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I'm quite in love with Amazon's Prime Now delivery service. I love knowing that someone else is going down the aisles for me and will bring me what I want as I sit here working, eliminating the impulse buys in an actual store. I only do this when I want several items from Whole Foods that I can't easily get from Fairway just up the street and the thought of being in peppy Trader Joe's is too "social" to bear. I still refuse to buy toilet paper except in person, even though doing so oddly embarrasses me, like it's porn.
Excuse me while I roll my eyes at the mention of "gluten-free" unless you've been diagnosed with Celiac disease and gluten causes you severe distress or misery. If you're banning gluten just because it seems like the thing to do, I lump you in with the paleo and keto crews along with those who won't shut the fuck up about Crossfit, yoga, or whatever other "badass" (ugh) workout they're into.
Just do your thing and shut up. I'd say "No one wants to hear about it," but apparently social media sheep are all need to "share" how special they are.
One bookcase from a pair I bought in 1996 after my boyfriend moved out has been leaning to one side like the Tower of Pisa for quite some time, and it rankles the hell out of me. I should replace it with something sturdier and more usable, with five shelves instead of four, like the one by the fireplace, but the thought of taking it out to the curb saddens me because I don't want to hurt its feelings and would feel tempted to discard the still-stable bookcase so they could "die" together. Just typing that makes me get "misty"!
You don't have to love the routine, you just have to have one. Do I, someone who'd do anything to get out of gym class in school and who'd only go to a sporting event if free vegan hot dogs were available, love going to the gym six days a week? Need I even dignify that with an answer?
If I can wake up stupid-early o'clock on weekdays and less-stupid-but-still-stupid-early o'clock on weekends to do something I don't love, then I should be able to apply equal dedication to something I think I "enjoy", such as writing and drawing, right?
Carla Carlsbad isn't a fan of her name, but what can she do? Change it? Well, yes, she can, and she considers it all the time but also isn't a fan of trying to decide what to change it to or spending money on whatever it would cost to do so. She also knows that if she changed it, she'd feel sorry for the discarded name, that of her still-alive-and-kicking-although-not-that-great-of-a dad, and would always imagine it like the uneaten but perfectly good (and no doubt) doughnuts, scones, and cookies she swears she hears sobbing in the dumpster behind the mall.
You know what? Most of want something more glamorous or fulfilling in our lives insofar as work is concerned. My best friend has a fantastic corporate job that allows him the financial ability to own a co-op in Brooklyn and a place in Fire Island. Should he be a tearfully Tony-clutching, Broadway star with his impossibly gorgeous singing voice? Absofuckinglutely. I have my own little business transcribing stuff for lawyers (mostly). I've been doing it for 13 years from the comfort of my home. Should I be a best-selling writer of impossibly short fiction? Absofuckingutely.
Continued on 6/7 and 6/8
Continued from 6/6
My sister works at a blue collar job but wishes she could be off in the wild, saving rhinos and elephants from being poached for their horns and tusks. But she can't because she has real life concerns to tend to.
I have other friends who should have their own galleries, should be dancing with companies, should be doing something other than "regular" work, and some of them do, but those who aren't as fortunate do have those regular, non-glamorous jobs because they like to do stuff such as eat and pay rent (or a mortgage).
Continued to 6/8
Continued from 6/7
It irks the motherfuckin' hell outta me, then, when I see someone complaining that he can't make a living out of being an ARTISTE yet refuses to get a "regular" job because somehow it's beneath him and he's just not meant for that kind of work. How dare he deign to do so when he's a true artiste living a life of temperamental artistic struggle!
Get off your high horse and get a job. Do your ARTE when you're off the clock. There's no shame in having to, oh my god, admit you're a "regular" person. Gosh.
Let me know if you want to come over to hang out today on the patio, quaffing TaB or your beverage of choice (BYOB), so I know when to cringe when the buzzer rings, mouth "Go away, go away," sit still as my eyes dart back and forth in silent panic, and hold my breath even though you can't hear me breathing from outside on the stoop, where you shift your weight from foot to foot, buzzing again, thinking, "Does this thing even work?" and then text me instead while I silently sob as the notification dings on my phone.
Ever since my friend Scott said that life was too short to use cheap toilet paper several years ago, I've been loyal to the Charmin Ultra Soft, only varying "just to see" if there was something even utra-softer. There was not. At least not among the stuff available on any local shelf. (I won't order specialty toilet paper online, even though years ago I was tempted when I found it in pink and blue, like the coveted stuff of my childhood). Scott left this world almost two years ago, his life way too short. I'm glad you never compromised, Darling!
Is "Goonies" really *that* incredible that I should finally watch it instead of rolling my eyes and grimacing anytime someone mentions how fantastic it is and how, oh my god, it's his or her all-time favorite movie? (For the record, I've never seen "This is Spinal Tap" either. But please, no movie quotes. I have an almost visceral reaction, and not a good one, to people incessantly quoting movies. So if can't help yourself from commenting "Turn it up to 11", I'll seriously fucking hate you as much as I hate people who say "Nobody puts baby in a corner.")
I have not bought any vintage clothing/accessories/whatever for two months. I'm relieved the overwhelming obsession of spending countless hours on Etsy and eBay, searching for gems to add to my already bulging collection, is over, and I can go about the business of not only delighting in what I already have but actually wearing it out and about. The marvelous thing about dedicating yourself to vintage is that you don't have to fret that it will go out of style, because it already has, which of course increases its appeal even more. Viva le/la vintage! Modern "fashion" can bite me.
Every time I open a can of chickpeas, I pause before draining it in the sink and think, "You should save it to make something with," the word "aquafaba" dangles in front of my my eyes, disjointed from any recipe, and I think, "Eh, next time," knowing that if I save it in the refrigerator, I won't use it unless I have an immediate specific purpose, it will go bad, and I'll feel worse.
Also, every time I open a can of chickpeas, I think, "I should use dried and do them in the pressure cooker." But that's another story.
I just unfriended a bunch of people, including some who don't respond to my requests to get together, even if both of us know that if we did make plans, when the day arrived, neither of us would want to go through with it and would prefer if the other one would say, "Oh no, I'm so sorry, I can't make it, I have to wait for FedEx to deliver shampoo so I can wash my hair, so can we reschedule for another time that we'll be gung-ho about right now and then as the day approaches want to cancel?"
Trying out a new "format" for my weekdays: After the gym, do "whatever", which won't include social media since it's blocked via Freedom. At 8:00, start work, continue until 4:00, pausing only to get up and stretch, procure a TaB (OF COURSE). At 4:00, put away the headset to indicate the end of workday. At 5, when Freedom lifted, check social media for ten minutes. Make/eatdinner at 5:00, accompanied by Colbert. Don't feel compelled to watch beyond the monologue if the guest doesn't interest me. After that, write, draw, paint. At 8:30, read for about an hour, then LIGHTS OUT.
I researched no-tie shoelaces, and after spending an inordinate amount of time poring over reviews, both written online and on YouTube, decided on a pair that was less expensive to buy on the manufacturer's website using a YouTuber's discount code rather than on Amazon. That little thrill made me feel like I truly made the right choice and that I was somehow WINNING. At what, I don't know. And for what? Savings of a dollar or so?
I know I always say I don't need "big fun", but has it gotten so that my fun is really this tiny? (Yes.)
We were That Group in the park the afternoon of Gracie's memorial. We were those with several blankets spread out and food every which way, having too much fun, who were perhaps a bit too loud, singing and laughing and calling out to people, chowing down, whooping it up. Perhaps our merriment and carrying on would have been better suited to one of the bigger, more open lawns, instead of near the "sailboat pond". But those who passed grinned at us and a couple of young guys said they were jealous of us, so we must've been doing something right.
I must make an effort to refrain from emailing colleagues about aspects of their work that frustrates the fuck out of me. I must remember that if I were to receive the kind of email I send them, polite yet "pointed", I wouldn't be thrilled and would probably want to respond with not so polite yet pointed "Kindly fuck off. Thank you."
They know I'm just venting, but I'm sure they're sick of my crap. And as soon as I send it, I wish I hadn't, but it's too late for "Undo", even on Gmail.
I can be profoundly annoying.
Boring Entry of the Month/Batch:
I have paid off the computer tech for the set-up of my wonderful new computer. I have paid the IRS another installment of my taxes. I have paid off the credit cards I use to buy groceries and other household stuff. I will probably pay another tax installment this month. I will pay down the card that still contains a balance for the computer and next month have that down to zero.
For now, this is more exciting than acquiring another item for my vintage wardrobe, which is full to bursting and needs nothing anyway.
(Disclaimer: I'm writing this on June 26!)
I'm putting this out there, for the one person reading these entries anymore, to hold myself "accountable". Starting July 1, I will be dedicating myself to my Neighborhood Splotch drawings and writing 100 Words entries to accompany them, and may be "sharing" them on Instagram and/or Facebook.
I must stop fretting that my drawings are not professional and I lack the skill of so many others. I must remember that my contribution to the world is unique and I don't have to compare myself to anyone but me.
Easier said than done, natch.
On July 1, I will have lived in this apartment for 13 years, the longest I have ever lived anywhere as a so-called adult and certainly the longest I have ever lived alone. My ideal man lives a subway stop or two away, in his own marvelous apartment that he has no desire to share either, and although we're over the moon for each other, we get together only once a week, twice tops, sometimes co-hosting dinner parties at his place (he has more room), and neither of us ever sees the other in a bath towel or brushing teeth.
Nora Topspire tells me her favorite chicken dish is "a la kong". I tell her, no, it's "king", but she says that's a "common miscontraption". I tell her she means "misconception" and she stares at me like I'm the stupid one. I want to clock her in the maw till her head spins, but instead I turn away and focus on the spoons I'm laying out on the table for the dessert buffet.
"Oh, I love me a good buffet," she says, pronouncing it as spelled, and I can't tell if she's pulling my leg. This time I don't bite.
I can't stand when people say, of some horrific situation/malady/disease "Gosh, I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy." Please. Stop pretending you're filled to the saintly brim with Zen goodness, blessed with the sweet spirit of divine forgiveness that's going to earn you a golden halo or entry into your next life as the pampered pet of a diamond-encrusted celebrity who will leave you millions upon his/her death. Like you wouldn't wish the absolute worst on 45 or any of his filthy fucking cronies, who, at this point, should all be considered our worst enemies? I'm not buying it.
Two and a half weeks with the new computer and I'm still in awe of its efficiency. I still can't believe that once I turn it on, it's good to go in 15 seconds instead of ten minutes, that when I call up Word, it's there before I can even get a word out and doesn't "hang" on me every few minutes, leading me to pound my fist on the desk and scream like a lunatic. When the computer tech asked me how I went so long with the old machine, I said, simply, "I guess I'm a fucking masochist."
I am dictating this entry using the dictate function in Microsoft Word. Let's see how this works. It is not counting my words as I go along, so I am sure I will have to edit this because I will speak too long and go beyond the 100 words necessary for this entry. But let's see how close I can get, without going over 100 words. Now we can all see just how boring I am when left to my own devices and speaking aloud rather than let my fingers do the speaking. I feel so self conscious! (98 words!)
Yesterday was the one-year anniversary of The Worst Day, my sweet beautiful man. I stayed indoors all day and spoke to no one other than the cat, with the exception of a handful of words to the mailman and the grocery delivery fella. It wasn't a day for putting myself out there, being out and about. I wanted it as quiet and uneventful as possible. Any food I ate tasted beige. It rained in the morning, complete with thunder, always our favorite weather. That was for you. And I told you so. Because yes, I talked to you all day.
I can hear these assholes through the thick brick walls of my apartment. What the fuck are they doing or saying that has to be so loud on a Thursday night that it can penetrate several inches of brick on my side and whatever else on theirs? I want to take the same brick and smash in their raucous, inconsiderate faces, teeth first, so they can briefly feel the jagged shards with their blood-soaked tongues and gush lisping desperate, terrified pleas for me to stop, stop, at which time I'd say, "I'm sorry. I can't hear you. Speak up, please?"
It's been too hot to get decked out in an "outfit" complete with shoes and handbag, especially since my dresses are polyester and thus not meant to endure what my friend Toni calls the "slutty" heat of the summer. Twice recently I have ventured out in my cuffed capri jeans bought at Banana Republic at least ten years ago, a tank top, and red Mary Jane sneaker-type shoes and once in steel gray Columbia capris that someone who hikes might wear, a "funky" Custo sleeveless top, and gray Mary Janes. I've looked "cute", I suppose, but didn't feel completely ME.
Thirteen years ago today, I moved into an apartment on the UWS that probably hadn't been updated 1976. It came furnished, but I opted out, and instead filled the place with grooviness of my own, much of which I'd coveted in my parents' or grandparents' homes when I was but a wee Jewess. When a surly teen, wedged in my denim beanbag chair wearing huge headphones while listening to Queen, often under the light of a blue bulb, I thought, "Man, I wish I had an apartment just like this."
Forty-plus years later, I do. Happy anniversary, nifty little oasis!
I'm spending Pride in my apartment, with my cat, mostly on the sofa, reading on my Kindle (don't ask what I'm reading. because I will just say "Nancy Drew" and go no further), wearing a three-piece Tiffany blue vintage pajama set that would make Doris Day proud or perhaps Rock Hudson prouder, avoiding all the hoopla downtown. I will sashay onto the patio in a bit with a cold can of Tab, touch a finger to my three-part rainbow-colored pinwheel as a symbolic gesture and also because it's small fun, my favorite kind. I'm your ally every day, my loves.
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