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Hey, guess what. You don't get to tell someone what to grieve or how to grieve. If someone's beloved cat, dog, bird, mouse, ferret, goat, cow, alpaca, parrot, lizard, fish, squid, or other non-human leaves this world, and that person is devastated, you don't get to say, "It's just a(n) _____. It's not like it was a person." No. You don't. You don't get to tell that person to be brave or put on a happy face or any other trite feel-good jive bullshit and that, hey, just go get another ____. You get to zip it.
Continued on 5/2
Continued from 5/1
In September 2015, when my dear cat Shana, who was with me for 15-1/2 years, left this world, I was beside myself. My best gal pal (ugh) had lost her oldest son 2-1/2 years earlier at age 17, and I thought, oh no, I can't tell her how gutted I am. But when we talked on the phone, she expressed her condolences and said, with absolutely no irony, "I know how devastating it is when you lose a child."
For some of us, our children come in a fuzzy/furred/feathered/scaled variety. That doesn't make them any less precious.
I'm convinced that my Poppop (mom's father) comes to me in the form of a VERY LARGE FLY. Not as large as Jeff Goldblum, but large nonetheless. Poppop had a ridiculous sense of humor, so when "he" perches on my monitor and stays for several days, following me into the kitchen, I laugh because Poppop always hovered over us, often to the point of irritation, and I think, yup, here he is, hovering again. So I just say, "Hi, Poppop!" and think about his handsomeness and hilarity and how I'd give anything to have him back in human form, hovering.
Whimsy and fairies and all that magical unicorn poppycock makes my blood run cold. People running races in tutus and tube socks, faces painted a Crayola box mashup, hair to match, gosh, how original. I try to think "live and let live", but just land on my default "ugh" and "man oh man is that fucking stupid". I'm a big proponent of self-expression, but it seems like this is a "trope" (I cringed as I typed that) that's gotten way too much traction, and all these nonconformists are banding together into one enormous amorphous blob of Super Elastic Bubble Plastic.
The "actress" is talking about the projects she's worked on, and I think I "should" be interested, but I'm not. She's holding court with two people and I have a feeling she wants me to be the third, but really all I'm focused on is the fact that our host mentioned cookies and candy, neither of which I want but which of course pique my interest because I'm food-motivated like a dog. And when store-bought cookies still in their wrapping on a paper plate and individually wrapped Starburst are more compelling than the conversation, it's probably time to take leave.
I'm on edge anytime anyone is in my apartment, even people I like. I cannot completely relax when someone is in my sanctuary, among my things. When my landlord tends to something here, I cannot go about doing whatever I'd normally be doing for the duration. When the computer repair guy is here, I'm disconcerted to see him sitting in the chair, using the keyboard, and even seeing the icons in my taskbar. I'm even a bit ill at ease when my brother visits, or the rare friend. It always feels like an intrusion, and I'm relieved when alone again.
He's no dusty schlub, this one. He's right up there with the Richard Gere/Anderson Cooper mashup from six years ago, but with a better personality and even better hair and, I daresay, a better body (from what I can tell). And he doesn't live in Georgia, which is a bonus. Nope, this one is no paunchy slouch hiding wispy hair under a cap he probably never washes. Indeed, one of the first times I ever saw him at the gym, he removed his baseball cap to run his hand through his hair, and I swear it was for my benefit.
"In Transit, Arriving Late". Don't do this to me USPS Informed Delivery! You can't, like, just appease me with this nonchalant, noncommittal text-quality status. You agreed to update me when you're on your way home, what your ETA is, and if you can't greet me while I'm pretending to have just woken up to scarf a bowl of cereal in the kitchen in the dark, the least you can do is nod in my direction so I at least KNOW YOU'RE ALIVE. Do NOT make me ask who your friends are and if you're doing drugs and having the sex!
If you've shot and killed kids in a school and you're in court for your first appearance, lift your head, you cowardly, craven sack of fucking bilge. Lift your head and let the world see what a pusillanimous, putrid shit puck you are.
If I were in charge of the court where the latest shooters, in Colorado, appeared, I'd command them to show their faces, pry their eyes open like in "A Clockwork Orange", and force them to watch my face as I eventually sentenced them to a public stoning. Screw rehabilitation and education. I want these motherfuckers gone. "Sorry."
I didn't know Biscoff cookies were vegan until the last time I was on a plane, last summer. The way I acted when I realized it, you would've thought Santa Claus himself, arm in arm with the Easter Bunny, presented me with enough Biscoff, somehow magically calorie-free, to fill the entire cargo of the plane.
What is it about them that is so alluring? That they're kind of like graham crackers? That they're neatly packaged for ease of transport, to be tucked into a handbag in case of emergency?
Sudden gaspworthy realization: I have never had Biscoff while on land!
My landlord is down here "fixing" the front door jamb. Per the usual scenario, he's asked me if I have a Phillips screwdriver and I've acted like I don't, even though I know I have one in a kitchen drawer, and he asks me if I know what a Phillips screwdriver is, and I say I do, and imagine it in that kitchen drawer, silently cursing me for the denial or maybe even crying. Hey, I pay rent. It's your job to fix stuff. If you want to use my screwdriver, give me a little refund. Otherwise, BYOPS, buddy boy.
Top Secret "Pro Tip": To clean a nearly empty jar of peanut butter, stick your entire hand inside the jar and use your index finger to swab/slide along all interior surfaces. Remove hand and lick off what you have collected and any residual that has attached itself to your fingers, hand, and/or wrist. Repeat if necessary. (Bonus: Works just as well for any other nut butter!)
Caveat: I'm not saying you won't feel like a rabid racoon after doing this and won't hate yourself for your gluttony and vow never to do it again (knowing full well you absolutely will).
I know there are people who "lead with love" or whatever it's called when someone does something hideous and their response isn't to wish that person any ill but to "pray" for him, hope he gets the help he needs, or he eventually comes around to see the error of his ways. Blah fucking blah blah. Not I. If you show yourself to be an absolute piece of shit, you hurt someone I care for or you have no regard for anyone else, hell if I'm gonna hold out any hope for you and wish you anything but misery. "Sorry".
Please, I beg of you, all offenders: Do NOT use "exasperate" when you mean "exacerbate". They are not the same. They are not interchangeable. It exasperates me to my core* and exacerbates the already hideous abuse and decline of our beautiful language.
"You know what I mean, though," you'd be tempted to say. Please don't. I'll also know what you mean when you say something like, "I ain't goin' nowhere anyways," and agree completely that, yes, with that kind of attitude and usage, you're going nowhere fast.
*A delightful cross between old-fashioned nougat and the chocolate-layered halvah at Barney Greengrass
Hey, Alabama. Go fuck yourself every which way and then some, you demon-dicked, soggy-souled, bullshit-brained, horror-hearted troglodyte and impregnate yourself with enormous octuplets so enraged to be hosted by your shriveled, dusty husk that they act out their wordless rage over having been conceived by kicking, trampling, and stomping you from the inside out with tiny red-hot feet of fury, horrified and disgusted to their unborn gooey core that eventually they'll be forced to be born into the ignorant, backwards, despicable, shithole you're trying to turn this country into.
Sweet home, Alabama? Fuck you. Fuck you. And P.S. fuck you.
Thank you, Mrs. Meyers dish soap (basil scent) for coming to the rescue of a dress when a Tide Stick wasn't up to the task. Thank you for easily and readily getting rid of two blotches that my friend insisted weren't noticeable because of the color and pattern of the dress but which would have been glaringly apparent to me if I ever wore the dress again with the stains intact and mocking me for having created them by dint of being so excited over the food at Spicy Moon that something tumbled from my fork and into my lap.
Alexa says it's 70 degrees outside, Weather.com claims 71, and here I sit in my apartment, shivering my ass off, even after having changed out of the capri-ish length pants and tank top I was wearing into flannel pajamas, fluffy hot pink socks, and the plushest robe I own, an "outfit" I'll never photograph and which, if this apartment went up in blazes right now (knock wood), I'd not be seen in on the street while waiting for firefighters, and would choose to perish wearing, even commenting, "Well, at least it's a little warmer in here now. This is nice."
My love affair with So Delicious frozen mousse, although short-lived, must end. I cannot accept the regular consumption of an entire pint just because it's only 330 calories, the justification that that's not that many calories when compared to a pint of the regular stuff, which would be at least 720, the rationalization that I "need" this "treat" every once in a while or that I "deserve" it. Although it is indeed (so) delicious, it's still sugar and it still makes me feel like crap when I'm done and those are calories that could be put to better fuel use.
I sit on my bed, electric toothbrush held up to my mouth, and instead of moving my arm, move my head from side to side. This is so taxing that I curl backward until I'm supine (engaging my core, natch, despite apparent catatonia), and with a slight sigh, complete the overwhelming task of toothbrushing. When the two minutes is accomplished, I roll up, slink to the bathroom to spit (sexy) and rinse, and heaving a big sigh.
This from the girl who awakens every morning predawn, and six of those days is at the gym within minutes of its opening.
At this point it doesn't even matter if he's gay or straight since it's clear he has no intention of getting together for carrot cake at Peacefood Cafe even though he seemed genuinely excited that I said we should do that sometime and wrote my numbers on a little piece of paper from my tiny notepad and handed it to him. And and and. I've known him for several months and if he was interested in any capacity beyond just laughing like idiots together at the gym, I would know. Oh well. I can eat carrot cake on my own.
Fuck off to horse racing, dog racing, or anything racing that isn't you, as a person. doing it because you want to. Cram your ass into a pair of pants, get yourself on a track, on a trail. Run a 10K, a half marathon, a marathon. Do a triathlon. Hell, do a megasuperultramarathon. I don't care. Run yourself ragged, race till you drop, either dead tired or just plain ol' dead, because it's your choice. Leave the animals the fuck out of this nonsense. They're not on Earth for your benefit, you greedy, grubby, greasy, arrogant, self-centered so-called human beings.
I found myself doing it again: Looking at Facebook pages of people who were once friends, who are on the periphery of acquaintanceship now, who I still "care" about even though I'm always the one who reaches out with an "I miss your face!" email or an occasional comment on Instagram (which seems less intrusive than Facebook for some reason). And worse, I was looking at the Facebook pages of their friends, people with whom I've never had any contact, and "hating" the acquaintances for whatever relationship they have with anyone else, no matter how tenuous. Gotta knock it off.
Overarching Facebook Status:
Fucking brat kid "accidentally" hurls a rock at a flamingo, breaking the birds legs. The beautiful bird dies. Status: FUCK OFF.
Some twat has her dog euthanized after she kicks the bucket so the dog can be buried with her. The dog, a Shih Tzu, was named Emma. She deserves to be remembered. The real bitch? No. Status: FUCK OFF.
Tr*mp said this, that, or the other thing like the imbecilic oversized orange infant we know him to be. Status: FUCK OFF.
Somewhere, someone is undoubtedly saying "Bacon" in response to a vegan's post. Status: FUCK OFF.
Holy moly, Michelle Williams. How the hell did you actually turn into Gwen Verdon in Fosse/Verdon? How in the world did you pack that much wow and pow and pizzazz into the role that I actually forgot you're not the genuine article?
At first I was a little put off because I wasn't "buying" you as the dancer Verdon was, but man oh man did you ever show us what a woman she was outside of her stage life as a "triple threat", what a wife, what a mother, what a friend, at home, where it counted.
Standing ovation earned.
I'm stupidly giddy over Windows 10 and don't even have my new computer yet. I've been watching YouTube tutorials in preparation, and rather than being daunted or intimidated the way I anticipated, I'm fantasizing about spending time with it and seeing what it can do and how much cooler it is than Windows 7, how much fresher and "with it" and in touch, whatever that means. I don't think I've ever seen it on someone's monitor in the flesh. The closest I've come, I think, is Windows 8.
I always say I don't need "big fun". This is proof, no?
Traipsing about this afternoon in my new Kay Windsor dress from the '60s, feeling mighty mod with coordinating light blue not-completely-opaque tights, but also feeling odd, as if perhaps I should've just gone with the usual fleshtone fishnets. I fear a stylish gayboy is going to grimace as he passes and say, "Gurl. No."
I turn the last corner to my building, and a white-haired lady out for some sun outside the assisted living facility on the corner smiles at me and calls out, "I love the blue socks with the dress. That's really something special!"
I feel completely validated.
Patio all cleaned up, new umbrella "installed" in its new heavier base, three-part rainbow-colored pinwheel firmly staked in one of the plant pots, "junk" situated in one corner, like wallflowers at a school dance, and now I can dine solo al fresco or consider getting a harness for my cat so she can hang out with me without the fear that she will escape from Meowcatraz into the courtyard into which there is no swift entry for me to chase and collect her. I wish I had "easy" friends who lived nearby so they could join me. I mean, humans.
My new computer will be here soon, and as much as I'd like to take a sledgehammer to the one it's replacing, much like they the printer in "Office Space", I just can't. Even though it's given me so much grief over the past few years, especially in recent weeks, I feel like it's not its fault since it's 7-1/2 years old and has gotten a lot of use, and at this point it would be like abusing an old dog for having an accident (or 30) in the house. Instead, I will thank it for all its hard work.
I spend a great deal of time watching Chernobyl either slackjawed, gasping, or on the verge of tears, moved equally by the events of this hideous tragedy and the lives it destroyed and by the brilliance of the miniseries itself. The acting, direction, sound, wardrobe, cinematography, special effects/makeup, the use of "real"-looking people, most actors I've never heard of but whose work leaves me breathless. Everything is top notch, deserving of every accolade anyone heaps on it and whatever awards it eventually wins. I can't get enough. And this isn't even the "usual" kind of thing I'd want to watch.
(Countdown to 126 people thinking they're unique in saying they hate it, it tastes like soap, waiting for the 127th to note the phenomenon, and me shouting, at my desk, OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE, WHO GIVES A FLYING MOTHERFUCK so loudly that everyone and his mother wants to wash my mouth out with soap.
Please resist. You may not realize it, but this stirs in me as much of an overwhelming desire/need to smack you as when some hilarious meat-lover comments "Bacon" on any post made by a vegan (even the non-annoying kind of vegan minding her own non-beeswax).
Yesterday I spent several hours hanging with a friend in his painting studio in Chelsea. On the way home, I couldn't decide what I wanted for dinner. Take the subway to 96th for pizza from Viva or the veggie burger deluxe at Broadway Restaurant at 102nd? Or stay closer to home and go to Utopia, where you get two bonus onion rings with the veggie burger deluxe? I decided on Fairway, grabbed Happy Herbert's extra dark pretzels and a pint of snickerdoodle So Delicious, came home, scarfed all the pretzels and two-thirds of the pint. Eating my feelings was nauseating!
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