REPORT A PROBLEM
Teddie's crunchy peanut butter on Food for Life's sprouted bread, preferably the cinnamon raisin variety, has been my "jam" lately. I just discovered the English muffins, though, when creating a Prime Now order, and am thrilled with this alternative. I have yet to toast them, but they're easy to slice and are marvelously heavy and dense, which makes me feel like they're even heartier. I'm not as much of a fan of delicate food as I am of this sort. I guess I'm a fucking peasant. I like things thick, chunky, and solid. As long as my body remains otherwise!
I finally discarded two coffee percolators that I'd relegated to the top of the kitchen cabinets after they both malfunctioned years ago. I have no idea why I was saving them, as they had no sentimental value whatsoever. Did I really think I could use them as "props" as I think I told myself when I saved, at least, the first one? For what? An imaginary one-woman show in which I thrilled the audience with a story about how I'm so retro that I only use percolators? Please. My fancy programmable drip coffee machine rolls its eyes at my pretense.
Broadway just north of Madison Square Park is now called NoMad, which is a cute enough name, I suppose, although annoying, and is unrecognizable from what it was when I lived one block north of the Flaitorn Building from 2000 to 2004.
Just south of the Flatiron used to be slightly dicey as well, with the letters of M. Gordon's multi-colored sign in disrepair, the once-bright blue building façade sullied to dinginess.
Although the neighborhoods were gritty and a bit grimy back then, I liked it and miss it how. I don't want everything shiny and new and clean and "safe".
All of a sudden I've become captivated by and enchanted with Lee Radziwill, Jackie O's younger sister, particularly in the early '70s, my favorite era for groovy fashion. A photo of her at home, kneeling by an ornate fireplace in a fuchsia caftan, her hair in a relaxed flip, her cheekbones angled, a slight air of amusement on her lips makes me want to strap on my top secret time machine, find her, and befriend her. Because of course the opportunities would arise when she, an aristocratic princess, and I, a mere plebian, would find ourselves sharing the same oxygen.
I was just slouched at my desk, hate-scrolling (or whatever the PROPER term is) through someone's stuff on Facebook, smirking and saying aloud, "Oh god, please" and "Give me a fucking break." And as I said, "Enough!" to this person's endless photos, I realized what I was doing and said, "Enough!" to myself and clicked off, saving lots of aggravation. This person's life has nothing to do with mine. I have no need to see more of the photos, more of the comments. I'm glad I caught myself this time. Time is too precious and fleeting to waste this way.
That moment when a targeted search on Etsy or eBay yields a dress even better than what you'd been looking for, and you gasp over the serendipity that brought it to you. And then you write the seller the usual question ("Would you kindly tell me if this is itchy and/or scratchy?") and you stare at your inbox for notification of a response and then, when it arrives, you click on it with shaking hand, learn it's not at all itchy and/or scratchy, and rush to buy it before someone else stumbles upon it and nabs it from under you.
Michael Shannon's portrayal of Roland Blum on "The Good Fight" makes me cringe. I think I'm supposed to find it captivating, enthralling, and somewhat maddening, but I don't. I knows supposed to be reminiscent of Roy Cohn, but all I think is, ugh, is this a hodgepodge of Al Pacino's character in "Scent of a Woman"; someone's notion of a brash, uninhibited, crazy-eyed, doped-up, ass-pinching sleazebag; and a 1970s Jewish lawyer from Brooklyn with unlimited "chutzpah"?
I like the actor. I love the show. But this over-the-top caricature of whatever the hell it's supposed to be is way too distracting.
Damn it, why'd I have to snoop and learn he'd contributed to 45's campaign? (This will be explained in a later post this month. I often write these out of order. I'm such a maverick.) I'd rather he smoked cigarettes, chewed gum, wore tube socks with dress shoes, and/or had unkempt feet. Right?
This is a deal-breaker. Or it should be. But oh, I find this WASP motherfucker so damned attractive. And his hair. Good god, his hair.
It'll be interesting to see if, when I see him next, I regard him differently, now that I know what I know.
Continued from 4/8
Still, he intrigues me. I still want to pounce on him. He should repulse me. He should disgust me. I should be running the other way. Even on the treadmill, I should face backwards and run the other way.
Maybe he donated to 45 and has since come to his senses. Maybe his soon-to-be-ex-wife made him do it. Maybe it was a business obligation.
Do I ask him when I see him next, "So, are you a MAGA douche or what?"
Can he be my dirty (filthy) little secret, my guilty pleasure? Can I live with myself?
Honestly, is anyone out there? Is anyone reading my 2,800 to 3,100 words a month? Does anyone give a hoot and/or a holler anymore? I doubt it. It doesn't sadden me, because these words are an exercise for my enjoyment and amusement, but it would gladden me if someone was still out there, reading.
So if you are, please write to me the MOMENT you're done with this entry at tofuju at Gmail dot com (I'm spam-paranoid!) and tell me so, and I will dedicate an entry to you next month on a topic of your choosing.
What a deal!
Oh, sexy German fella at the gym who introduced yourself to me with the firmest of handshakes and direct eye contact. Did I tell you you're sexy? Even though that word makes me cringe a bit, although not as much as "lover"? Are you a sexy lover, Herr German Fella? (Ew.)
Thank you for taking the lead. Thank you for not just staring at me in the mirrors but actually making a move. And thank you for talking to me now every time we see each other. lover, Herr German Fella? (Ew.)
How do you say, "Ask me out, damn it, sexy lover!" in German?
Stop stirring up shit. There's enough real, hideous, already-stirred-up drama in the world without people manufacturing it, adding to the bubbling, steaming, reeking cauldron that's already oozing over the sides and making a colossal mess of everything it touches. Drop your stupid grudges. Don't go looking for fights. Stop looking for reasons to be furious or dissatisfied or depressed.
If you find yourself wanting to "get into it" with some schmuck on social media, step away from the computer, phone, or whatever device you're using. Look yourself in the mirror and say, "Ew. You're better than this." And believe it.
So what if for a dinner party at his gorgeous Upper West Side home he made salmon, butternut squash, a big salad, and a chocolate cake with ganache, served on a cake stand? So what if he mentions Christian Louboutin, Fendi, Karl Lagerfeld's cat, and referred to himself as "The Queen of 81st Street"? So what if he notices the color coordination of my gym accoutrements and, when I showed him a photo of hamentaschen I made, he remarks that he loves the plate they're on? So what if my new crush hasn't yet told me he's not exactly straight?
I talk to you every day. I talk to you aloud, I talk to you silently. I whisper to you. I shout to you. I answer questions I know you're asking. On my short walk to the gym, I tell you my plans for the day, which don't vary much, but I tell you which job I want to complete and what I'm doing at the gym. I seek your counsel and heed your advice, because after 20 years, I know how you'd guide me if you were really still here. I miss you more than you would ever believe.
I've been a member of Equinox since the summer of 2000. I have been working out in some capacity since high school in the '70s. I know my stuff. I'm no novice.
This morning while doing concentration curls, wearing headphones/earbuds, head down to watch my arms/the weights/my form, a trainer came up to me and indicated he wanted my attention, so to be polite, I removed my headphones and looked up at him. He gave me a "suggestion" on form, which I know isn't a good suggestion, having performed this exercise countless times to great effect.
I told him no thanks, I would do it my way, and he moved on.
I didn't appreciate his suggestion. But even more so, I didn't appreciate his giving it unsolicited and mid-set. Anyone who knows gym etiquette at all, especially a professional, should know you don't interrupt someone during a set.
I really like Equinox and plan to be a member for quite some time. But this kind of thing is not welcome and should be discouraged. If I want someone's advice or attention, I will ask for it.
Thank you for *your* attention here. Have a great day.
Continued from 4/19
My sister isn't on social media. She wouldn't know Facebook if it came up and slapped her across the face. But she'd kick its ass if it did and tell it to fuck off if it tried any bullshit with her. She's fiercely private, does her own thing, and is dedicated to our mom, their cat, and her boyfriend of nine years.
Please join me in wishing her the happiest of birthdays. I'll show her this post when I visit next weekend, so she can see that Facebook does have its merits (even though she'll never join)!
Today is my sister's birthday. Only 18 months separate us, and I didn't walk until I was 18 months old, so I suppose I was waiting for her to be born so I could impress her with my skills. Or maybe I was just a caveman baby and didn't know that walking upright was an option. Meanwhile, she walked at nine months and probably mastered the art of ambulation as I was still figuring out which Michelin Man leg went where and how to turn.
I was born looking like Don Rickles and she was born looking like Al Pacino.
So I guess it's only fitting that I'm still the jerkoff jokester and she's got all the passion of Pacino in "And Justice for All". She's fiercely passionate about animals, detests Tr*mp even more than I do (if that's even possible), and is a voracious reader (I'm illiterate compared to her). You couldn't pay her to wear my vintage shoes and I wouldn't tie her bandanna around my head if you paid me in shoes. But as different as we are in many ways, we still have the most important things in common and I adore her like mad.
Continued on 4/17
On my way home from the gym this morning, in the downpour, I saw a woman emerge from an apartment building carrying a white Shih Tzu (or similar type dog), who she gently placed on the sidewalk. The dog wore a bright yellow slicker with the hood up to cover his/her head and four tiny red booties and immediately started prancing for its walk. The day is all downhill from here. Unless I look out on the patio sometime today and Lola is out there in the rain, dressed like Gene Kelly, tapdancing in the puddles on the Astroturf, singing.
I don't know why I agree to go to a Mets game with him when (1) I don't really care about baseball and (2) I don't really care about him. I think I agree because I like the idea of the buffet in the Hyundai Club, where we'd be seated, even if there's probably very little there that I'd eat, and because that would give us access to private bathrooms. Because yeah, I can't get food (that I'd actually eat) and a private bathroom here in the comfort of my own home without having to make small talk for hours.
The fella who works upstairs in the organic produce section of Fairway grins and greets me every morning when I shop after the gym. I think he wonders why I'm there so many mornings a week and what I'm cooking that requires frequent visits. I also think he wonders, "Where does she put it all?" while admiring my slender figure in my workout clothes.
I like to think he's on 100 Words too and writing about seeing me so many mornings, wondering if I'm married or single, or if I ever think about him outside the confines of the store.
Because my early morning workout only included weights and no cardio, I go back around 9:00 or so to run on the treadmill. Of course I think this timeslot's regulars are wondering, "Who's this fabulous lady and why haven't we seen her before?"
It's disconcerting to regard these people, knowing that these regulars in this timeslot are familiar to each other, used to each other, just as I am with those in my usual timeslot. I feel oddly proprietary toward "my" gym and think they're all merely poseur visitors.
Still, I like knowing I can invade any timeslot I want.
Neither my mom nor sister is on social media and neither is into gadgetry in any way. They have a TV that may be "smart", but only know its basic functions. They check email less often than the mailbox in front of their house. My sister was amused by Alexa when she last visited, so when I visited her and my mom this month, I was extremely tickled when we wanted an answer to something and she leaned toward a columnar candle on the coffee table and said, "Alexa," and asked it the question. We laughed like we invented lungs.
Ten months. How is it possible? I miss you more, not less. I talk to you every morning, I talk to you throughout the day, I talk to you as I go to bed. I cry every damned day. I still panic over the "never"-ness of it all.
I haven't been back to Whole Foods since June 23rd, our last time there together, the last day I saw you. The thought of stepping through its doors still makes my heart panic. But I do need to tell our buddy Oliver, the spice aisle guy. I'm sure he's wondering where we've been.
Dear Anonymous Fuck Who Bought an In-Ground Pool Pump for $516.99 on eBay using my PayPal and Is Having It Shipped Here to Manhattan: May you do a belly flop off the high dive into whatever pool you next find yourself using, hit your head on the bottom of the pool, crack open your skull, and drown in the water that's rapidly being tainted by the gush of your blood and whatever filth oozes from your bathing suit thanks to your body's panic.
My bank will ensure I don't pay for this, but may you pay with your life.
I'm almost completely at the far end of the Amtrak quiet car, thinking there are no unoccupied seats, dreading the retreat into another car, and being tortured by loud inane conversation that can be heard despite earbuds, when I see a free seat next to a bald guy watching a sporting event on his tablet. I ask if anyone is sitting there, he says no, and I sit.
When we arrive at Penn Station and I stand to leave, he's looking at me like he's disappointed that we didn't fall in silent love. At least that's what I tell myself.
My friend told me not to Google him because SHE likes "mystery" and she knows, naturally, that I'd tell her everything I discovered about him, the way I did with the last guy. One thing led to another, as of course these things do when you're busy being a super-sleuth, and I can't decide if it's more cringeworthy that he's identified as "Christian" or "Republican".
But nothing can prepare you for unearthing the horrific information that he donated to Tr*mp's campaign in the summer of 2016.
The two other identifiers were grimace-inducing but perhaps manageable. But this? A fucking deal-breaker.
The spacebar on my keyboard decided to act up like a recalcitrant punk last week, so my work productivity was shot for two days. Typing on it strained my hands and stressed my nerves, leading to nothing but frustration accompanied by massive cursing. It's at times like this that I'm so damned grateful for Amazon Prime and two-day shipping, so another keyboard could arrive at my front door without my having to do anything more than order it online (using the malfunctioning keyboard) (I think that’s called irony).
Reminder: No eating at the desk, especially peanut butter raisin bread toast.
Ten years ago: "Friends Made On This Day." Thanks, Facebook, but he was my friend for 11 years before he joined your ranks and a friend in the truest sense of the word, the way we defined "friend" years before you ever stuck your face into the mix. We barely/rarely communicated on this thing, but oh, how I wish I could "Message" him the way you indicate here. Oh, how I wish that with all your technology wizardry, you could devise a way for that to allow us to communicate even though it can never be face to face again.
The Tip Jar