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Larissa T, Food Diary, 10/1/17
1. Palm-sized portion of chicken breast, skinless, poached (or boiled? What's the diff?)
2. Romaine with balsamic vinegar, teaspoon of olive oil, cherry tomatoes, 4 gluten-free croutons
3. Steel-cut oats and chia "bowl" with flaxseed, fresh blueberries, acai (whatever that is), 1/4 cup of coconut milk
4. 16 almonds, 8 cashews
5. Cup of green tea, teaspoon raw honey
6. 2 Hershey kisses (BAD!)
1. 34 Hershey kisses
2. Two slices of raisin bread, butter, cinnamon
3. Quart of chocolate milk with additional Bosco stirred in
4. Streusel topping from Entenmann's coffee cake
I don't know if what he's doing to the block of tofu can even be called slicing. I want to call it sawing, but when I think of sawing, I think of methodical, purposeful, rhythmic action. This is anything but. No, he's hacking with a long knife with a dual-pronged tip that looks better suited to gutting a fish. I laugh as if I'm amused and charmed, but really I'm irritated at his lack of finesse, annoyed at his lack of attention to detail, and disgusted when I think, "Ew. This is probably the way he is in bed too."
My dad and I didn't go on runs together or tinker around with car engines. My mom and I don't take "girls only" trips and post selfies of ourselves in front of monuments, waterfalls, and hovering over huge plates of nachos.
I think there are only a few photos where my dad and I appear together, from 1972, when he married my mom, and one of me and my mom together, from 1999, at my sister's wedding. I would like to say that despite all of that, I don't feel like I missed out on anything. But I'd be lying.
"I'm sorry. I didn't understand what you just said." How many times will I have to say this during my call to schedule car service? This is, of course, a rhetorical question, but the answer would probably be at least three. Which is at least five times too many.
Thank "god" for email confirmation, however, or else I would have no confidence in the transaction. This is why I've done this stuff online until now. But hey, I've just saved $9.00, so the temporary frustration has a payoff. As long as I think of it that way, I can stay relatively sane.
The following are people/places I need to visit within the next year, not as any "bucket list" sort of thing but just because. I leave this here so I can be what they call "accountable", even though maybe two people will see this, including me, thus kind of making it ineffective and/or stupid, with an emphasis on the latter.
Vancouver, so I can want to move there immediately
Bangor, Maine, to see KB
Saskatchewan, to see LZ
Los Angeles and "environs", for various friends
Cooperstown, for obvious reasons if you're the one other person reading this
When you're feeling mildly melancholy in the predawn and your coffee's caffeine not only hasn't kicked in but you suspect it's "sleeping in" and the only buzz is the hum of low-level anxiety about this and/or that and a skosh of the other thing, it's probably not the wisest of ideas to visit the Instagram page of an old friend who took her own life a few summers ago and see her beautiful smiling face and read her captions that capture her brilliant wry wit perfectly and make you want to send her email saying, "We've way overdue for lunch."
We're on a bench in Central Park, the first time I've seen him in about two years. He's still as slim as ever and could literally get in my pants if he so desired. Not the pants I'm wearing today, though, because they're capris, and even though he's super-cute and could probably get away with wearing whatever he wanted, I don't want him trying them on, perhaps because he might "rock" them better than I do. And then where would I be? In his black pants, which I am positive wouldn't flatter my ass as they do his. Oh well.
It's like those five weeks never happened, like they were part of a dream I'm not even sure I had, or it was a figment I conjured as I drifted into quasi-daydream while lingering in bed between the original alarm and the snooze. Did I date this guy and his dog, lounge around with them on their bed, watch movies on a 65-inch TV with them, and stroll around the reservoir with them, or is it all my mind extrapolating "what could have been" from a chance meeting with a tall handsome stranger taking his big dog for a walk?
It's not like anyone told Harold he was good-looking. Not even his mom, who you'd think would live up to the thing about "a face only a mother could love". When he sends messages to women on OKCupid, the few who reply tell him, "No, we're not a match" even though the algorithm and a review of their profiles suggests otherwise. Still, he struts around the gym, wispy-haired, squishy-gutted, and weak-armed, like he's Adonis. You might be tempted to say, "Well, good for him!" except he grunts when he lifts 5-pound weights and looks around like he deserves awed congratulations.
Although I thought of you immediately when I saw and heard a woman on the subway saying "Googoo gaga" to her daughter about a doll and wanted to text you about it to remind you of our joke that nobody else would probably think was funny, I didn't. I vowed to myself that I won't contact you until the scaffolding comes down from the building just around the corner. And when that happens, no doubt the huge dumpster by the curb disappears as well. And I'll want to tell you about that too. Ugh, I hate that I miss you.
You don't want me reviewing your "book" on Amazon, guy I was dating.
"I read this book as part of a one-month free trial on Kindle Unlimited. And I still want my money back."
"Save your moolah and buy the worst cup of coffee in town. You'll be more satisfied."
"Much like Saul Bellow, the stories evoke a New York City that no longer exists. Unfortunately, that's where any resemblance to a real writer ends."
"The author uses more ALL CAPS and exclamation points to indicate emphasis and emotion than a lovesick 12-year-old diarist hopped up on Tab and Zotz."
I was just in the process of whittling down a entry about obsessing over a jacket I bought at Athleta. I was going to treat "readers" to a jaunty synopsis of the purchase, delighting everyone with details about choosing one with the coveted two-way zipper and how sidesplittingly hilarious it was to spent an inordinate amount of time in the dressing room comparing sizes. But then I realized there was more to the already boring "story" and didn't want to take up two entries telling it, and decided, hey, I'll just bore everyone with this "meta" (?) post instead. ZzzZzzzZzzzzzzZz.
"I'm a citizen of the world." No. I asked you where you're from. "East Islip" or "A little town you probably never heard of off the coast of Maine but I've lived on the Upper West Side for a while" or "My family moved around a lot, but I was born in London" would make me not roll my eyes so hard they almost hurt, not regret having asked, and not want to pretend I've just gotten a text that makes me realize, oh no, I'm so sorry, I'm late for a pressing appointment downtown. There's no shame in "Schaumburg."
You need to know that he thinks very little of you. He's not sitting around his apartment, interpreting your every text. He's not reading into every punctuation mark or lack of punctuation mark. You're lucky if he regards your text as anything but a nuisance, like a gnat or paying the cable bill or taking laundry to the fluff 'n' fold. He's not having a long lunch with his BFF, coming up with the perfect time to call you after your last date. He'll be ghosting you, though. And he's just grabbing a quick bite at a local chain restaurant.
Once we get past the cold hard fact that there is no one sexier than Tim Minchin, we can get on with the business of so-called ordinary life. We must not waste time on whatever 30-something actor is making hearts pound furiously in those who have only had a heartbeat since the 1990s. We must not look to more handsome men, taller men, men with more developed physiques. Of course we can acknowledge the hotness of Jon Hamm, Idris Elba, and Michael C. Hall, and others, but we must accept Tim Minchin and carry on. (Note to MCH: You're runner-up.)
Your studied minimalism bores me. Your dark wood side table on which is situated a lone white porcelain bowl containing exactly three green apples that you assure me are real bores me. I feel bad for saying that, hoping the table and bowl and apples don't take offense, because it's not they who bore me but the pose into which you've forced them. The black and white 8x11 photos on your "linen"-painted walls, of Paris and Prague, neither of which you've been to, whisper to me, "We apologize for the display. We're embarrassed to be here. Please don't hate us."
Ahhh, the delight of blocking a malcontent on Facebook. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, the little surge of power is so satisfying. It's the ultimate "I can't heeeeear you!" while putting your hands over your ears and sing-songing, "LA la la la LA la." While it's fun to tell the person, "That's it! I'm blocking you!" (as I did recently, which is the impetus for this entry), there's more to be said for doing it without announcing it and imagining the person trying to access your page, realizing they've been blocked, and muttering, "Well, fuck YOU, Jodi."
To anyone who has the gall to wonder why people "didn't just say something at the time" vis-a-vis Bill Cosby, Harvey Weinstein or any other predatory prick, whether famous or not, let me tell you this: Had I "said something" 30-plus years ago, my dad would have hunted down the vile motherfuckers and beaten the shit out of them if not downright killed them and he would have wound up in jail for avenging those bastards' inexcusable, repugnant behavior. So sit down and shut the fuck up if you don't "get" why people don't speak up when they "should" have.
This is the part where he imagines himself draping his arm around your shoulders, scanning the room with a furtive glance with a slightly bowed head, and then muttering out of the corner of his mouth, "The truth is, I don't give a flying about personal hygiene."
And this is where he imagines you recoiling, ducking out from beneath his arm-draping, and saying, "And you're telling me this WHY?"
Instead he continues scratching at his scalp, digging in even, and you tell him, with no apology, but you've really gotta get going and make what's called a beeline down Broadway.
Can't wait to see how many nincompoops get their panties, briefs, or junk (if going "commando") in a bunch, knot, or twist over the latest Starbucks holiday cup.
"Why doesn't it include a polyamorous fivesome, each individual a different race, one in an electric wheelchair, one in a manual wheelchair, one who identifies as an armadillo, one a tall man from East Fuckme who thinks he may want to be a chemist but has to keep his regular job because he has rent to pay, and one woman with poor fashion sense who claims she doesn't care what anyone thinks?!?!?!?"
If you ever see me announcing on social media that I am "blessed", with or without a hashtag, you have my permission, if not my blessing, to hunt me down and eviscerate me with the sharp implement of your choosing, which you must first hold up to the sun so its blade (or hook?) glints appropriately, because you'll know it's not really me saying it and instead a ghastly, ghastly (yet gorgeous) alien who had taken over my body and does not deserve even one more breath and you must free the real me trapped inside my own skin shell.
A small, faint shadow of not-the-blue-of-the-bedspread appears on its corner. I dab it with a paper napkin to which I've added warm water and a drop of dish liquid and tell myself it will be fine. I manage to fall asleep instead of fretting over it.
When making the bed in the morning, I notice the shadow and think, no, it's just my imagination. But it's not. I say to myself, "The eye is drawn toward it" and remind myself to write 100 Words about "the eye", but don't and fret about that instead (or in addition to, the blot).
The only people in Broadway Restaurant are two white-haired guys behind the counter, presumably someone in the kitchen, a waitress, an older black man, and a young-ish Hispanic fella in a wheelchair. I choose a booth in the window, realizing too late that I'm facing a big mirror. I look ghoulish in the bad lighting. I think passersby on the sidewalk pity me being alone on a Saturday night, eating a veggie burger (deluxe!) and fries, rather than at an upscale hotspot with flattering lighting. I pity myself for a nanosecond, until I realize there's nowhere else I'd rather be.
The JCC entrance is a few steps from one side of 76th at Amsterdam and the Equinox entrance a few steps on the other. On mornings when I arrive several minutes before the 5:30 opening, members of both places mill around on the sidewalks. When I've taken the route that requires me to pass through the JCC crowd to get to Equinox, I feel like Anita trying to pass through the rowdy, rumble-ready Jets at Doc's Drug Store to give Tony Maria's urgent message, even though I still can't decide whether the JCC dorks or Equinox nerds are the Sharks.
A few unrelated items on Hallowe'en (hijacking October 25): Early this evening I saw an older woman walking a small yet non-Dachschund wearing the ubiquitous hot dog Hallowe'en costume. He did not look thrilled, indeed appeared somewhat sheepish, and when the little darling looked up at me and I smiled at the uncomfortable display, he said, "And to add insult to injury, this is completely un-ironic."
That young, kinda pretty pregnant Indian (?) girl in the subway concourse I gave a dollar to could've at least thanked me. I don't care if that makes me sound cheap and/or exceedingly white.
I only wanted to smoosh her dog and move along, but here I am in her apartment, 3-1/2 hours later, listening to stories of romance with a man from Rome, the bitchiness of old high school cronies, and a few tales of physical woes, the dog in the other room (not quite trusting me inside her sanctuary despite obvious trust outdoors that astounded her mom). She's alone but not lonely, she says, and I believe her. Her dog is her life, and I believe her. And best of all, not once did I think she was going to murder me.
Please do not tell me it looks like my one-eyed cat is always winking at you. We are not offended that you've noticed she has half the number of eyes she was born with. We are, however, offended that you demonstrate a staggering lack originality.
Please do not tell me she is a "pirate kitty". If you feel the urge to speak in a pirate voice, even a single "Arrr", I will immediately sprout a hook for a hand and eviscerate you (perhaps while winking!) not only for lack of originality but for trying to be funny and failing miserably.
This time next week I'll be in San Francisco, finally visiting friends after years of them asking me to come out. The last time I was there was maybe 25 years ago, and I remember nothing about it except one evening on a sidewalk outside an ice cream place in the Castro, peering through the plate-glass window at my ice-cream-procuring boyfriend, when a guy appeared at my left side, peered at my boyfriend too, and said, "Oh, I'll take some of that!" I told him that treat was my boyfriend, and he said something approving and congratulatory and moved on.
My friend is in the restroom, so I'm eavesdropping on the guy to my left, at a table with a woman facing him. He keeps saying, "Take a good, long look in the mirror" like a poorly trained actor trying to figure out which word to emphasize for maximum impact.
"Take a good, long look in the mirror," he says to her, as she looks down at her plate, focusing on precisely cutting her quesadilla.
I want her to say, "My knife can act like a mirror. Take a look at THIS, motherfucker" as she jams it in his throat.
Has anyone, in the history of anywhere, at any time, ever shrieked or bellowed, while gasping for breath, wild-eyed, red-nosed, tears waterfalling down their disenchanted or irate faces, arms flailing, fists flying, as they pound on the chest of the target, "Liar, liar, liar!! Liar, liar!" while the target flinches and ducks and tries, often in vain, to ward off the hysterical attack, before eventually collapsing into the arms of the accused, sobbing, heaving, and letting out another "Liar!" and holding on for dear, dear life? This must be a device created solely for the benefit of TV audiences, right?
I just pranced around the apartment singing "Chock Full O' Nuts is the heavenly coffee" in a variety of "styles", much to the consternation and dismay of my cat and anyone -- meter-checking ConEd guy, recyclables-sorting landlord, mailbox-checking tenant, Google-Maps-checking errant tourists looking for Zabar's who think I can guide them to bagels and rugelach because I must be one of them Jews they've heard so much about -- who may be lurking outside my door. I would say, "And I wonder why I'm single," but I know there's a fella out there who'd find all of this utterly enchanting.
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