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Yes, we all have pandemic fatigue, but we just have to follow the protocol and, while realizing life isn't "normal" right now, get on with living. My friend Z wants to get together for lunch, outdoors, something I have yet to do either alone or otherwise. But I do want to see him because I adore him and it'd give me an opportunity to wear real clothes and feel quasi-human.
I've taken food away less than a handful of times, perhaps three falafel platters from the Kasbah cart near the Beacon Theater and once two knishes from Murray's Sturgeon Shop.
These motherfuckers are talking all over each other, like it's a chat over coffee at Starbucks (pre-COVID, natch). They think it's cute, and they're laughing like they're all buddies rather than lawyers who no doubt want to claw each other's faces off and tear the deponent apart like they would crack a soft-shell crab at a fucking bonfire shindig at one of their summer homes. I tell myself that the more they talk over each other, the more pages the transcript will be, which means I get more money. Still, I want to punch each one individually in the larynx.
Everyone wears a mask here on the Upper West Side. We're all outside, but we're all masked. With very few exceptions. And even some of those I can excuse, since we're outside. I would hate to live somewhere that that's not the case and know my head would explode if I were to witness it. The mere sight of people not wearing them, in online images, is enough to make me detest the species even more than I already have for oh so many decades, or at least those members of it who apparently feel they're above it all. Imbeciles.
My favorite mask company just released several new ones, and I'm itching to buy more, but the thing is, of those I already have (nine), I've only worn them a handful of times because I'm just not out and about enough except for running, when I wear a gaiter and not a mask. The new textiles/patterns made me gasp and instantly obsess, but I must keep my wits about me and wear the ones I already have. Something this small could actually make me want to dress in real clothes, my groovy vintage, and take a stroll around the city.
Is there a definitive pronunciation of "electoral"? Or is this like (pause to cringe a li'l) "clitoris" and it's different depending on whose tongue it rolls off of?
Why is toast sometimes so appealing even if I'm not sick and one of the only options people tend to recommend?
Dark hair streaked with silver looks so damned sexy on Anne Bancroft, but as it seems my own is headed in that direction, I feel like a fucking hag.
I'm vacillating between wanting to wear only "athleisure" with Doc Martins and dress to the elevens in full vintage grooviness.
For several weeks, I was a bit obsessed with Just Egg. At first it was the folded variety, individual servings wrapped in cellophane that could just be popped into the microwave or the toaster, the latter of which I didn't think made much sense and might have required cleaning of the toaster that I didn't want to even risk. Then it was the liquid, which I made into omelets (for which I consulted a YouTube tutorial and buy a special pan). Both tasted quite good, but truly, making the omelets was more fun (the flipping in particular!) than eating them.
I still need to visit my Manhattan Mini Storage space since I had its location changed within the facility in October 2018. It doesn't have shelves and a clothing rod like the other one, but it's a lot less expensive. But I haven't ever accessed it on my own, only "supervised" as the fellas who work there transferred my stuff from one space to another (and like an idiot, I neglected to tip them), so of course I'm nervous that I have forgotten the combination to the lock I supplied, even though I'm almost sure I know what it is.
Confession: I'M not a fan of the phenomenon of pumpkin spice. I barely even like pumpkin pie. (I will tolerate it but not swoon.) The only reason you'll ever find a can of pumpkin in my house (if you're so bold as to storm my place and start tossing it) (hint: I don't store it in the medicine cabinet!) is if I plan to make a chocolate chip walnut pumpkin Bundt cake or mini-Bundts. Otherwise, you can keep your pumpkin and its spices, especially if it's in a hot drink, where the mere thought of those flavors makes me queasy.
I'm glad I got my purple Doc Martens almost a decade ago, because the vegan offerings now do nothing for me. The oxblood sort of color makes my blood run cold for some reason. Yes, the purple look like eggplants, but that's fine. I'm also glad I have the gray fabric pair and the blue velvet, although I've only worn the latter once. As I type this, I am making a mental note to find the in the closet and wear them sometime soon, on the rare occasion that I leave the house for something other than my near-daily run.
A bit of panic when for some reason all of my Word documents were 14 inches wide and all new documents were being created in that format. Somehow I managed to get it back to normal with only a small amount of fuss, but even that bit was too much, given that I'm stressed as fuck with this election results stuff (typing this entry on 11/5, taking full advantage of the 100 Words grace period), and doing anything other than watching MSNBC at my desk on one monitor while monitoring/refreshing Twitter on the other is just too much to ask.
Today is my brother's 59th birthday. It seems unfathomable that next year he'll be 60, when in my mind he's still 13 or 22 or maybe 40, but nowhere near 60. (Frankly, even 40 is stretching it.) When we were 13, he told me he was too old for this one "character" we used to do and that he was going to stop doing it, and I was so sad because I loved indulging it and playing along with my own character. But now, 46 years later, we're still doing it, and it makes me so stupidly giddy. Happy birthday!
Guys, you don't have to call this molten mass of lumpy lava "President". You don't even have to call him "Mr." You can just use his last name, which by itself sounds like a curse, and can be spit out like a curse, because that would be more fitting. He doesn't deserve the respect conferred by the title and office of President or the politeness of "Mr."
You also don't have to pay this jackass any attention once he's scraped from the White House like fresh dog shit from the sole of your shoe.
Just let it end already. Enough.
I've been glued to MSNBC since election night (I'm writing on 11/5), leaving only to run for an hour or work a little. Today I may mute it and keep it on my secondary monitor while working because yesterday I only did about an hour. I know myself, though, and know that any time I spent not working now I'll definitely make up for by killing myself on other days. In this instance, it will probably be the weekend, but really, does it make any difference? When the weekend approaches, I get a little excited, and then realize it doesn't.
I've submitted the loan forgiveness application for my PPP loan, so that small burden, which I elevated to a daily fret-fest, is over. Now we wait. And by "we", of course I mean me, or "I", if you want to be grammatically correct, and of course by you I also mean "I".
PPP! Me! I! You! Whatever. Let's just get the decision so I can move on and put that fucking fret behind me so others can take its place. (Not really. I don't want anything to take its place. I need to stop worrying. This shit is fucking toxic.)
I need to pay close attention when P cuts my hair, to make sure she's actually doing something other than taking a little off the length. I exclaim how good it looks, but later I realize that accolade owes a lot to the blowout, which of course I can never recreate at home (as is the historical precedent with 100% of everyone everywhere). Fortunately, though, P is so lovely that when I told her a week after the cut that I needed more done, she scheduled me for a complimentary cut and blow-dry for November. I will be vigilant then!
I feel like I need to point out to anyone who saw my most recent Facebook video that I fucked up with my eyebrow pencil and looked like a toddler who went nuts with Mommy's makeup, just in case they noticed and didn't think I did. But in case they didn't, I don't want to draw attention to it. Do I dare admit I filled in my left eyebrow too quickly before leaving for my run, with a new shade that was obviously a huge mistake? (Note to self: Remember. Any hint of red in brown makes you look insane.)
I'm thrilled that whatever knee problems I was experiencing (thanks to my own predictable overzealousness) are mostly gone and I'm able to run more than 1.25 miles without feeling like I want to just limp home and soak in epsom salts (even though I've never done that and don't even know what it does). I felt particularly victorious when started venturing south beyond what I consider my "comfort zone" or "home" and even more triumphant when I made it down to Battery Park without event. Granted, natch, I'm no speed demon, but I never am even on my best days.
As much as I miss wearing my groovy vintage outfits, right now it makes more sense to just do "athleisure" because it jives better with anything that I'll be doing outdoors for the duration of this horrifying pandemic. If I need to run errands, chances are I'm literally running them, which means running shoes, worn only with tights/leggings and accompanying top/jacket. I'm not taking public transportation without a vaccine, so my adorable vintage shoes, suitable for simple local walking, won't be as practical. And I won't be indoors anywhere where anyone can get the "full effect" of an ensemble. Sigh.
I should've known that running another equivalent of a half marathon without advance planning or "warning" (to myself) was going to catch up with me, especially since I didn't even do anything afterward to accommodate the extra stress on the body like, oh, say, stretch. But then again, I rarely, if ever, stretch, so what did I expect. And even as I type that, I'm stretching the truth, because I never stretch after a run. I must redeem myself, though, by saying that I do warm up before one, by walking for about five minutes while the GPS kicks in.
Random, in no particular order:
1. You couldn't pay me to pretend to give a flying motherfuck about Rush Limbaugh, not even if the payment was a dollar for every tear he's shedding on his own behalf.
2. "Emily in Paris" is absolute merde. I only watched the second episode to see if I'd hate it any less than the first. I will not watch beyond that. I don't hate myself that much.
3. Tiffany seems to have inherited the "dance" gene from her putrid pop. Their "moves" look like they're taking a huge trump in their pants. Begone, fuckers.
I just ordered a pair of sunglasses for running, given that my runs aren't "skewing" predawn anymore and have even happened around noon, when the sun is actually awake and doing its thing. I have never been a fan of sunglasses on me, as much as I love how they look on a lot of other people and appreciate the "mystique", but maybe it's time for me to get the fuck over that. I'm sure that once they arrive and, hopefully, I keep them, I'll think everyone will know I'm new to them and judge me, not to my benefit.
Running 6-1/2 miles directly into cold, hard, face-slapping, hair-whipping, hand-reddening (why did I leave home without gloves?) wind along the Hudson was a more pleasant sensation than this hair-pulling, heart-racing, stomach-churning motherfucking anxiety. I need this over, damn it. I'm hopeful about the results, and I don't believe in "jinxes", so I've said it aloud.
Hey, if I could "manifest" meeting Linda Rodin this morning by thinking about her about half an hour beforehand, and have that go as well as it did, who's to say?
Still, I don't want to say it TOO loud(ly). Oy. Enough. Come on, man.
This morning I finally had the pleasure of running into one of my fashion "icons", one of my favorite "gray goddesses", the stunning Linda Rodin, with her adorable gray miniature poodle, Winks, while walking home after my run to Battery Park. Although Linda wasn't completely "turned out" as she appears on Instagram (and neither was I! Heehaw!), she was still cute as hell (as was Winks, of course), and completely down to earth, what I consider "normal" (and not just because she laughed at my ridiculousness), and more wonderful than I'd imagined she would be. I'll be giddy for days.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, countrywoman, Country Crock, crocodiles, alligators, cool cats and krazy kidz, freaks, motherfuckers, and so on. Thank you kindly for the birthday greetings, here, Instagram or Twitter or elsewhere on social media, maybe even a long-forgotten Live Journal or Quora account, in email, text, WhatsApp, Marco Polo, and the actual telephone. I'm pretty sure I thanked each of you individually here on Facebook, but if not, it was an oversight. If you took the time to remember me, it's the absolute least I can do to respond in kind. A mere "like" doesn't cut it in my book.
I think it's safe to say I'm jealous and/or envious of their relationship as depicted not just from the Banana Republic commercial but from what I've seen of it online, especially on Instagram. He's the ex-husband of a friend (they're still good friends) and I met him once in real life several years ago when I rode my bike to the East Village to pick up bread he made me. His lady now, in the aforesaid relationship, is an ex-model but not a cheesy one, pretty in a "non-conventional" way. I want to hate them both so much but can't.
Birthday Highlights: I literally ran to the David Rubenstein Atrium at Lincoln Center and dropped my ballot in the box rather than wait in line in the chilly-ish drizzle I was in and out in five seconds, complete with sticker, which I lost along the way but which I fortunately got a photo of first. I later ran, again, up to Cafe Viva on Broadway to pick up vegan pizza and stromboli, and ate it at home. It was not nearly as satisfying as voting, though. I just need the election to be done, resulting in the ONLY good outcome.
Riverside Park South is now open, at the street level above the walks and paths and other stuff along the actual river, and as the kidz say, I AM HERE FOR IT. Recently a friend had alerted me to its opening, so I checked it out this morning, not expecting as much as there was. The last time I'd run along that stretch, I saw a very small fraction of what was being done, so this was a marvelous surprise. This is why I can't really say that I hate EVERYTHING new. I'm happy it's here, and I welcome it.
I tried twice in one day to make Burmese "tofu" out of chickpea flour, water, turmeric, and salt (and on the second attempt, a little garlic), and both times failed. I don't get the raves for the recipes at all and am disappointed that I won't have the tofu alternative I had thought this would be, which would have saved me the cost of so much tofu and would have given me something new to "play" with in recipes. But when I tried to simply pan-fry this stuff, it was a raging disappointment. Should I try a third "charm" time?
If you're planning on grocery delivery via Amazon or Whole Foods today or tomorrow, at least here in NYC, you're probably out of luck. I managed to get a two-hour slot from Amazon with free delivery between 9 p.m. and 11 p.m., and had to do without a few things I really wanted because the selection, as always, isn't as good as Whole Foods (but they *do* have a terrific price on chocolate almond milk!). They're charging up to $9.99 for delivery tomorrow, because clearly no one wants to be out and about unless it's imperative, like, say, to vote.
I can't sprout new hands fast enough to gnaw off all the nails between now and Wednesday. Jesus Mother of fucking fuck, let's get this jive bullshit over with already, fire this florid-faced fascist and his crusty cronies, put a man and woman in the White House who actually give a shit about people, and let these red-hatted, hateful cult cretins spin like dipshit dervishes until they're even redder in the face. I'm sick of thinking about it, I'm sick of my heart rate spiking at the mere thought of what's happening to this country. I want our life back.
I had to get a last run in for October so it was a lean month insofar as miles went, compared to others, thanks to the injury that I'm sure arose from doing too many miles in one day a few times, unnecessary for anything except ego or pride or whatever compelled me to do the equivalent of a half marathon. My So I did it tonight, on Halloween, after sundown, in Riverside Park. Some little kids and moms were frolicking on the part I think of as a boulevard, and I wanted to think they were adorable but failed.
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