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I need this month to pass quickly and September and October too, so we can get to the business of November, the election, and HOPEFULLY celebrating when we learn that this hideous, horrific reign of absolute terror is coming to an end. And then I need it to be January, so the new President can be sworn in and we can all breathe again and not feel like we're on the verge of panic attacks. It will be nice to wake up every morning knowing that an actual adult is in charge. Good riddance to the cheap melted candle already.
I started to write about how I'm sick of the physical maladies that come and go, but then I realized I sounded like an old fucking codger, the kind who delights in talking loudly on the bus to a companion about every little last goddamned thing. An old boyfriend from the '80s told me his ex-girlfriend's mother used to say to her husband ('s plumber's daughter's cousin's landscaper), "Asher, my arm has a pain." I don't want to be like that. I push through it all, tending to it minimally but not aggravating it. And then it's gone. The end.
The last time I ran outside with any regularity was in 1995/1996 or so, in Philadelphia, when I would either do it in the early morning or in the evening coinciding with sundown, dressed all in black like a ninja. I think the longest distance I ran was from my place to that of some shmoe I was dating who lived in Fairmount, who didn't even offer me a glass of water when I finally arrived after dark. I should have turned around and run back home immediately. I should've stuck with the running and not stuck with the schmuck.
The alarm on my Garmin goes off at 4:30. Alexa goes off at 4:35, the same time the coffeemaker starts. The lamp would turn on at 4:30 too if could get it to connect to WiFi now that I have a new modem/router, something I must research, because it's a part of my WAKE THE FUCK UP routine that I miss. If I "snooze", it's on the watch, rarely Alexa, because even mumbling "Alexa, snooze" seems like too much effort at 04:30:02. If I sleep past 6 a.m., even on weekends, I feel like it may as well be noon.
I've never been one to rely on vitamins or supplements or to take any medication, regardless of how simple, like aspirin, unless I absolutely had to. However, I dug the Vicodin I was prescribed when I had excruciating shingles in 2008. Fortunately my desire to not become a drug addict was stronger than my desire for the sweet relief it afforded. This, too, is why I never sought Ecstasy after the few times it was given to me by a certain friend. Now I take one iron pill and one iron-containing multivitamin a morning and feel like that's really radical.
He's been married forever and has two kids and he uses the "we" when telling me about a trip they took somewhere, a camping sort of thing or something else that made me immediately think of a damp log cabin with shoddy wiring, barely running water, and nothing to do but sit around wishing you were anywhere but there.
So of course I'm a little jealous of the "we" even though he and I haven't been a "we" for 30 years. But then I think, ugh, would I really have wanted to marry a guy who vacationed in, what, Appalachia?
I tell myself the construction worker who stands by the side of the road just beyond the overpass/underpass (which one is it?) anticipates my passing as I head south and my re-passing when I head north, and not just in one morning's run but every morning. He takes note of the style of my workout tops and appreciates their color and how they coordinate well with my running shoes. And he can certainly tell I'm GORGEOUS even though my face covering obscures half my face. (Meanwhile, when I glance his way , he pretends not to recognize me. The nerve!)
4:45 a.m. Get up and feed a one-eyed cat.
4:50 a.m. Quaff coffee (quaffee).
5:05 a.m. Rebuke myself for wearing old (September 2019) running shoes yesterday that aren't suitable for running anymore, especially in the rain. Decide leg twinge is not "terminal" or a sign of COVID-19.
5:45 a.m. Decide (for now) not to run today.
6:00 a.m. Decide against taking laundry to laundry place. Consider Monday as alternative.
6:15 a.m. Renege on decision not to run today. 'See how I feel later" a/k/a regroup at noon-ish.
7:00 a.m. until TBD: Binge Season 4 of "Insecure" on HBO.
Some of you better want to see me from a VERY SAFE DISTANCE once the weather gets cooler and I want to leave the apartment for more than early morning runs, because I've amassed quite a collection of gorgeous masks to coordinate with my outfits and they, like the outfits themselves, are clamoring to be seen. I've only been in a complete ensemble once since the lockdown, and even though it was just to go to the UPS store, it felt great. I miss that version of myself even more than I miss any of you (brutal truth, kidz).
I keep starting movies that I don't finish, some I've seen before, others that I start and think I "should" like so I continue to watch even as I'm looking at my watch hoping they're just get on with it already, some I'm trying before the month of streaming service expires. I watched the first ten minutes or so of Downton Abbey, the entire time preoccupied because I wanted a series finale recap to bring me up to speed but also realizing that maybe too much time has passed for me to even care if Mary is married or not.
As much as I'm dreading the bill from the emergency room, I'm glad I hadn't called an ambulance and walked down with BP instead. The mere fact that I was able not only to coordinate my mask to my shoes and to joke about it but to walk at a good pace, without event, should have had me reconsidering the destination itself and rerouting me and BP somewhere else. Through it all, including the three and half hours at the hospital, BP proved himself not just to be a fantastic friend but my favorite new person in quite some time.
Good for Richard Goodstein, the gentleman who called out Whatever-ucker Carlson for mispronouncing "Kamala"! He's not a journalist, but I'd love to see those who *are* show that same magnificent tenacity when questioning the so-called President.
The petulant, red-faced brat acted like it was an honest error, but who the hell is he kidding. He's not new to the game and neither is Kamala Harris. It was on purpose, disrespectful as hell, and he knows it.
I had a boyfriend whose snippy mother always misspelled my name. Although corrected, she continued to do it anyway. She, too, was a mothertucker.
White men in shitty golf shirts need to calm their fucking tits and stop shouting into the universe about everything and anything. They need to check that shit posthaste, immediately, and pronto, whichever comes first.
For a while in the early '90s, in Center City Philadelphia, I temped for more lawyers than I can remember. One of them, Mr. S., scolded me at my workstation in front of a client for no clear reason, apparently "for show", to puff himself up as the big important man who could put down the subordinate little lady.
He picked the wrong little lady.
I don't remember what I said in return, but I certainly didn't take it from him and refuted whatever he trued to heap on me. Later that day, when he was alone in his office, I went in, stood in front of his desk and said, calmly, "No one talks to me the way you did. You're not my father. And if you were, I wouldn't take that from him either."
He was gobsmacked, but at least he listened, apologized, and admitted he was wrong and it wouldn't happen again. And it didn't.
There's a lesson in there somewhere. Maybe.
I just realized recently that I haven't had fries since before the pandemic. I am so tempted to order a from Utopia, the diner a few blocks away, not just because I want to keep an old establishment in business (it's been around since 1980 or so, so of course that's part of it) but because I want the only thing I've ever ordered there in person, the veggie burger deluxe, which comes with fries and two onion rings. But would it lose something in translation for delivery or pickup? Do I dare risk disappointment? What's a girl to do?
Oh, "John Cusack". You don't ordinarily chitchat with your fans, but you're taking time out of your busy day to appreciate your special fans, and I am one of them! I can call you "John," you say. So now I'm not just a special fan but this much closer to becoming Mrs. John Cusack. I'm doodling my married name on my denim-canvas-covered loose-leaf notebook alongside "Pink Floyd"! And now, you're willing to give me your WhatsApp information, and when I decline to reciprocate, you mention my "insecurities"! Am I seeing shades of condescension and bullying in our nascent relationship, John?
Three cute pair of running shoes, a few new swingy workout tops, several new sports bras, and two more pair of running/workout tights. All this fabulous bounty for less than the cost of two months of Equinox membership. I don't miss seeing that iceberg-size (for me at least) chunk of change chewed out of my checking account each month and miss very little about the gym itself. Part of the fun was socializing with a handful of great people, but now that'd be curtailed, so fuck it. I can think of better ways to spend that nearly $3,000 a year.
A certain jerkoff in a bad blue suit and lifts in his shitty shoes is having a hate rally in Scranton today, claiming Joe Biden "abandoned" the city years ago. Joe Biden's family left Scranton when he was 10 YEARS OLD because his dad had lost his job and had to find work to support his family. I cannot wait for January 2021 when this blithering bilious imbecile loses his job and has to go back to the "work" for which he is magnificently and undeniably qualified: Destroying every ill-conceived business venture he touches with those puny pink baby hands.
Happy birthday to my favorite person in the world. I miss you every goddamned day, beyond measure, beyond description, beyond comprehension. We would be having lunch or dinner to celebrate, low key, just the two of us, the way we both prefer, and you'd insist I take a cab home even if I could get home quicker by walking. If not for the pandemic horror, I may have taken myself out to celebrate alone, with you across the table from me in spirit, and admonished myself the entire time not to lose my shit in public. I'll love you forever.
This afternoon, without warning, the "Classic" Facebook has disappeared (with a notice that it's going away for good sometime soon) and now, with the latest incarnation, at least on the computer, my page looks like a disconcerting hybrid of Highlights for Kids, Readers Digest, and a stack of SRA cards circa 1971. Any minute I'm expecting Goofus and Gallant (Google it, youngsters) to appear in the margins to mock me (well, at least Goofus would; Gallant would be more genteel) as I try to pretend this doesn't bother me while I quietly (ahem) seethe. What the bloody fucking hell, guys?
My latest obsession is my new Garmin Forerunner 245, which I substituted for the 235 I'd originally bought and used only once and to which I apologized profusely when I returned it to get the 245. The 245 would arrive in two days, so I could have still used the 235 until then, but I knew that would make me sadder than if I didn't use it again at all, because I didn't want it to get its hopes up that I was keeping it. Still, the 235 was sobbing inside the Amazon box waiting for its trip to UPS.
My landlord's son-in-law installed a very strong rod in one of my closets after the ancient wooden one collapsed under the weight of my collection of groovy '60s/'70s threads that would best be served by a walk-in closet. This is, however, NYC, so that's not going to happen.
I didn't even hear the old one collapse. Did it happen when I was out running? Did my cat witness the commotion when home alone? Was she alarmed? Were the clothes? They certainly looked confused when I opened the door and found them all slid down toward the center, clamoring to breath.
Equinox is reopening in the beginning of September, but the manager gave me two complimentary months of "freeze", until 2 November. Ordinarily they charge $30 per month to freeze your account, which is absolute bullshit, for a maximum of three months a year.
I'm almost positive I won't be returning and will just cancel my membership. Is it really worth $238 a month to just do weights? I won't have any desire to use the treadmill anymore now that I've become quite enamored of outdoor running. But maybe on stormy/freezing days?
And then, of course, is it even SAFE now?
Never mind the usual deal breakers like he can't hunt or fish; he must love dogs; he can't smoke cigarettes; he can't be out of shape; he can't be a Tr*mp supporter; he can't be homophobic or racist; he can't use "u" for "you" even in texts; he says "potty mouth" and never says "fuck; he can't chew gum as a habit; and of course many others. If I ever decided to date again, I could never see someone who didn't know who Stanley Roper is, only knows ABBA from "Mamma Mia", and never indulges in cookies because of "carbs".
How the FUCK can anyone justify supporting this bilious bilge bag? This is a 100% rhetorical question. I truly don't want anyone explaining it to me, including, but not limited to, mansplaining, womansplaining, nonbinarysplaining, and Ricky Ricardo 'splaining. I don't want a TikTok of your dog wearing a lab(rador)(lol!) coat, thick-rimmed black glasses, and a tie, wielding a pointer in his paw in front of a white-, green-, or blackboard on which scientific formulas or football-like plays are scrawled. I just want anyone who STILL thinks he's not only the right choice but ANY choice at all to go away.
Toward the end of this morning's run, I met, in this order:
1. Lila, 7-1/2 months, German Shepherd, sitting atop a hill looking regal. Her dad wore a mask. He did not wear a wedding band. She greeted me briefly as Dad and I chatted.
2. Addison, 7 years, Great Dane, black and white, looking like a lean cow. I didn't get to smoosh him as Mom and I chatted.
3. Butch, 6 months, English Bulldog, medium brown and white. I smooshed him as his sensational auburn-haired Mom and I chatted. I may be in love (with both).
Picking pumpkins, apples, berries, corn, or any fruit/vegetable from an outdoor site that isn't a roadside stand where the stuff's already been picked by the farms/sources from whence (!)it came is something I have zero desire to experience but know I would not enjoy in the least. Say we were on a road trip and saw a sign saying FRESH PEACHES with, say, an arrow, and it led to a friendly-lookin' person sitting at a table/stand with those fresh peaches in baskets or whatnot, I'd insist we pull over and get some. Now, THAT would thrill me to the gills.
I could bore anyone to tears with talk of my running "career" since I started leaving the house on 1 June after my ten-week self-imposed lockdown that didn't even have me leaving the house to put something in the mailbox not even a block up the street. Now that I'm running every morning, I can't believe I went an entire 70 days without exercise. I may have bored people to tears back then too, talking about my quarantine and my target date of finally leaving. One of those bored people may have even been me. And now, boring 100 Words.
1. I ran this morning, and toward the end, met/smooshed a just-groomed four-month-old Goldendoodle named Juniper out for a walk with her dad.
2. I made (and devoured like a dog) chocolate chip waffles.
3. I have the opening credits of "When Harry Met Sally" on pause on TV via CBS All Access, because I will NEVER tire of seeing NYC on film even though I've lived here for almost 20 years.
4. New running shoes are arriving today via FedEx.
5. I need it to rain, preferably a downpour complete with thunder, to make this all extra-perfect.
Hey, kidz. I ran seven miles early this morning (totally bragging) and am busy with work as we speak (partially bragging), so I may not have time to make myself something sensational to eat today to make up for all the calories I've already burned (bragging and being a total dick about it), so if someone makes this and brings it to me, I'll gladly buzz that person in to the Sanford and Son-like vestibule of my building, greet them with grossly perky albeit genuine enthusiasm and gratitude, and remember them in my "prayers" tonight even though I'm an atheist. (https://www.eatfigsnotpigs.com/sticky-baked-korean-bbq-tofu-bites-with-gochujang-ranch/)
Sometimes when I run in a certain stretch of Riverside Park, the marvelous extra-wide two-part "avenue" that runs from 79th to 91st (ending at the large flower garden that appears at the end of "You've Got Mail"), to amuse myself I count the lampposts I pass, usually in groups of ten. Often I greet each one aloud.
On a recent run, as I passed the twelfth and thirteenth posts, I said, aloud, "Hello 12, Hello 13," and then sang, "Hello Love," which made me cackle a bit. I'm sure I don't have to tell any of my musical-theater-loving friends why.
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