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I should know by now that no matter how marvelously trim I am (and I am! I'll brag!), nothing I buy online is ever going to look as good on me as it does on the mannequin. I've read about this phenomenon who knows how many times, but still I'm always a little "shocked" that the dress that looked perfect on that inert plastic woman with unbendable knees doesn't look quite as perfect on my animated flesh body with the knees that just want to strut to show off the dress that might look 85% as good in real life.
I'd started becoming a "regular" at the diners a while back but fell out of practice, relinquished my standing, and now must start all over again so that when I enter the restaurants, the workers know I'm THAT NICE LADY WHO ONLY EVER ORDERS THE VEGGIE BURGER DELUXE. Except this latest jaunt to Neil's Coffee Shop (71st and Lexington) makes me want to step up my game a bit to branch out into onion rings, because I truly wanted to ask the man at the counter next to me if I could have one of his. They looked that good.
We ate so much while in India, and the food was nothing like what you get at your local Indian restaurant, the flavors much more complex but at the same time more simple, but fuller and more, oh god, dare I say "authentic" like a pretentious git? Being there makes you want to swath yourself in colorful fabric and flat sandals and let your hair grow long enough to wrap into a bun and line your eyes with kohl and go to an open market and not even care that you don't speak the language because, really, does it matter?
Today is an ex-boyfriend's 60th birthday. We started dating 37 years ago, when I was 19 and I thought a four-year age difference truly made him an older man (he had a beard!) and felt like I had to comport myself, at times, like whatever I thought an adult was.
He and I are still friends, and he's just as ridiculous, if not more so, than he was then, and decidedly more handsome. The four-year age difference means nothing, and there's no way in hell when we're together that we'll ever act like whatever an adult is supposed to be.
He's not on social media and has no desire to join. A mutual friend keeps telling him it's easy to do so and he'd have fun, but he demurs every time, and I applaud his decision. I don't want him tainted by the nonsense of Facebook or even Instagram, even though the latter is far less insidious and a lot more palatable. I'm thrilled that I don't have to share him with anyone online and that we see each other in the real world and through the frisson of thrill of ridiculous texts. But he exists. He's no George Glass.
There were indeed "holes" in "Parasite", but I don't care to try to enumerate them or to read anything about them. I just want to watch and suspend all kinds of beliefs, to hate almost every character and say, "Oh come on, that's so implausible" quite a few times, yet still find myself riveted enough that I barely check the time or pause the movie to dash to my desk to take a little break to browse vintage dresses on eBay and Etsy. (But come on. Really. Does anyone know Morse code anymore, especially anyone under the age of 80?)
Oyyyy. I intensely dislike the ubiquitous "introvert" thing that's run rampant on Facebook in the past few years. (Take this quiz! Do you need three days to "decompress" after being out and about? Ding! At parties, do you seek out the company of a bowl of cashews and a cat or dog rather than revelers? Ding!) People who have been in my company offline know I'm exceedingly outgoing to the point of cringingly embarrassing others around me. I'll talk to everyone and anyone who will listen and even those who won't. Trees, rocks, dogs, discarded rubber bands, lettuce. And people.
I rarely have the patience to read anything this lengthy* online. Usually I read the first few paragraphs, scroll down page after page to see how long the piece is, am discouraged by ads flailing to distract me in my peripheral vision, and start daydreaming about dashing to my favorite bodega for a can of TaB. But this held me utterly transfixed and more determined than ever to traipse and stomp, strut and stumble all around the streets of the city that has held me willingly captive for almost 20 years in a vintage ensemble that serves as my cocoon.
I decided it was time to rearrange the "living room" area and started heaving the sofa and long red Parsons table and everything else. One of the slider things on one of the sofa's squat legs is long-gone, so of course this meant quite a bit of struggle. Midway through, I realized the configuration is much better the way it has been for the past few years and heaved/pulled everything back into place. It wasn't a total waste, though, because I finally vacuumed underneath the sofa, which I cringe to confess is a rarity. (Hello, dead cockroaches. Hey, it's NYC.)
I can't believe how much hair my friend lopped in September 2017, mere days before I was to fly to Indianapolis for one of my best friends' funerals and stand in front of people to deliver a eulogy. As if I wasn't distraught and devastated enough, I had to face not just my own city but another one as well with hair that made me look not just like Moe Howard's sister but Mr. Howard himself. Any time I lament that that friend no longer cuts my hair (in my home!), I summon the memory. (Or is that the moe-mory?)
If you have a problem with any man, politician or otherwise, kissing his husband or same-sex significant other, in public or in private, and you don't know how to explain to your kid, your aunt, or yourself why they're kissing, you need to face yourself in the bathroom mirror, slap both your actual dopey face and the imbecilic reflection facing you and ask yourself a much more important question that will better serve not just you as an individual but the world at large: Why am I such a clueless, close-minded cretin and why should this even be a concern?
Whatever Democrat wins the primary, vote for that person. Even if you think that person is egregiously deficient. Even if that person was at the bottom of your list and you'd rather "die" than vote for him or her. Even if that person is three little kids stacked on each other's shoulders underneath a long trench coat a la Vincent Adultman, who woos Princess Carolyn on BoJack Horseman. Because NO ONE is worse than this shtick dreck who's been fucking over the planet in general and the nation in particular. And if you don't vote, you're worse than he is.
Twelve years ago today my enormous dog left this world. I see him in every German Shepherd I see, and as those guys smile up at me, I tell myself they've got a direct link to Taxi and are conduits relaying my love to him. (I'm sure I've written something similar before.) As corny as it is, I wish there really was a "rainbow bridge" and that he was on the other side with his dad, the best human friend I've ever had, and the two of them are watching over me. But only when I'm not doing something unspeakable.
Guess what? I still haven't gone to my storage space to see "what's what", still anxious when I think about it, even though there's no reason to be, still dreading going there, even though there's nothing to dread and no one's pressuring me to do it. You'd think I'd look forward to rediscovering some stuff I haven't worn in ages. But no, instead I allow my stomach to lurch into knots at the mere thought. I resent that my newer space doesn't have the shelves and rack that the old one did and dread having to open the "wardrobe" box.
I'm overdue for a multi-part New York afternoon. I pull on a snappy skirt suit whose ILGWU label places it somewhere between 1964 and 1973, zip on navy blue vinyl gogo boots, slip into a belted camel coat, and hang a navy Lou Taylor bag from my shoulder, and strut across town to the Society of Illustrators for an fashion illustration exhibit, followed by lunch at the counter of Neil's Coffee Shop, then a snappy walk across Central Park to CPW to catch the train down to the West Village for a jaunt with my gayhusband. What a perfect tonic.
I just don't care to "dig too deep" into anything. For now I'm fine with surface, with skipping the lightest of rocks into the pond, barely skipping over the water, and when finally sinking into it, doing so with an imperceptible "plk" because even a standard "plunk" is too much. So we laugh until our grins threaten to slice the bottom third of our heads from the top two-thirds (weren't we taught in art class to divide the head into thirds?), throw those same heads back in the guffaw or forward with chin in chest, shoulders heaving with teary-eyed glee.
You knew you weren't the first person I'd gone to Paris with, that I'd been there several times with another, but you claimed it was ours anyway, and after we broke up, and my new boyfriend wanted to go somewhere lovely, you said, "Anywhere but Paris." He and I never went, but Paris would've been wasted on him. All that you and I treasured about that enchanting city would have made no impression on him. He never would've understand the thrill of that shop where you insisted on buying me that sweater we both knew cost way too many francs.
He's in Greece and sends me a photo of himself near the Acropolis, and I think it's similar to a photo my then-boyfriend took of me about 30 years ago on our first "overseas" trip together (the first of many!), which I jokingly referred to as "just a pile of rocks" when shuffling through the photos with my sister. Back in the days before email, Instagram, Facebook, and even digital cameras. I'm thrilled that I can see the photo of him almost in "real time" but still miss the thrill of having to wait for an image on actual paper.
Two of my favorite things I've made in the kitchen are from a blog called Nora Cooks: Blueberry scones ("with real lemon zest!" I say when people ask what kind) and butter tofu. I have no idea why the word "butter" is used. It's an Indian dish I've never had, so I don't know what it tastes like from a restaurant, but if it's anything like what I've made, I've been missing out for years. Which is why I'm apparently making up for lost time and one week I think I made this three times and still couldn't get enough.
Not only is Frank S. ten minutes late for his session, but he comes to my office eating something out of a brown bag that is more oil stain than dry paper. It smells vaguely of french fries, one of my favorite smells, but I cannot enjoy it since he's been admonished every week for the past three months he's been coming here not to bring any food, especially that with an odor, and that I won't provide "a safe space" for it in the refrigerator or allow him to place it, no matter how carefully, in the umbrella stand.
This MAGA-hat-gluing is repugnant on so many levels. You want to wear that garbage on your own head to keep whatever few brain cells you have from spilling onto your shirt? Fine. Have at it. Glue it, don't glue it, walk around looking like an enormous ignorant jackass. But to do this to an animal, with whatever type of glue it is -- permanent, not permanent, hard to remove, easy to remove, whatever -- is utterly disgusting. I would say whoever did this is a fucking birdbrain, but that would be massively insulting to the pigeons and all other birds.
I'm holding two packages of tofu and pause in the cookie aisle, for a little balance, I suppose. As always, I'm just looking. I can't remember the last time I bought cookies other than these Paul Newman (?) chocolate animal cracker type things "just to see" because I had mentioned them to a friend. I smile ridiculously at myself, almost kind of smug because I know I have everything I need to make superior cookies at home whose ingredients I can monitor and they're going to taste better than anything prepackaged. And that my apartment is going to smell incredible.
I gaze at cookies in Fairway but don't buy, because ain't no better cookies goin' these days than those I'm making at home, and if I want some today, I still have two of the largest size of chocolate-chip- walnuts in the freezer and they can be in and out of the oven in about 13 minutes.
I'm trying to "good", though, and letting them stay frozen for longer than just a day. I mean, what's the point of freezing them if I'm not going to save them for occasional "Oh yeah! I have cookie dough in the freezer!" treats?
Every time I see that smug unctuous sludge Harvey Weinstein with his walker, I think of Mr. Duggan, the driver of a car involved in a fender-bender with Carol Brady, who claims the accident was her fault, exaggerates his damages, and in court appears in a big neck brace that everyone, including Cindy, knows is a sham worthy of every eye-roll it garners. Someone needs to do something equivalent to tossing a weighty attaché case onto the floor, a la Mike Brady, to reveal what we already know, that it's a prop to elicit sympathy and make him appear quasi-human.
I hate the 25th of any month. This month is no exception. All I can say is this ad nauseam: I miss you more than words can say. I miss you more than words can say. I miss you more than words can say. I miss you more than words can say. I miss you more than words can say. I miss you more than words can say. I miss you more than words can say. I miss you more than words can say. I miss you more than words can say. I miss you more than words can say.
I've found my "holy grail" chocolate chip cookie recipe, which believe it or not is taken from a gluten-free recipe I used for one of my best friends for her birthday. It came out fantastic with a "one-to-one" gluten-free blend, even better than with regular all-purpose flour, but perhaps the best with white whole wheat. The next variation/slight tweak, "just to see", will be dark brown sugar instead of light, for what I hope is a slightly caramel-y "note". At some point I'll even so bold as to use pecans instead of walnuts! Or maybe macadamias if I'm feeling fancy.
The so-called President is worthless sack of skin and breath, but I hope he's right about one thing: That the coronavirus will just "go away" by April. Not because I have any REAL fear of getting it (knock wood, of course) but because I want people to stop talking about it and writing about it and flooding Facebook with posts about it. Still, any time someone doesn't cough into his elbow or into a tissue or something and just lets loose into the air, I want to shake him (while wearing surgical gloves) and ask, "Don't you care at all???!"
My fingers look like I've been shucking oysters or clams or whatever shelled thing gets shucked. (Just typing that makes me sad, of course, not because of my fingers' condition but because I don't want to harm any animal ever.) Years ago I'd get a manicure every few weeks and a polish change in the in-between weeks. That has fallen so far by the wayside that's it not even on the map anymore. I have to get back into at least a manicure once a month, and I can "touch it up" at home. (Definitely this month's most boring entry.)
I tear open the eBay package containing the fabulous aqua/green shoes with the reflective/mirrored gold heel ("Endora") and am crestfallen to find aqua Vans. Sneakers!?
Is this the worst "bait and switch" in the history of eBay, or did the seller send the wrong item from her bin labeled AQUA? Correspondence with her reveals that she sent my shoes to the buyer of the Vans and vice-versa. She sends each of us a USPS label to send each other our proper shoes. I wonder if that person was as "Good god no" as I was upon tearing open her package.
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