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"We don't live like grown-ups," she says on Facebook Messenger, when I say I'm considering her invitation to come to the Park Slope apartment she shares with her husband and two single-digit-aged daughters. "We live in squaller," she says.
I think, "You don't spell like a grown-up," quietly chastising myself for being a bit snide, albeit silently, when someone's being so nice.
I tell her I'm thrilled they don't live like grown-ups. I feel comfortable in her home already, and I haven't even left mine yet. Also, she had me at "Vegan buffalo wings from V-Spot are on the way."
I post on Facebook that I am watching "Mister Ed" while eating edamame with my cat. Much later, I realize I missed an opportunity for extreme hilarity, vis-à-vis, I could have said "Mr. Edamame", much to the fanciful delight of my fanz. However, I must now grab the opportunity to come clean. I had not yet started watching "Mister Ed" when I posted that. I was still on the last half of an episode of "Mary Tyler Moore". I didn't even get to "Mister Ed", although I had every intention of getting to it. See? FaceyB is all an illusion.
If you put ketchup/catsup directly on your fries instead of pouring out a little "dipper" off to the side of the plate into which to, yeah, dip them, chances are we are not going to fall in love and live even marginally happily ever after. You may be able to redeem yourself with mashed potatoes, and creating a pool on top with a ladle in which gravy is deposited, and, if you have corn kernels on your plate too, dipping your fork into the potatoes first, then into the corn, and then into the gravy. But I make no guarantees.
"Excuse me," he says at the bus stop, "I do not mean to intrude, but can you tell me where the quixquinap is?"
"I'm sorry. The what?" I say.
"I'm sorry. The?"
I look for indications that he is fucking with me. Eyebrow raise? No. Eye twitch? No. Lip quiver? No. Giggles in his throat? No. No. Neon sign above his head flashing, "I'M FUCKIN' WITH YA!"? No.
"I think it's by the porgtrob", I say. "But I could be mistaken."
"Oh, great!" he says. "That's what I thought. Thank you!"
"My pleasure," I say.
Apparently I'm something of a celebrity among this shindig's swingers, because when I enter the room with the hostess and my name is shouted aloud by the host (I had never met them in "real life" before), an excited murmur reaches my ears.
I am compelled to say, "Yes. In the flesh."
Later the host asks if I want to mingle. I say I did my part earlier but prefer, as at all shindigs, to sit off to the side, by the food. "This is how I make my observations," I say, "the ones you love to read so much."
It wasn't that Jerry didn't like pudding, it's just that he didn't understand why people were so fascinated by it or why the word alone caused many of his friends to giggle with the kind of glee ordinarily reserved for fourth graders who just stumbled upon someone's dad's "Hustler" hidden inside the flip-top ottoman in the shag-carpeted den of a split-level house.
"What's the matter, Geritol?" Sam B. says. "You got a problem with pudding?"
"Yeah," Ken S. says. "Got a problem with it?"
"I just don't get the fuss over Snack Pack," he says, wishing college would end already.
My life is here, and yours is way over there, and supersonic jetpacks and teleportation don't exist yet and neither of us has had much success with wriggling our noses like Samantha Stephens, and the distance that separates us is not just a burden but an obstacle, and this is not a rom-com (although I know who would play us to perfection), so our lives are not connected by a dotted black line across the country with a cartoon plane gobbling the distance like Pac-Man. If your life ever finds itself back here, though, you know we'll make this happen.
At my desk, working. Shana, sniffing my snow boots by the front door, to my left. She may be up to no good. I intervene.
Me: Hi, gorgeous girl! What're you doing? What's the most gorgeous girl in the world doing?
Me: What's she doing, the most gorgeous girl, the softest girl, the silkiest girl in the world? What's she doing?
Me: She's just hanging out being gorgeous, right? Right? That's all she has to do, 'cause she's so gorgeous.
Shana: Well, then
have to do a lot more, don't mew.
"The time has come for more coffee," I say aloud, to no one in particular, not even myself, and certainly not to my cat, who long ago stopped even pretending to listen to my nonsensical proclamations.
I stare at my monitor, on which several Chrome tabs are open, including Pinterest (on which I am drooling over vegan breakfast recipes), a video of Annie Lennox, and a page that includes the results of my search for "eurydice salt" following a glimpse at a friend's tattoo of Eurydice on Facebook (another open tab).
"The time has come for more coffee," I repeat.
A friend in Indianapolis posted on Facebook that his lazy weekend included a Brady Bunch marathon, and included a screenshot of one of my favorite episodes. I wrote to him to say I wished I were doing the same thing, and then realized, oh, I could do it since I have all of the DVDs (except for the first season, which I don't like). But when I removed them from the drawer where they've remained untouched for three-plus years, I felt like it was opening a Pandora's box ("Hee-eeeere, Pando-o-o-ra") of sadness, quietly replaced them, and quickly shut the drawer.
Her band, Questionable Quality Dentistry, isn't half bad. When she told me she formed this thing with two of the girls from Polly's Crackers and the drummer from Mother's Placebo Attack, I kind of rolled my eyes and thought, "Yeah, good luck with that, gal pal", and went about sorting my whites from my brights. I guess it's her vocals that really shine, though, especially when she tears up while letting loose on the bridge. The power behind "My baby don't lace my shoes too tight, well, no/My baby knows his baby is down with the Velcro" is utterly spellbinding.
I just unearthed my incredibly sturdy workhorse DeLonghi toast oven from the late 1980s and plan to spend an insane amount of time restoring it to some semblance of luster. I'll channel my beloved Poppop, who used to love to scrub the hell out of stuff with tenacity and superhuman elbow grease, until any grossness turned into gorgeousness, instead of just discarding it and buying something new. When I'm loudly cursing this undertaking later, up to my elbows in SOS suds, I hope that thoughts of his industriousness power me through. I can't wait to reheat waffles in this thing.
Chances are that if you're a single person and you're SERIOUSLY upset about not having a "Valentine", you and I ain't gonna be besties.
"Well, Jodi, there's so much pressure from SOCIETY to be part of a couple. It's been shoved down our throats since birth by a patriarchal society that tells women that they are nothing if they're not romantically partnered. So, I have no choice but to allow the bombardment of advertisement and The Media and my own mom to influence my emotions while I cram a Chunky in my maw and cry into my cats' fur."
Gee whiz! What's a girl to cook for herself on Valentine's Day? How much do I love myself? A sesame bagel, one half toasted in the newly-resurrected toaster oven, the other in the waffle iron, with a bit of chunky peanut butter? Mashed potatoes with caramelized onions and mushrooms (perhaps in the waffle iron)? Waffles (with a bit of the same peanut butter in the mix) from a recipe an adorable "pen pal" fella bestowed upon me? Scalloped potatoes? Spinach-mushroom empanadas? Ethiopian lentil-filled chickpea sambusa, in a bid to secure a second date with myself? Or ALL OF THESE THINGS?
You knew when you came to me with your problem, I would not dip my response in chocolate fondue and present it to you on a shiny silver salver. You've known me long enough to know better. If you want to continue to be "enabled", you should stick to immersing yourself in the cult-like circle that won't ever tell you anything you don't want to hear. I refuse to indulge adults who insist on acting like infants who only want pacifier and blankies. This is not "tough love". This is reality. Neither the world nor I owe you cotton candy.
Greetings, Good People of New York City.
As of this writing it is 3 degrees, and the wind chill makes it feel like a witch-titty -16. Even Ms. Jodi Verse is not leaving the house to go to the gym. If you go outside and absolutely do not have to, you are not being brave, you are being foolish. Besides, with the advent of this marvelous thing called the Internet, we are told you can take advantage of mattress sales in our honor from the comfort of home with a few "clicks", whatever that is.
Abe and George
You send me your recipe for peanut butter waffles. The asterisk confession that you use more than the stated amount of peanut butter charms me because I imagine you, under cover of darkness, at your desk, feeling oh-so vulnerable now that I know the truth about your love of
. When you later tell me that the illustrated bear on the label of your preferred brand is reminiscent of Burt Reynolds, I want to invite you over to share a jar with two spoons while laughing stupidly because we know none of it will make it into our waffles.
I have become particularly fund of making food that requires me to create homemade dough, roll the dough out on the counter (with my beautiful rolling pin!), and then use the empanada cutters/molds to create the most precise circles into which a delectable variety of fillings are placed and then sealed just so with perfect edges. I love the idea of taking these on a picnic once the weather permits, and each of my friends, sitting on a blanket under a tree with one of these presto-perfect pockets (Ethiopian sambusas! Empanadas! Individual pies!) in hand, knowing that that's my contribution.
Chocolate chip cookies for dinner? Why, don't mind if I do. Singing a li'l ditty to myself in the kitchen as I "cream" brown sugar and coconut oil with a hand mixer a friend gave me in the mid 1990s (which I never thought would look "retro" but which now does) rolling the cookies into balls, and knowing I can eat the raw dough free from illness thanks to vegan ingredients, and eating one straight from the oven only ten seconds after it's done, almost scorching my mouth on melted dark chocolate chips. Carrie Bradshaw's got nothing on me, eh?
In seventh grade, Carol W. looked like a matron four times her age. Now that she is four times that age (if she hasn't
), I wonder if she still looks as she did then or if people say, "Carol W.! You look so youthful! What's your secret?"
As for me, well, I pretty much look like just like I did in seventh grade. And I wish I'd saved my clothes from back then because they'd still fit, and I dig the style, even though at the time I thought, "No one will ever feel nostalgic about this gross decade."
I arrive at the restaurant at 7:07, feeling bad that I'm seven minutes late, ready to apologize for the subway. However, the hostess doesn't have a reservation in his name. Funny, but two days ago in a text exchange he agreed to make one. I'll take a table, anyway, I say, if one is available. I've made the trip down to the West Village, so why not. Fortunately a two-top is ready and waiting for me.
What do you do when your date stands you up? Rejoice that you don't have to even pretend you want to split the appetizer.
Backstage in the dressing room, the luminous Chinese ballerina is a foreigner among the group of us that are solid friends. Her presence, however, is fully welcome, and when our "ringleader" calls us together for the pre-show circle, he invites her to join, and she does so with all the grace befitting her status with ABT. I hold her left hand in my right, hoping she finds it as comforting as I do. Later, watching those beautiful hands flutter as she performs the "dying swan", I am moved to tears that I was so lucky to have literally touched her.
You may think I spend too much time not only making waffles but writing about them as well. And hey, you're free to think whatever you like about my association with waffles and exuberance vis-à-vis welcoming them into my life after a long absence. But do I care? Nyet. Indeed, I'm compelled to inform you that I added blueberries to the recipe that has been serving me very well (I will soon refer to it as my "tried and true") and next time may be bold enough to add chocolate chips. And then you'll never hear the end of it.
Is it possible to literally be allergic to bullshit? I was recently in very close proximity with a whole bushel of bullshit, and I fear that I am experiencing an allergic reaction, similar to what I hear people associate with hay fever-type allergies -- sniffling, a teary eye, sneezing or an almost constant sensation of about-to-sneezeness. I've never had this thing called allergies before, so this is new for me. Could it be possible that the level of bullshit to which I was exposed was so potent that it is stirring something that has long lay dormant inside me? Fascinating.
I just typed an entry that, upon reading back, I couldn't wait to delete. I didn't even feel sorry for it in my customary anthropomorphic fashion, and it wasn't a "darling" that I didn't want to kill. Rather, it was the equivalent of witnessing a horrible performance and feeling embarrassed and ashamed for the "players" even if somehow they themselves weren't embarrassed and/or ashamed but *should* have been. The words looked uncomfortable on the page, as if forced to pose for a group corporate photo wearing the ill-fitting company softball team shirt and matching visor-hat, giving a forced "thumbs up".
Obscure Biology Fact: If a gentleman makes -- let's just say a "deposit" into the mouf* of a comely lady, the resulting fetus will form in the lady's tummers* and she will give birth not via the customary portal or, in the case of every celebrity since 1992, a C-section, but from the oral canal. This is called an "emetic birth". (Sands, Fielding, and Strausser, "Alternative birthing circumstances resulting from introduction of male contribution into various body cavity depositories", Ladies Home Reproduction Journal, November/December 2013, pp. 17-29; 42-99; 306).
*Fun-timey words used to smooth the scary edge of raucous reality
OSD, are you out there? OSD, are you out there? OSD, are you out there? OSD, are you out there? OSD, are you out there? OSD, are you out there? OSD, are you out there? OSD, are you out there? OSD, are you out there? OSD, are you out there? OSD, are you out there? OSD, are you out there? I typed that a dozen times, OSD, rather than cut and paste, because I wanted all that finger-energy (fingenergy?) channeled into reaching you. (If you are not OSD, this post is not for you. Sorry! Have a nice day, though.)
I would give anything to have my grandfather loitering at my parents' house, pretending he wasn't waiting around for me to drive him home and then snagging me just as I'm about to leave and asking if I'd mind dropping him off since it was on my way if I took a certain route back to my place in Center City Philadelphia. I would give anything to not be a stubborn, almost-foot-stomping brat who left extra late just to spite him, and to be the one to ask him instead, "Do you need a ride home, you dear sweet man?"
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