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Every time I take two of the duckbill clips from the box of a dozen to "set" my hair while it's wet, I wonder (1) if these two clips have ever been used together; and (2) if there's any clip in the box that's never been used. I'm sure there's some sort of statistics stuff I could do to determine probability, or I could just ask the clips themselves, but the former is too tedious and the latter, I fear, could stir up trouble among the clips or heartbreak in me to learn that "someone" has never had a turn.
I like paying with exact change. I won't hold up the line fishing coins from my zippered change purse, but if no one is behind me, I'll do so with an odd bit of excitement and an even odder bit of smugness and often remark to the cashier that this is something that, if my mother did it, would annoy me. I usually say this only to female cashiers because I feel like it makes us comrades vis-ŗ-vis the mother-daughter dynamic, although I have a feeling the younger ones barely know what coins are outside the realm of their employment.
Some time ago, a friend asked, maybe on Flickr or her personal blog, whether chipped nail polish was sorta sexy. I think it may be sexy in the way bedhead, visible bra straps, smudged mascara, half worn-off lipstick, and cigarette dangling from those lips are sexy: For about 30 seconds, by which time I've decided that the chick should just get some nail polish remover and a cotton ball, substitute a bra that accommodates the cut of the shirt, take a Q-tip to the mascara, and reapply the lipstick. The decrepit thing is not rock 'n' roll fabulous. It's unkempt.
The second chapter of this book annoyed me. I don't care about Roger Ebert's boring aunts, uncles, and cousins. I want to get to the good stuff, about his career, marriage, and illness. Of course these are his memories, so he wanted to put it all down, but I keep waiting for "the good part". I do that with a lot of stuff in my own life. With my days, weeks, and months. I keep waiting for "the good part", to get to the point. But often my chapters are even more mundane and boring than Ebert's dusty old aunts.
I'll never understand people who aren't aware of how their bodies occupy physical space. If I'm sitting in an end seat on the subway and you're standing by my side near the doors, you may want to be aware that your jutting elbow and flailing arm has this odd ability to invade my space and come perilously close to smacking my face. You may also want to be aware that when I lift my hand and push your invasive extremities away and tell you to please watch your elbows I really want to add at least one "fucking" but won't.
I have met some truly, truly lovely people through Etsy and eBay. One of the women, from North Carolina (where a lot of really nice people seem to live, along with Ohio!), and I are corresponding via email now after exchanging a lot of messages via Etsy after I expressed interest in a sweater she was selling (which unfortunately would have been too big for me). I reached out to her, and she wrote back all happy, because she had wanted to do it herself but thought she might be overstepping. This made me very happy. People can be adorable.
I've been off Facebook for three months and don't miss it at all. I pop on for 30 seconds a day to check on events I've been invited to or in which I might have interest, and then immediately sign out. I have no interest in hashtag activism or "joining the conversation", no desire to echo "me too". I couldn't care less about what celebrity did what to whom or who the victim du jour is. If I don't hear anything about Woody Allen/Mia Farrow ever again it'll be too soon. What a relief, to be out of all loops.
A Facebook friend who'd followed me from the ol' blogging days and reminded me often that although he's lived in [insert warm state] for a while, he grew up in Manhattan, and who used to irritate Scott and me with his sort of obsequious omnipresence, recently died. Although he was annoying, he was harmless and pleasant, and I felt sad at his passing. Still, one of the first things I thought was, "I want to tell Scott he couldn't escape L even in death," and then, "Scott probably wants to laugh about this with me, wherever he may be." Oy.
Manhattan is not a fucking theme park, tourists. Some of us actually live here and would like to readily avail ourselves of the sidewalks and streets and turnstiles that are part of our daily lives without the unnecessary obstruction resulting from your slackjaw-gawking, molasses-moving, loudmouth-laughing inability to get the fuck out of the way because you're too busy waiting in line for an overpriced scoop of cookie dough that resembles ice cream, which for some mindless reason you find incredibly Instagrammable. Do I come to your shit town and clog your county fair and strip malls? No, I do not.
I'm sick of the "slash" people. He's not the front desk guy at Equinox; he's an actor slash producer slash director slash entrepreneur slash menswear designer. She's not a nanny; she's a painter slash photographer slash modern dancer slash activist slash feminist. That person over there isn't a guy or a girl; there are no pronouns to adequately describe or contain or define. Everyone's so goddamned fucking special. Give me someone who says, "Hi I'm a secretary and I like to doodle on the subway. I sometimes bake cupcakes for my dad. But really who cares. Please pass the salt"
Whenever I buy something vintage from Etsy or eBay that I'd had in my "Favorites" or "Watch list" for a while and had kept revisiting and admiring and pondering purchase, and it's hanging from the shower curtain rod or closet door for the mandatory airing-out/admiration process, I stand there in awe as I regard it, like it's a celebrity I've admired for ages who I can't believe I now get to hang out with anytime I want. These carefully "curated" (ew) items couldn't have found a better home than with me. I'm loyal to my cherished friends to a fault!
My peripheral friends A and H, neither of whom I've seen in a few years, invited me to an event at their home in Whereverthefuck, Queens, that I said I'd attend and then later sent my regrets. I felt like a heel since A had invited me by phone (well, voicemail since I didnít pick up, like a coward), which I found charmingly old school. Yesterday A texted to invite me to an Easter brunch at their house, and I accepted the invitation. As the day approaches, I'm sure I'll want to bail, but I can't be that person anymore.
I need to stop purposely walking on their block. Nothing there is of any interest to me besides their building, and that only interests me because it houses their home. But I have no curiosity about their life anymore and, if our paths crossed, would dread standing on the sidewalk, making small talk about theirs or, so I won't be strolling down that street anymore, looking up at their window, and being unsure whether I hope to catch a glimpse of them. Besides, if they peered down, would they even bother to call out to me for that small talk?
I round the corner of 83rd and Columbus and see D and Z, a dog and his dad, friends of R, who I dated in the summer. I stop to chat for a bit. D says R may be having shoulder surgery. I roll my eyes and say, "You mean a sixth surgery?" I tell D how R had told me he'd had five. This seems to be news to D. "Please. The guy would've had my sympathy with one surgery. But five? That's just balderdash." D laughs. I hope he passes on my mocking incredulity to R. Drama queen.
I feel like I need to rewatch every movie I've only ever seen on a smaller screen now that I've finally upgraded to a TV that's not the same size as my computer monitor. Now that I've noticed and delighted in Milo Ventimiglia's crow's feet, I want more. Now that I've seen the slight unevenness of Mandy Moore's eyebrows, I want more. I considered setting up my old TV next to the new one for a few minutes to compare and contrast the pictures, but that would make me feel even sadder for the old TV than I already feel.
These are random thoughts, and I mean that in a real way, not in a millennial-speak way, where I'd drop the "m" from "random" and say "rando", which would make me think of Rambo and ranch dressing.
Every time I see a discarded litterbox, I hope it's just due to an upgrade.
After I went to the ATM, I had $69 in my wallet. This made me giggle like I am either 6 or 9.
No one at the gym watches me closely enough to interpret/decipher that what I'm tapping my fingers against my weights to between "sets" is "Vogue".
Late yesterday afternoon, in full-blown Old School Mode, dressed in vintage raincoat and sporting a bubble umbrella, I went down to Village Natural for the macro platter, which is what I've ordered perhaps 95% of the times I've gone there in the last almost-18 years. It's the perfect oasis, when someone doesn't destroy the groovy '70s vibe by using a cell on speakerphone. After at least three pleas of "Would you kindly turn off your speaker?" and being prompted by one of her male companions with better manners, Theresa dashed, flustered, into the vestibule to continue her very important call.
I went out only so I could wear the Bonnie Cashin raincoat, new rainboots, and wield the bubble umbrella. That I took the train to the West Village for a late lunch was icing on the cake I didn't order even though the thought of a hunk of carrot cake with vegan cream cheese frosting sounded delightful. Or at least it had until I started getting a stomachache mid-meal. It was then, with a feeling of sexy bloat, that I was grateful for the relative roominess of the raincoat that, earlier, had me questioning whether it was a good buy.
Sorry, "Wonder", but you're trying so damned hard to force tears from me, and it's just not gonna happen except in the small storyline about the dog. But I'll cry no matter what, anytime there's even a hint of an iota of a notion that an animal is even remotely in jeopardy. But no thanks otherwise, "Wonder". Gosh, the bullies eventually realize the deformed kid is really cool and the deformed kid is so cool about it, so gee whiz, and we're supposed to recognize in ourselves both the bully and the bullied and weep. Nope. Heartstrings firmly intact here.
Recently, during a multipart Manhattan all-day excursion, two people, neither of whom know each other, remarked that my outfit looked like something airline-related. The first, a friend's boyfriend, waving his finger up and down the way I usually associate with gay friends, said I looked like I'd just stepped off a Boeing. "It's a VERY good thing!" he said. Later, a lesbian friend said, with exuberant approval, something about a flight attendant.
I was on cloud 9, given that that's the look I was going for. Retro stewardess meets 1970s real estate agent meets Mary Marlo Thomas Moore. Upward! Ahoy!
E and I are at Barney Greengrass, giddy as we wait for her everything bagel with lox and cream cheese and my everything bagel and kasha knish. The place is brimming with smiling, gabbing (dare I say kibitzing?) people, most of whom look like locals. How is it that this is the first time for two Jewish ladies of a so-called certain age, one of whom has lived in NYC for one-third of her life and the other her entire life? When my knish arrives sliced open with brown mustard on the side, I know a new "regular" is born.
Sometimes my cursor hovers over Scott's name on my Google chat list and his photo and name pop up. I won't remove him from the list even though he left this world 5-1/2 months ago. I like to imagine that if I typed a message to him, it would reach him wherever he is and he'd be able to respond. I want to think of him as being in the cloud, and not in some pathetic "angel" kind of way with a white robe, wings, gates, and fluffiness. I want him to write back, even if with a simple "lol".
Because I know you jotted notes while perusing last month's "batch", in a dedicated notebook or on Post-Its framing your computer monitor, I will allow you to finally discard those notes and exhale by telling you that I used the jar of aji amarillo from Kalustyan's in scrambled tofu, to quite good effect, although I'm not sure I would go out of my way for more unless, of course, I also wanted halvah from the same store. However, Barney Greengrass, referenced earlier in this "batch", also offers halvah, so I have a lot of heavy thinking and planning to do.
If I can stop one person from wasting his or her time watching the 2015 crap-fest called "Mistress America", I'll feel my life hasn't been in vain. Don't think, as I did, "Well, Lola Kirke annoys me on 'Mozart in the Jungle', so let me see if she annoys me in something else," and then find yourself watching this tripe. She's the best thing (aside from two gray and white cats) in this garbage from Noah Baumbach. It's certainly not Greta Gerwig, quite possibly one of the worst so-called actors I've ever witnessed in my life. ("Frances Ha" was shit.)
I wait in the rain under my bubble umbrella. K grins broadly as she approaches, exclaims over how cute she thinks I look, and we scurry to several vintage shops in the East Village and Alphabet City. We co-swoon over a shirt with a horse pattern (alas, it's a skosh too small). The food at Ahimsa East is scrumptious , and she gives me a big piece of her dosa. We dash to the nifty venue for The classical music concert and settle into pillows she'd been toting for our comfort. Alas, it's a shame I'm not a lesbian too.
My earth-shattering decision to combine my trip to McNulty's for coffee beans with a "food event" has me walking down Hudson, a walk that, although Google Maps told me was a mile, takes longer than I'd anticipated. But who cares. This is a part of the city I haven't done to death. It's an adventure! I'm humming the "That Girl" theme song, which coordinates with my outfit/ensemble, and my destination is Square Diner, which has been around for about 100 years. As long as places like this exist, they get my business in exchange for the soothing of my soul.
You know how when someone considered a less attractive or "desirable" version of someone famous is called "the poor man's [famous person's name]"? I'm going to start calling more attractive/desirable versions of not-that-attractive celebrities "the rich man's [not attractive celebrity}." Say I meet a gorgeous fella with a full head of ginger hair, well-groomed beard, and abs for days. I'll dub him "the rich man's Louis C.K"? And I can call the beautiful creator of an show about annoying-as-fuck millennials, who doesn't make me want to punch her in the chinless face "the rich man's Lena Dunham". I'm on it!
This morning my cat witnessed me saying, "Meanwhile, back at the ranch" several times, the first in an attempt to wrangle my thoughts back to some semblance of linear normalcy that my head could deal with instead of threatening to implode from the burden of the ricocheting rat-a-tat ridiculousness of the pre-gym quasi-mania, and the subsequent times in smirking acknowledgment of the goofiness of the phrase that makes me sound like someone's cardigan-sportin' dad who knows best circa 1950-whatever. She assured me she's okay with it, but I'm suspicious of her agreeability and wonder what she's got up her paw-sleeve.
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