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BY Jodi

05/01 Direct Link
I should've known better than to trust my memory to file away, at the very least, the name of the coffee place I passed a week or so again on my walk home from the gym. If I'd remembered the name, I could have looked it up online and found its location immediately. All I remember is that it's a northeast corner, a big space with plate glass windows, and its name is two words that maaaaaybe are separated by "and". So far my walks up Third, Madison, Fifth, Broadway, and Sixth have yielded nothing. Go west, young (um) woman!
05/02 Direct Link
I keep waiting for one of the short stories to bowl me over so much that when I'm done reading it, I close my eyes and hold the Kindle close to my chest like it's become part of my heart and I can't bear to put it down. But each time I finish a story, I think, "And?" or "Oh, okay" or "The next one better be better." I had high hopes for this book, given that I've loved the author's other stuff and recently told someone, "Her writing reminds me of mine." Now what? Do I suck by proxy?
05/03 Direct Link
It seems like at least once a week, we're treated to another article in which the author simultaneously complains about and rhapsodizes about New York City, explaining why she's forsaking it for somewhere else. These articles make me roll my eyes hard enough to almost cause near-blindness, especially when the city is likened to an "abusive boyfriend" or something of that sort. Listen. If you're so staggeringly unoriginal that that's the best you can do, you're not worthy of this city to begin with and, well, you can go write about when one door closes, another one opens -- somewhere else.
05/04 Direct Link

Although the sight of a baby with its legs in the air, holding and/or playing with its own bare feet no longer causes me to sneer and look away in disgust and mumble under my breath, "Gross", I'm still not the biggest fan of this activity.  However, I am completely over my dislike of toddlers pushing their own strollers, stumbling like miniature drunks through malls, and now even find it rather cute.  What does this mean for my hatred of kids shrieking and running after birds (pigeons in the city, seagulls on the beach)?  That one, I'm certain, is forever. 

05/05 Direct Link

Am I supposed to think these drawings are good?  Am I supposed to think they're more than magic marker or even crayon on paper torn from a cheap sketch pad, the idle floundering of an elementary school kid who's caught a mild buzz on too much orange juice concentrate straight from the can and a cinnamon Pop Tart as he watches an After School Special?  I make an effort to regard them as "art", because that's how they're presented, and for about ten seconds I'm teetering on concession.  Alas, I fail, and want to draw mustaches on all of them.

 

05/06 Direct Link
If I ever post anything on Facebook that smacks way too much of a phony, contrived sense of "Zen", I give you permission to do whatever the online equivalent is of strapping on a jetpack, zipping over to my apartment, winding up your arm with lightning speed like a cartoon character, and throwing a punch square into my pancreas as a not-so-gentle reminder that I am a sensationally supercharged, pleasingly neurotic, delightfully foul-mouthed, adorably curmudgeonly New York Jewess with no patience for pussyfooting, no tolerance for nonsense, and a whole lot of respect for realness. Thank you, and good day.
05/07 Direct Link

While you're all out at your Friday evening happy hours, jostling shoulders and sloshing drinks, wearing shoes and belts and zippers, I'm at home, rushing to the kitchen with a hot bag (paper inside plastic!) of delicious Indian food that has just been handed to me with a smile by a man who delivered it directly to my building.  I'm spooning that food onto a pretty plate, arranging it just so, and settling in under a warm blanket with my beautifully squishy cat, the remote controls, and Julia Louis-Dreyfus as Vice President Selina Meyer.  These indeed is my happiest hour!

05/08 Direct Link
When I was in second grade, my friend Judy W., a tiny strawberry blonde who sat next to me at a double-desk sort of thing in class, pulled aside one leg of her little culottes and displayed her twat in a private "show and tell" sesh. During class. I went home that afternoon and told my mom, "Judy showed me her shriveled peach." What's particularly awesome about it is that I used the word "shriveled" when I was seven years old. And to this day, four and a half decades later, I still think of that as a shriveled peach.
05/09 Direct Link

I get excited every month when I pay my credit cards and see the balance decreasing.  Although I wish I could pay more, I'm making good progress and know the end is in sight.  It may be down a hallway, make a right, and maybe another left, but it's there and it will be achieved, and then I'll be done with it and can use the money I'd been spending on those payments to travel and do other stuff I've had to delay.  I know this goes without saying, but I have to say it "aloud" here so it's real.

 

05/10 Direct Link
On Mother's Day, I don't have melodic, sentimental words about my miniature mama. I'm won't rave about her kasha with bowties or apple cake or roll my eyes over how self-righteous she gets when I tell her that I dig slicing potatoes with a mandolin and she says huffily that she uses nothing more than a paring knife. I'll just say that, above all, I thank her for the superb terms "twat awning" and "crotch foliage", a laugh that puts hyenas to shame, and for still, at age 78, having the ability to embarrass the motherless fuck outta me. Ahoy!
05/11 Direct Link

Miniature chocolate chips don't count if you pour a dose into your palm while standing in the kitchen, thinking about what to have for dinner.  Four wasabi rice crackers, or, okay, make that six, don't count as you're leaning against the counter, staring out the window, wondering if it's chilly enough outside for a light jacket.  Ditto for the corner of a leftover samosa, bitten off before refrigerating it as a leftover, two dates crammed into your mouth while trying to persuade yourself the laundry can wait another day, and several gulps of chocolate cashew milk straight from the carton.

05/12 Direct Link

My cat and I are strolling down Fifth Avenue, wearing mother-daughter outfits that I've had sewn by a gifted seamstress from a Butterick pattern I found on Etsy.  A couple of tourist guys with accents that could be Dutch or German or Belgian stop us and ask for directions to Central Park.  I tell them to keep walking three blocks in the direction they're headed.

"You'll see trees," I say.

They pass, and two seconds later turn around and say, "Which one of you is the mother and which one is the daughter?"

"We're sisters, dummkopf ," my cat says. 

05/13 Direct Link

"Just call me Scooter," Mr. McGillicuddy says, extending his left hand and then withdrawing it with a "Whoops!" and replacing it with his right hand, balled into a fist, which, when unballed, drops a palmful of dull silvery jacks to the reception area carpet.

Oh, for a little ball to materialize in my palm, so I could crouch and start up a game.  But even if I did, it wouldn't bounce on carpet very well.

"I'd rather call you Jack," I say with a chortle.  "Otherwise, what's the point?"

"Jacks are pointy," he says.  "Is that what you're saying?"

Ugh.

 

05/14 Direct Link
Dear Jodi,

As you have no doubt noticed by now, the beige response you attempted to send in the group chat failed to reach its destination. So, it's not that they're ignoring you, it's that they didn't see the message. But if they had, they would've ignored it, since it added nothing to the conversation and indeed inhibited the "flow". We did you a favor by withholding it because we deemed it substandard and not worthy of someone as hilarious as you. To avoid future complications, please maintain the level of hilarity for which you are known.

Love always,
Facebook
05/15 Direct Link
From our perch at the bar on West 43rd my "bestie" and I are afforded a stunning view of those tending it. We agree that the pompadour'd, tattooed, and gorgeous grinned guy is fabulous, but it's the slim, halter-topped girl who has us even more riveted. My friend calls her over.

"How many times a day does someone say you look like Rosario Dawson?" he says.

She grins and says it's a lot.

I say, "If Rosario Dawson and Sofia Vergara had a baby, you'd be that baby."

Her face lights up like Times Square. "You just made my day!"
05/16 Direct Link
Yesterday I spent 12 hours straight (well ...) with Hysteric Bore, and was so giddily blissful I almost burst with a loud *poof* into rainbow glitter and silver sequins that would have left inspired envy in Rip Taylor, as we skipped down the sidewalks of Brooklyn and Manhattan, cartoon-style musical notes hovering above our pretty little heads to accompany the songs we were crafting for a brilliant musical that I'm convinced would be a runaway hit, smooshed many a fuzzface, co-admired several boys, treated our tender tastebuds to whatever they wanted, and laughed like we invented lungs. Life is good.
05/17 Direct Link
As you may well know, I recently resurrected my fabulous 1980s toaster oven from at long-term dormancy. We were happy as clams until a few weeks ago, when it started to smell vaguely of plastic when turned on, and I noticed one of the wires (?) inside was glowing red. Because I am not quite ready to add "burning down the house" to my resume (sorry, David Byrne), I haven't used the toaster oven since then. I am not a "handy" person at all. Does anyone want to come over and have a little look-see? (Or recommend a repair person?)
05/18 Direct Link
In the almost-nine years that I've occupied these digs, my main closet hasn't been organized in any sort of reasonable fashion. My best, uh, gal pal in the city and I recently made a pact to stop stressing over our messes and to do something about it. So we did. Now that I'm putting stuff on snappy new hangers, I'm realizing I have so many dresses. Maybe this is the summer I'll actually gussy up like a so-called "girly girl" and try not to feel like an imposter who needs to "tape up" in order to "pass". Boy oh boy.
05/19 Direct Link

Maury Blankenship has no "game".  He tells me this immediately, as he reaches across me for two packets of Splenda and a coffee stirrer and jostles my cup enough to cause a bit of a splash.  He may say "Oy!" but then again, maybe I did.  Either way, I can't even pretend I'm irritated because his Magoo-like approach charms me.

"But I don't have to worry about that, because a lovely lady like you would not be interested in a codger like me," he says.

Here is where you may expect me to say, "No, that's not so."

Alas, no.

05/20 Direct Link
This morning I met a kooky older blonde lady in a purple shirt named Laura, crouched on the sidewalk, trying, with no success thanks to the wind, to light a little candle to place among other stuff left on the bench outside The Esplanade, where 2-year-old Greta Greene was fatally struck by terracotta debris that fell from the eighth floor on Sunday morning. "I'll come back tomorrow," Laura said. "Now I'm getting lemonade at Starbucks. Their coffee is terrible but the lemonade is great. I hope to see you soon. We can grab coffee or a burger!" Make lemonade, indeed.
05/21 Direct Link

One of the prerequisites for dating me is that you cannot be in a catatonic state.  You have to possess not only the faculty of speech but a facility with it.  Also, the restaurant I choose won't seat us at opposite ends of a table long enough to accommodate a jury, so I should be able to hear you when you speak without reaching "offstage" for a cartoon old-fashioned ear phone.  I don't expect or want a loudmouthed court jester, but someone who doesn't look like he lapsed into a coma while perusing the menu would be just super.  Thanks.

05/22 Direct Link

I didn't do anything to invite conversation, but here she is at the bus stop on Sixth Avenue, just above 23rd, telling me her name is "Pegasusy" and that she's a messenger and no, that's not her real name but she thought it would be a clever take on "Pegasus", because, yeah, he's the god with the wings on his feet.

"No, that would be Mercury or Hermes," I say.  "Pegasus was a horse."

"Herpes?" she says.  "Why would I want to name myself after herpes?  That makes no sense."

The bus arrives and she gets on.  I walk instead.

 

05/23 Direct Link
"Didn't we have a brief exchange several years ago on a dating site?"

I'm putting a Pink Lady into a plastic bag. He's to my right, hands full of Fuji.

"Maybe?" I say. I can't place his face.

"Your screen name included the word 'tofu', and your profile cracked me up. It was like satire."

"Then it was definitely me!" I say.

I think, "You obviously aren't photogenic. I would've remembered you."

"I left the site ages ago," he says. "I couldn't stomach it. Are you involved with anyone?"

"Ditto, ditto, and no, sir!"

We're getting together for apple pie!
05/24 Direct Link

Part of the annual benefit involves an auction of artwork displayed on the venue's wall.  It's not a silent auction but the kind that involves people raising their hand to bid.  Instantly this rubs me the wrong way, as I find it a show-offy demonstration, and it fosters an odd kind of competition I find gross.  But even worse is the "auctioneer", who is literally running around the room, pleading for bids in a way that at first has people laughing but which disintegrates (not quickly enough) into begging buffoonery.  I'm embarrassed for her, because she doesn't seem to be.

05/25 Direct Link

Everything's going to be okay, everything's going to be okay, everything's going to be okay.  Everything's going to be okay, everything's going to be okay, everything's going to be okay.  Everything's going to be okay, everything's going to be okay, everything's going to be okay.  Everything's going to be okay, everything's going to be okay, everything's going to be okay.  Everything's going to be okay, everything's going to be okay, everything's going to be okay.  Everything's going to be okay, everything's going to be okay, everything's going to be okay.  Repeat as many times as necessary until you believe it.

 

 

 

 

 

05/26 Direct Link
Thanks to the "trending stories" (or whatever it's called) feed on Facebook, I just read a few short articles about some idiots who broke into their high school after hours and released 72,000 ladybugs as a hilarious "senior prank". They were caught and fined $1,000. Nowhere am I seeing any sympathy or concern for the ladybugs, who were ordered on Amazon. What happens to them? They're used as a joke and have to suffer because of these morons? Commenters are calling this a "harmless" prank. Sorry, but it's not harmless for the 72,000 ladybugs. Ugggh. People make me fucking sick.
05/27 Direct Link

Moments ago I noticed that Facebook has added a function to its Messenger service that allows you to send money to someone with as much ease as clicking on an emoji of a fish dressed in a business suit or a robust cat chef rolling out pastry dough. This makes it so much easier for you to *immediately* pay me the $2.00 PCM (per chat minute) at the start of our "sesh" rather than having me go through the hassle of sending you an invoice on a weekly basis, as I have been doing. Pretty nifty, FaceyB. Thanks a trundle!

05/28 Direct Link

In a comment to a post in a vegan Facebook forum, I supplied a link to two recipes for "sausage".  I am now the belle of the ball, the prom queen, the head cheerleader, and the sorority sweetheart all rolled into one cylindrical sausage form (wrapped in foil), lauded for the mere act of directing people to something that's not my creation.  I'd told them the recipes are not mine, and it was clear from the website that that is the case, but still, they're lifting me up like I just won the big hometown game against Riverdale High.  Rah!

 

05/29 Direct Link

In the nine years I've lived here, I have not had a "proper" broom for cleaning the patio.  I have been using a very small broom that looks like it was left here by a toddler who liked to pretend she was helping Mommy sweep, and it took me so much longer to get things done than it would have had I been properly equipped.  So now that I ordered an outdoor broom from Amazon (with, for me, a minimum of fretting over WHAT KIND TO GET!?!?!!!), I cannot wait to get out there and sweep like a so-called adult.   

05/30 Direct Link
I just clicked through at least a dozen celebrity "selfies" before telling myself to stop, that I not only didn't give a shit but that it was making me increasingly and oddly anxious and pissing me off and making me hate the celebrities even more than I already do and hate myself for giving them even a minute of my time. No, thank you, Gwyneth Paltrow, J. Lo, Adam Levine, and Demi Lovato (whoever you are). No, thank you, hashtags and moronic captions. If I want that nonsense, I'll go to Facebook, where I can hate my "friends" for it.
05/31 Direct Link
I know you've been fretting, throughout this entire "batch" of 100 Words, over the location of the coffee shop I mentioned on May 1. No doubt you were prepared to venture into Manhattan, traveling from as far away as Poughkeepsie, to find it and thus win five minutes of my undying adoration, and hope to be rewarded with a cup of coffee from that very place. Well, you needn't fret. And you can stay home. I found it and have committed it to memory. Now all I have to do is patronize it before it gets replaced by a bank.