REPORT A PROBLEM
My big excitement is renewing my subscription to SlingTV beyond the first month and being grandfathered into the $30 price until, I think, it's increased to $35 in the summer. This, along with resumption of CBS All Access for a month and renewal of Hulu (both commercial-free), is what passes for thrills these days. CBS is treading on water, though, because I'm not as enchanted with Colbert anymore (even though I still dig him), but I still suffer from "FOMO", as the kidz say, if I don't at keep up with his monologues if not the often 'feh" musical acts.
The band leader, two of his friends, and I are standing in a little circle in Riverside Park, chatting and laughing behind our masks, and I really wish we could remove them so I can fully appreciate the breadth of our grins and each other's teeth. I know we have to do this, and I'm fully onboard for as long as it takes, but man oh man, how I want to be able to see the entirety of people's faces, even their noses, which I often stare at because I'm highly amused at the variety of snouts inhabiting our species.
Bella Bornstein. Lori something from Holland, Pennsylvania. The hot soccer player named Scott, I think, from BCCC, with the earring and longish hair, who looked like he should have an accent but didn't. Randy Russell. John Randolph. Ron Rita. Tom Murphy. Ray, who was going to go into the priesthood until he met me. Brian French. Patsy Taggart. Val Smith. John Kramer. Larry Kramer. Jean Shenhorn. Kevin Kolaski.
Where the hell are these people I knew in the '80s, from work, school, and otherwise? And by otherwise, I mean boys I fumbled around with in the dark or the woods.
I'm eager to try the Too Good To Go app. Since recently discovering it, I've been obsessing over the available offers for the 2-mile radius I've chosen but lamenting that most of them require crossing Central Park. I keep considering a trek for a "surprise" bag of bagels for $5.99, which would probably be more stuff than I'd be able to store. I'm probably better off putting on a cute outfit and sashaying up to my beloved Murray's Sturgeon Shop at 89th and Broadway, where bagels are a dollar apiece and I can help keep that business afloat. (Also: knishes!)
People often say to me, "You really tell it like it is!" or this one, which I can't stand: "Wow. Tell me how you *really* feel." And to the latter, I think, "First of all, I don't want to tell you what I'm thinking about *you* right now for saying that, and second, you do *not* want to know how I really feel or what I really feel."
Yes, I do say a lot, passionately and with conviction. But it's what I don't say that I often think would alienate quite a few people who think they truly know me.
"I've never had a desire to conquer the world," Mason says, holding a salt and vinegar potato chip up to the light as if checking a hundred-dollar bill for authenticity. "All I've ever wanted was a job to pay the bills and for some fun, a car that isn't a complete piece of shit, and a small place to live." "And by some fun, you mean potato chips," I say. "Precisely," he says.
Then why does he need to see me, a therapist, I ask. Because people tell him he should want much so more, even though he's perfectly happy.
I'm going out for a walk in the snow in a few minutes, because I just can't bring myself to be the kind of person I can't stand, the one who risks falling and breaking her neck (said in my best Mommy [my mom] voice, which is supremely Jewy even though it doesn't sound like her at all) (I can say "Jewy" because I am a Jewess) or a hip (oy), to demonstrate to the rest of the lazy world just how dedicated she is to her superior physical fitness.
P.S. It's really just an excuse to wear snow boots.
This exchange may have just transpired when I took a brief break from work. (I will neither confirm nor deny).
Me: You were using me as a springboard this morning. A lot.
Lola: And you told me to knock it the fuck off!
Me: It's not something anyone wants.
Lola: You don't care [which she pronounces as "car"] about me.
Me: I car. I do car. But no one wants that.
Lola: Wants what?
Me: No one wants their tits jumped on.
Lola: You don't know that.
Me: Ew. But no.
AND SCENE, as "they" say.
Thirteen days in a row of running. If I do it for three more days, I'll break my former streak of 15 days. This is why you found me doing it yesterday even though I wanted to stay inside, away from the wind that was rattling the windows, making a nuisance in the courtyard, and eventually pushing against me, once outside, like a strong, relentless hand on Riverside.
No one but me knows about my self-competition, unless I post about it on Facebook under the guise of not wanting to show off. Is this what the kidz call a humblebrag?
There is no way in hell I ever believed in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, or God. Never mind that I'm Jewish; the first two are secular anyway. I knew it was all poppycock from the get-go, determined on my own, and never questioned. I knew my parents were the tooth fairy, and I don't even think we couched it that way anyway. I just knew I had an adorable tiny plastic treasure chest with a little lid that lightly snapped shut, into which I would deposit the tooth, and the next day a dollar would appear in its place.
A majority of the bicycle-rack-like barricades in front of Tr*mp's shitty tower on Fifth Avenue is gone and maybe two guards are kinda-sorta-maybe-ish hanging out in front looking like they have somewhere better to be.
I am an extreme anthropomorphist, so although it would be marvelous if he'd lose everything and the building had to be demolished, I'd still be fine with it being given a "blessing" by 100 priests, a "saging" by 50 Wiccans, and a complete fumigation before being repurposed into something else instead. The building itself looks ashamed with the association with the worst President in history.
THRILLING FACEBOOK UPDATES:
To 4 February post: I bought a 10-cup Brita pitcher whose fittings are groovy turquoise. Standard black or light blue don't thrill me. I need style AND substance, bitches. And the water tastes great.
To 6 February post: I did indeed make coffee cake and eat the entire thing in one day, but it wasn't the only thing I ate that day. Originally I only ate two-thirds of the cake and froze the rest but then guessed (correctly!) that cake from the freezer would be fine, just fine, thawed for the 30 seconds of patience I had.
My beautiful T left this world 13 years ago today. To date, I think he's the largest German Shepherd I've ever seen, weighing in at 155 or so. He may have been taller than I am when standing on his handsome hind legs, and I'm certain that had he been able to dance that way, he would have cut quite a rug. I see him in every German Shepherd I pass and I greet him through them, knowing they're all connected and have a cosmic communication system that humans don't have because, as always, dogs are the superior species. Woof.
It's 5 March as I type this (shhh) (catching up on deadline day), and I'm "psyched" because it's supposed to be in the low 60s next Thursday. Ordinarily I don't give a whit (or a shit) about the onset of spring if winter hasn't been particularly aggravating, but now I do because I plan to start going "out and about" more this spring (while taking all necessary COVID precautions, of course) just so I can start wearing my nifty outfits again. Vintage with a mask? If it has to be that way, then so be it. For the time being.
Rush Limbaugh spoke, or, more appropriately, shouted, ill of the living, the dead, and probably even those teetering between life and death. I have absolutely no problem with *anyone* speaking ill of him now that he's gone. To pretend otherwise would be false. Any ill I could say about him now that he's dead wouldn't cause a fraction as much harm as what he spewed when he was alive. I have zero sympathy for the loss of his bilious, vicious life. Good riddance, loudmouth. I can't wait for Alex Jones and a certain former President to join you in Hell.
From the Knock Wood Files:
I can't tell which of the new dread diseases/maladies/ailments/conditions I'm convinced I have can be attributed to COVID and which are a symptom of Morphing Into An Old Jew Who Thinks Every Pain Signifies "The End". Beyond a brief time in ninth grade when I was "quietly dying of cancer" thanks to the sweet saccharin siren songs of Diet Pepsi/TaB, I haven't been too hypochondriacal despite the ease with which the Internet could indulge it. Whatever the case, I need this "Oy, I think I'm dying" thing to go the way of polio, and stat.
As much as I adore Rachel Maddow, last night I got so sick of hearing about THE FORMER GUY that I tuned in to our real President's town hall on CNN instead (I hadn't realized it was on and they were coinciding) and instantly felt happier, lighter, and infinitely more hopeful.
Similarly, I switched off Morning Joe this morning when the talk turned from discussion of the town hall to the former guy.
P.S. President Biden (yes, I love saying/typing it) said "the former guy" and is sick of talking about him. Yet another reason why I love *this* guy.
Enough with the movies about time loops. Enough with the movies about time loops. Enough with the movies about time loops. Enough with the movies about time loops. Enough with the movies about time loops. Enough with the movies about time loops. Enough with the movies about time loops. Enough with the movies about time loops. Enough with the movies about time loops. Enough with the movies about time loops. Enough with the movies about time loops. Enough with the movies about time loops. Enough with the movies about time loops. Enough with the movies about time loops. Just stop.
Met a handsome older Jewish man in Riverside Park today who reminded me for some reason of Kevin K., a fella I used to "hang out" with in 1984 or so, who I always thought was cute in high school but never talked to there. I'm rarely, if ever, captivated by a guy anymore, but there was something about him that I really liked. His blue eyes and white Biden-esque hair? His bungling, but only a bit, the Lou Grant "You've got spunk" quote? He was easy to talk to and quick to smile. I know I'll see him again.
Wear your fucking masks, people, whether mandated or not, despite what your moronic governor may say. (Yeah, I'm looking at you, Texas and Mississippi.) Sorry, but I don't buy into the "don't shame 'folks' for not wearing a mask" jive bullshit that was recently published in, I think, The Atlantic. Stop coddling these cretins who are the reason we still *need* the masks. And while you're at it, stop saying "folks" to try to appear earthy and, well, folksy.
Texas can just fuck the right off anyway for everything, anyway, including, but not limited to, Abbott and Cruz. Sorry, folks.
I'm getting somewhat faster with the running, even though I'll never be a speed demon and there's no way in hell if I ran a marathon that I'd achieve a time that'd elicit an exclamation from anyone. I don't have a "training plan", don't do anything special except just go out there every day and do it and push myself when I feel it's right or "necessary" and ease up when it's not. And sometimes I secretly "race" unwitting runners or pedestrians just to show off (to myself). The days I don't do it, I feel like I'm not awake.
I have worn jeans maybe three times total since the lockdown/whatever, but the other day I put on a pair briefly "just to see" and one vintage pump that I bought just before but have not yet worn. I swooned over the "look" and got incredibly giddy, thinking that once this horror is behind us, I'll be dressing again like a real person, strutting down Broadway, en route to meet one of my select three good friends for lunch, or even to just stroll alone. I can't wait to feel the weight of wardrobe. To zipper and buckle and button.
Tonight I received email that a package is on its way via UPS, but it's definitely not anything I remember ordering, and a quick check of Amazon reveals nothing's been shipped. I love getting to think someone's surprising me with a lovely something-or-other. I just hope it's not, say, a packge of wooden skewers that I forgotten about when I open it I'll feel like it's coal in my stocking and I'll hurt the skewers' feelings when I'm disappointed they're not something else. (Awww.) I love having something to anticipate. I'm going to be giddy all day until it arrives.
I've taken to running more often on the streets of this city instead of just on more traditional running routes. I love that my runs can take me anywhere in the city I want to go. I ran in the Diamond District the other day and felt (and probably looked) like Dustin Hoffman, as of course I always do when I run around the Reservoir. As I ran on West 47th, past dusty diamond shop after dusty diamond shop, happy to see they still looked like they belonged in the '70s, I said aloud, "Is it safe? Is it safe?"
In seventh grade home ec, we budding female Suzie Homemakers were tasked with making a wrap skirt, which was all the groovy rage in 1975-76. Even though I dreaded the project, I was about as psyched as I could be at that age to contribute to my wardrobe. I chose tan corduroy, and was so bad at all of that stuff that the wales were horizontal instead of vertical. The teacher gave me an A, though. She said, with admiration, "I've never seen anyone use corduroy this way before!" I was like, "Um, yeah. Thanks!' and gladly accepted the accolade.
It thrills me that I can get groceries delivered any time, provided there's no big snow on the way. I'd started doing Prime Now before the pandemic, after having resisted for so long, considering it lazy and indulgent, but really, it was kind of fun to pick stuff online. I'd still occasionally pop into Fairway on a whim as well. Now, though, delivery is a lifeline, and I'm "glad" that now that we've adjusted (ugh) to the pandemic, getting a timeslot is no longer a problem. I haven't set foot in Fairway since November and don't plan to anytime soon.
A friend mentioned Didi Conn in a Facebook comment, which led me to immediately think of "You Light Up My Life" and its title song. (I completed bypassed "Grease" and had to remind myself of Frenchie.) I think I was actually surprised, when watching for the first time in 1977 at age 14, that she wasn't actually singing, which seems ludicrous now given how obvious it was. I should've been traumatized by that dupe, but instead I still found myself sobbing every time I heard the song, and thus "emoting" when I'd sing it (practically daily) into my cassette recorder.
Peeve (No. 11,524): People who think it's gee whiz adorable that they're "bad at math", especially when the proclamation is accompanied with a "yucky" facial expression and/or groan/giggle. I recently encountered someone who said she started doing something at age 18, and when asked when that would've been, she announced her math-badness, and it took more than a full minute to "do the math" for this complex problem. How hard is it to add 18 to your birth year? Even if you had to count on fingers like a toddler, why would it take more than, say, 18 seconds tops?
The Tip Jar