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BY Jodi

09/01 Direct Link
This month contains the one-year anniversary of my lovely Shana's passing into whatever plane comes after the one on Earth. I'm not even convinced that there's anything after this (as of this writing, no one has come back from beyond with tales of other dimensions!), but would like to think that when Lola darts around the room like a lunatic, it's because she senses Shana still here. And how else do I explain that, one year later, I definitely sometimes still smell her as if she's right beside me?

I miss my little love like mad. It's still not easy.
09/02 Direct Link
Ordinarily I spend an inordinate amount of time scouring reviews on Amazon before I buy anything. It could be a kitchen sponge and I'd find myself weighing pros and cons after half an hour. So why I didn't do this for the cookie sheets I eventually bought, I don't know, but now I have cookie sheets that are stained after one use. I could return them, yes, but my anthropomorphism has them saying, "Well, it's not our fault. You didn't have to get us. We're sorry, though!" and telling myself, "Any cookie sheet I'd get would eventually stain anyway." Oy.
09/03 Direct Link
"You bought me knowing I don't whistle," my tea kettle says. "So what's your damage?"

I know, I know. I tell the kettle I bought it specifically because it's authentic vintage from the '70s and that it's awfully cute and that the graphics decorating its perimeter are just the right blend of charming and whimsical without trying too hard.

"Don't say, 'But still,'" the kettle says.

So I don't.

The kettle doesn't know I have a certain talent for burning boiling water, and I don't dare frighten it with that information.

Instead I simply say, "You know what? You're right!"
09/04 Direct Link
I don't necessarily like the name "Milton", but still, I feel sorry for it for not having made at least a very minor resurgence. It's probably not even up for consideration, either, like some other olde-tymey names that have, like, say, "Beatrice". Then again, I wouldn't want preschools oversaturated with Miltons. But a few here and there, scattered like little treats, would be nice. And I'd want the Miltons to be nerdy. I don't want to see a chiseled-jawed jock named Milton taking the spotlight from the hilarious little nerd hunched over a composition book, doodling his classmates' body parts.
09/05 Direct Link

Asparagus is not welcome beyond the portal of her lips.  That's what she tells me after I press a spear against them to try to pry them apart and she's turned her head and covered her mouth with her terrycloth bib.

 

I tell her it's unbecoming for a baby to use words like "portal" when "door" will suffice.  I remind her that she still doesn't possess the dexterity to handle a simple spoon, her diaper isn't going to change itself, and that I know where her mom keeps those horrible flower headbands that make babies look like miniature chemo patients.

 

 

09/06 Direct Link

This morning, near the 72nd Street subway station, I saw a teenager wearing bellbottom jeans.  For a nanosecond, I had hope for the youth of today.  I wanted to dash over to her, hug her, and sob into her long white blonde hair about how wonderful she is to buck the skinny jeans trend, and to take the time travel subway ("PM" me for its secret location!) to my parents' house, where we'd sink into my denim beanbag chair and pore over Seventeen magazine for photos of clogs and belted sweaters.  But instead I just sighed and died a little.

 

09/07 Direct Link

Bullied, mocked, and teased by people who only associate with purebreds, this lonely and dejected lady hightailed it out of town and found herself at the ocean, where she lapped at the surf and said, "Oh, this tastes like the tears of my peers!" She paddled out to a big wave, which swallowed her within seconds,, and was transformed into the first curmaid the world has ever known, revered and loved and celebrated by her new friends for her uniqueness.

(This accompanies a watercolor, which you can see by popping over to Instagram.  Look for me.  I'm "Jodiverse"!) (Worlds collide!)

09/08 Direct Link
Nathan doesn't ask for much. All he wants out of third grade is to be known as "that kid with the clipboard". He doesn't even care if anyone knows his name or picks him last in gym or plays with him at recess. Indeed, he doesn't want the other kids calling him by name or asking him to hang upside-down on the monkey bars or, worse, play some dumb game involving a ball and/or running. He just wants to be that kid who goes nowhere without his brown clipboard with the nickel clip. That kid's kind of mysterious and important.
09/09 Direct Link

Hey, zany-haired mom in leggings covered with requisite modesty skirt, standing on a corner on Columbus with two boys I gather are your sons, who look to be about five years old, both of whom sport sandy-colored crewcuts beneath their yarmulkes: You may want to not only seriously reconsider the grayish-bluish and whitish striped pajamas ensemble one of them was wearing, for reasons that should be obvious, but destroy them so they can be worn never again. Don't make me tuck a DVD of "The Boy in the Striped Pajamas" into your tote if our paths cross in the future.

09/10 Direct Link
Oh, she's going crazy in the movie, and how do we know? Because she's running from the dining room, screaming and/or crying, or lying in bed for days, staring up at the ceiling like a discarded mannequin? No! Because she's facing a mirror with a huge pair of scissors in one hand, the other clutching a fistful of long hair, and after 20 seconds of deliberation, sawing through it with anguished impatience. And then, when she slowly descends the stairs, someone gasps and says, "What have you done to your hair?" as if it doesn't look adorably coifed. That's how.
09/11 Direct Link
A Facebook "quiz" that requires nothing more from me than one click on a "button" that doesn't even ask for any input reveals that the perfect car for me would be a Porsche. Although I knew this "quiz" (and yes, that word must be put in quotes because it was in no way a quiz despite calling itself one) was bunkum from the get-go, I sneer with disappointment that whatever the insidious "quiz"-creator used to determine my result got it oh so wrong. Now, if the results said "1958 aqua and white Nash Metropolitan," I wouldn't question the validity. Nope!
09/12 Direct Link

"It's a shame about the face," Glenda says.

I look up from my legal pad, on which I've been doodling eggplant, lime slices, and ducks.

"What?" I say.

"Your aunt in this photo," she says.  "At least she looks like she could be your aunt."

I tell her it's the photo that came with the frame I bought at TJMaxx before our session, and that that's not a nice thing to say about someone, no matter who it is.

"Would you want someone saying that about you?"

"They already do," she says.

Am I supposed to feel sorry for her?

 

 

 

09/13 Direct Link

This shouldn't have to be said, but apparently it must, so here goes.  I'd never come to your house and tell you I hate your lavender-scented seashell-shaped hand soap or ridicule your handstitched sampler that proclaims "You've got nothing to loose!" or scribble words worse than "REDRUM" on your bathroom mirror in my or anyone else's blood.  So, yeah, yeah (cliché alert) think of Facebook as my house.   If you come here, we play by my rules and you don't get to tell me what I can and can't say.  In other words, don't be a fucking dick.  Got it?

09/14 Direct Link

Sometime in the '80s, I went on a date with some schmuck who shushed me when I laughed in his bedroom in his mommy's house.  There's so much wrong with that scenario, just seeing the words in front of me, that I can't believe I allowed anything to progress on what was probably a twin bed decked out in poly-blend sheets festooned with cowboys and/or rocketships.  I just looked him up on Facebook (because of course I remember his name).  What a surprise that he's now a dusty shlub with a beige wife.  They look like a barrel of laughs.

09/15 Direct Link

I am up at 4:20 (insert hilarious pot/(wacky) weed/reefer/maryjane reference here) every morning.  On weekdays, it's to go to the gym and on weekends, it's because Lola  is too free-spirited to heed the structure of a calendar.  Sometimes if I have a pressing assignment, I forego the gym.  And on such days when I'm at home, already plugging away at 4:30, and see that friends in the same time zone are up too, also plugging away, I'm so happy that I'm in such marvelous company.  Here's to industrious, hard-working, um, warriors who do what it takes to make it work.

09/16 Direct Link
Write an entry before you pee, write an entry before you put away the frozen stuff from grocery shopping, write an entry before your first cup of coffee, write an entry before you brush your teeth, write an entry before you tear open that Amazon.com box, write an entry as the quick-to-burn coconut "bacon"is baking! It's a good thing I don't have a baby, because I'd add to the list, this: Write an entry as the baby crawls toward the top of the stairs and peers down them with infant interest (infantrest?) and angles himself for an inevitable disastrous plunge.
09/17 Direct Link
"No, it's not food," Martin says, reaching into a small bag upon entering my office. "I know that's forbidden! Is this okay?"

It's a small notebook and a ballpoint pen.

"Doodling helps me 'process'," he says. I can practically hear the air quotes.

He fills his session with fears of autumn and scarves, and several pages of his book with blue. I need to know what he's drawing. I hope it's not Donald Duck.

"I'm doodling YOU," he says, apparently reading my mind.

The thought of being rendered by someone who fears the sound of fallen leaves underfoot unnerves me.
09/18 Direct Link
He's trying to tell me that the Leaning Tower of Pisa isn't leaning anymore, thanks to all the people who've had their photos taken pretending to hold it up. I tell him that's poppycock. He tells me to wash my mouth out with soap.

"I thought the holding up the tower thing was cute the first time I saw someone do it in person in the early '90s," I say, "but as soon as I realized it was a common thing to do I thought it was stupid."

(Unless, of course, everyone who does it thinks he/she is being original.)
09/19 Direct Link
I'm awaiting delivery of dinner. It should be here any minute. That's why I need whoever's been out in the front hall, carrying on for way too long, to realize that, hey, they forget they left their ovens on or, oh, they have to get going because they're going to miss their show, so that when my buzzer buzzes signifying the arrival of my food, I don't have to make my way through or past them to get to the front door of the building and they don't get to see how huge the bag is containing my dinner. Oink.
09/20 Direct Link
"I think you mean you COULDN'T care less," I want to say.

"You mean EVERY DAY, not EVERYDAY," I want to say.

But as much as those errors make me cringe, I don't want to be That Jerk, and those small things are not the end of the world. Or maybe they are. Maybe every time someone makes either error, a small piece of the world (not just the planet but the whole world) snaps off like a pop-it bead and just goes away. Maybe it doesn't even bother bursting into flame or gently incinerating. Maybe it just leaves, quietly.
09/21 Direct Link
Has anyone ever snuck out of their parents' house via a second story window and zoomed off in nifty old car with a Christian Slater/John Cusack companion to a desolate spot with a wide open starry sky upon which the two of them gaze with hushed wonder as they lie on their backs on the car's hood that somehow isn't hot at all despite having driven for quite some time to reach said desolate starry spot? Despite having engaged in many ridiculous and often exceedingly foolhardy shenanigans in my late teens, somehow I feel they're incomplete for never having so indulged.
09/22 Direct Link
It's the thought that counts, but very little thought went into it, so I'm thinking, "Feh." I'm at my then-boyfriend's parents' house for Christmas, and I, like everyone else, is unwrapping several rolls of Lifesavers packaged to look like a cardboard book. At our feet are other inspired treasures, and it doesn't matter mine get mixed up with anyone else's because they're all identical. What's more heart-warming? That personal touch or my name misspelled on the tags?

Fast forward a decade, and OneSteamedDumpling presents me with a cute water brush, a gift I don't think he gives everyone. Big yay!
09/23 Direct Link
It's sometime in the early afternoon. I'm in the kitchen in a quasi-psychedelic plush paisley robe, jeans, a T-shirt, and big fluffy pink slipper booty things. Reading glasses on a Turkish "oya" chain hang around my neck. I'm mushing up cat food with a fork (for my cat, not me) (come on) over the sink. Asylum escapees want to cultivate my "look".

"Oh, is it any wonder I am single?" I sing. "I do not go out and mingle." And the rhymes go from there. What man would put up with this, I wonder. And do I really care? (Nope!)
09/24 Direct Link
It is officially autumn/fall (do we capitalize those? I don't know). All kinds of girls will post photos on social media of themselves in all kinds of boots. You will walk down the street, perhaps in boots yourself, which may transform your regular gait into a strut, and you will see more girls in boots. No doubt it will make you happy, if you like the season and boots, and sick of summer toes, and you will be tempted to write (if online) or say (if offline), "Those boots were made for walkin'!" I urge you to refrain. Thank you.
09/25 Direct Link

My gift to you, which I didn't have the chance to present with a flourish on a gondola this afternoon, comes in a small hinged box not made of stiff velvet but soft plush corduroy velour.  You can't help but play with it before opening the box.

 

"This is gift enough!" you say, and I know you mean it.  You brush the box against your cheek and say, "Ahhh!"

 

You open the box, and inside is that little circle ring thing that goes above the "A", like in the word "Angstrom".

 

I hope no one captured our engagement on YouTube. 

09/26 Direct Link
OneSteamedDumpling and I are on a bench by the Bow Bridge. Apparently every tourist who passes is required by the law of whatever state or country they're from to take a "selfie" with the bridge in the background. I cannot decide if it's kind of cute or rather annoying. I decide I don't have to decide (yet).

One older, bespectacled, chortling fella takes his selfie with a selfie stick that doesn't even extend as far as his arm would. This makes bench-warming OSD and me laugh like idiots. This is one of the reasons why I think OSD is keen.
09/27 Direct Link
OneSteamedDumpling approaches from the west on West 45th Street. I've been waiting a whole 14 seconds for his arrival. I cannot help but grin like a demented jack o'lantern and don't know what to do, so I do what comes naturally: I press my back against the wall, look briefly to my left to let him know that, yes, I am THE Jodi he is coming to meet, and then when he's next to me, act like I don't know him. He acts in kind, and we both laugh like dorks. And then we eat the best spicy noodles ever!
09/28 Direct Link
I am typing directly into this little 100 Words box for this entry, because I want to know what it feels like to be my VERY FAVORITE 100 Worder (Wordster?) (Worcestershire sauce?) (A1 SAUCE?!?!?!?), who divulged in the flesh (oh!) that he types directly into this little box. Color me impressed (and dip me in agave!) (WHAT? HUH?)

I have even disabled the Rich Text Editor (Beta), so I am now completely like him. And I giggle because Rich Text Editor makes me think of Richie Rich, a comic book I never really liked but read anyway.

And scene (fin).
09/29 Direct Link
This morning at the gym, I shouted, "I am delightful!" after every "set". A trainer took me aside and said, "Y'know, this is not intenSati. Your enthusiasm would be better demonstrated within the confines of a class dedicated to that sort of expression."

I said, "Well, you, sir, are not delightful. But would you mind, before I knock your block off, spelling 'intenSati' so I can tell someone about it in an email later?"

I told him that spelling was not delightful either, and shouted, again, "I am delightful!" Several others joined. I felt validated. And loved. Oh so loved.
09/30 Direct Link
Today I did not consume:

- Huge order of fries (940 calories)
- Entire batch (three dozen) of homemade chocolate chip walnut cookies (3600 calories)
- Everything at an Indian banquet (15,522 calories)
- Blossom du Jour's Butterfinger smoothie (751 calories)
- A cup of the oil Xi'an Famous Foods uses for their spicy noodles (2,000 calories)
- A snack pack of any kind (100 calories)
- Bottle of body wash that smells like cucumbers (206 calories)
- "Baker's dozen" of Martin's hard pretzels from Union Square (1105 calories)

That's 24,224 calories I passed up. That's 7 pounds. So why don't I weigh 105 now??!?! I'm so confused!