeze atop oatmeal in a half-assed attempt to be "health conscious", presented in a plastic squeeze bottle in the shape of a teddy bear with a bee on its nose, or some sort of organic stuff coaxed from free-range virgin local indigenous bees. Frankly, I've always thought all honey tasted like OLD PEOPLE'S TOES, even though, of course, no, I have NOT ever tasted old people's toes. Please, honey, I'm not that gross.
Throughout the day and sometimes at night, a dog barks in one of the apartments that shares a window in the courtyard/alley. As much as I love dogs, barking when I need silence isn't something I necessarily want to hear. No doubt it'd probably be difficult to determine which apartment it's coming from, but even if I could, I'd hesitate to say something to the person whose dog it is, for fear that that person wouldn't be as dog-loving and would think, okay, I'll just get rid of Mr. Barky. So I'll just zip it, even if the dog doesn't.
He probably expects "action" from me when I visit in New Mexico, given that he's paying for the tickets and providing a place for me to stay and cooking for me and all that good stuff. He no doubt thinks he will get further with me than he did when I visited him in Des Moines three years ago, which wasn't very far. Not that he even tried to get any further than I wanted him to. I suppose some margarita-fueled shenanigans wouldn't be the worst thing in the world (provided his home-mixed drinks are as marvelous as he claims).
I often lament the loss of the city's grittiness and will spew that I preferred when warnings to avoid Times Square were valid not because I might catch an eyeful of The Naked Cowboy or witness some shmuck in a Cookie Monster costume shoving a kid or because of Tourists, but because it was "Taxi Driver" filthy and debauched.
"This city's turning into a big fucking suburban mall," I've grumbled.
But then, those times when I'm walking down a side street and the thick stench of pot smoke creeps out from who knows where, a bit of hope is restored.
Every time I go to the airport and manage to successfully complete the process that takes me to my gate, I feel like I've collected another proud little "chip" in proving that, yes, I am a full-fledged bona fide adult. It doesn't matter how many times I do it, I always feel a sense of accomplished self-satisfaction so compelling that I can barely contain myself, enhanced even more once I'm in my seat, carry-on bag stowed safely in the overhead compartment. Never mind that little kids do this all the time as well with their nametags pinned to their jackets.
It's love at first sight for me and Fremont, a neighborhood in Seattle. Its groovy hippie vibe appeals to me on the most basic of levels and I instantly feel at home. James and I wander into a chocolate store called Theo, and I feel like, well, yes, a kid in a candy shop. I fear, however, that I will make those gross "girly" noises around chocolate, like in a stupid commercial, so I have to contain myself. Free samples abound.
"I can just stay here as long as I like and eat chocolate for free?" I say.
Tears hot and slick as soup slide down my face with neither the interruption nor invasion of my hand or cat's back to collect them or brush them away. "A Man and a Woman" plays several feet in front of me, my arms are full of cat, and even if she weren't so situated, I still would not be able to move to dry my face. My gasps are inaudible and manifest themselves as breathlessness. This is romance as I wish it were, 1960s France, style and mood and significance, simultaneously grainy and soft. And Telegrams, not texts. C'est tout.
What happens in the few hours overnight that makes it possible for my mouth, which went to bed having enjoyed the groovy Jason orange-mint-whatever-else toothpaste (gel) (paste is gross), to taste like warm, slightly bloody pennies? This, after I spend the night dreaming of running around the city as Kelly Ripa's BFF wherein I gleefully think, "This is not a dream"! How can it be that dreaming something so sweet can leave Lincoln behind? Is this his Presidential way of saying, "You need these dreams like you need a hole in your head!", the blood a reminder of his assassination?
I can either buy this impossibly soft scarf silk-screened by two lovely local fellas who are out here in the Seattle Sunday afternoon sunshine (!) selling their wares with smiles and high spirits, or I can go into any American Apparel store anywhere and everywhere and support a crook whose values aren't merely questionable but confirmed as tripe. I can hand over a 10 and a 20 to happy bearded boys thrilled to have made a new connection or to a disinterested gum-chewing cashier who would rather be texting someone else, anyone else right now. There is no choice. None.
From what I’d heard about Seattle from friends who’d either lived there or visited, I thought I'd want to move there the moment I got my first taste of groovy rugged fellas, fabulous coffee, and skies that generally frowned upon sunshine. As my friends drove me from neighborhood to neighborhood, I thought, of some, “I could definitely live in this area.” But when it became clear I’d need a car, or to use a bike, which, thanks to the hills, would be more of a workout than mere transportation, I realized, no, nice place to visit but, well, you know.
After losing my landline connection with Credo (blow me, Time Warner) at least half a dozen times during the course of a service call, I finally found satisfaction (ohh!) with Jeremy, the tech support guy. He was quite accommodating (and, just as thrilling, he solved my problem), and going by the tone in his voice and the way we laughed together, I could tell we'd be giggling in Central Park together often if we were to ever meet face to face. I wanted to "friend" him on Facebook, but of course I know about "boundaries", so I refrained. Que lástima.
What happens in the few hours overnight that makes it possible for my mouth, which went to bed having just enjoyed groovy JĀSÖN® orange-cinnamon-mint tooth gel, to feel like it's full of warm, blood-tinged pennies? This, after I spend the night dreaming of dashing around the city as Kelly Ripa's BFF wherein I gleefully think, "This is not a dream!" How can it be that dreaming something so sweet can leave Lincoln behind? Is this his Presidential way of admonishing, "You need these moronic dreams like you need a hole in your head!", the blood a tophat-tilt to his assassination?
Now that I've got a supergroovy new phone and an attendant overwhelming desire to have my hand on it at all times, especially when out and about, I find that my right hand is often in my jacket pocket. I am convinced that people approaching me, seeing the giddy smile on my face and my hand clutching *something* in my pocket, think I am a crazed vigilante on her way to MAKE SOMEONE'S DAY. Sometimes, when I'm in a generous mood, I remove my hand from the pocket to allay their fears. Because, yes, they're the paranoid ones. They are.
In the past two days, I upgraded my new phone's software from "Ice Cream Sandwich" to "Jellybean" without suffering an aneurysm and resolved the problem of not being able to connect the phone to my home WiFi without setting off the smoke detector or punching a wall. I'm so giddy about this you'd think it was Christmas and a Golden Retriever dressed as Santa Claus burst through my ornamental fireplace (unscathed!) with two sacks, one overflowing with Charlie Day, Johnny Depp, and Penelope Cruz, and the other brimming with recyclable takeout containers of Ethiopian, Thai, Indian, and Malaysian negative-calorie delights.
Walk home from the gym this morning: Wonderful signal strength on my new phone; photos of flowers en route to Central Park; in Central Park, Charlie, a 2-year-old shaggy little black and white rescue dog, sitting on my lap on a bench and giving me kisses; finally mailing something at the post office after procrastinating for three months; on Amsterdam Avenue, Kelly, a 10-year-old long-haired Shepherd, so silky I wanted to dive into her fur and nap for a week; crisp air and light green leaves on trees. I may have skipped like a 4-year-old several times. Life doesn't suck.
Now that I have a supergroovy new phone and have an overwhelming desire to have my hand on it at all times, especially when out and about, I find that my right hand is often in my jacket pocket. I am convinced that people approaching me, seeing the giddy smile on my face and my hand holding *something* in my pocket, think I am a crazed vigilante on her way to MAKE SOMEONE'S DAY. Sometimes, when I'm in a generous mood, I remove my hand from the pocket to allay their fears. Because, yes, they're the paranoid ones. They are.
Unleashing my "pretty suburban housewife" karaoke stylings on the world via an "app" called "Sing", gleefully downloaded to my fabulous new phone. I don't know why it's easier for me to sing in this voice than it is for me to sing in my "real" voice. Maybe it's like an actor who feels safer onstage, able to present a version of himself that we all know is false but which we "buy" anyway. If I sing in the fake voice, people aren't necessarily judging me, they're judging "her". One thing I do know: I should just shut up and sing.
I just came across the name "Tequila McGee" in a legal document. It's not the name of a "theme" restaurant where you take the family for a big night out at the mall, but the name of an actual person somewhere in this country. How the lawyer who just recited it in the deposition isn't snickering behind her hand like a 9-year-old boy is beyond me. It also reminds me of how in the '80s when I frequented wretched suburban "clubs", my sister gave them all the blanket name of "J. B. Doodangle's", which still amuses the fuck outta me.
Dear strident, argumentative pedant who commented on a friend's page yesterday evening:
I hate to break it to you, but I'm not a "sizeist". I don't give a flying fuck about your weight or your body. I am also not a racist, ageist, or homophobe. Despite what you think, even though you don't know me from Adam or Eve, the apple or snake, I'm not big on bigotry. To me there are only two types of people in the world: Assholes and non-assholes. Thank you for making it easy for me to fit you into the proper slot.
The 17-year-old son of one of my best friends died about two weeks ago, so in the interest of distracting her, I've reactivated my OKCupid account and will be going out with what I'm sure will prove to be a variety of schmucks. (Some would call this a self-fulfilling prophecy. I just call it "dating".) This has been a source of great amusement for her (even more so than me!) in the past, under less devastating circumstances, so she's overjoyed with my decision. We can think of no better way to honor our 22-year-old friendship. (Rest in peace, sweet Alex.)
My flight to New Mexico is in two delectable bite-sized parts: From La Guardia (LGA, or "Ladies Golf Association", as the fella who bought my tickets says) to Dallas, and then Dallas to Santa Fe. Although I appreciate the tickets, he chose a seat that is already giving me a headache in my stomach: In the back of the plane, in the middle of three seats. You'd better believe that IMMEDIATELY upon being able to check in online, I'll be pouncing on the "change seats" option like a cat to a cockroach. (What? Is that just a New York thing?)
Such a jetsetter, this one. Here she's only been back from drizzly Seattle for two weeks and already she has plans for a few days in droughty New Mexico. This time, however, the trip isn't to visit glorious gays and their smooshable pooch, but to cavort heterosexually with the man-person who bought her tickets without hesitation and is hosting her at his place along with his pooch, who, too, is smooshable. She's never been to New Mexico, but she trusts she will return to her own fair city swathed in a Navajo-print jumpsuit and way too much silver and turquoise.
Holy non-cow moly! You KNOW it's good when you can eat it straight from the package with your fingers, standing in the kitchen in pajamas, like an old-fashioned midnight refrigerator raid even if it's midday and you shouldn't still be in your pajamas and you'd probably feel a smidge more civilized if you at least used a fork and a plate, but you just CAN'T, you're that excited to have found something you don't have to do ANYTHING to in order to satisfy the urge for a little pick-me-up snack. Thank you, Beyond Meat, for the lightly seasoned chicken-free strips!
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