For the duration of time I spend walking behind her on the sidewalk (all of perhaps 36 seconds), I ponder the curious placement of the stranger's mole. If it were half its size, it could be said to be nestling sweetly in the bend of her rather doughy knee. Alas, it is too large for mere nestling and appears to be as uneasy attached to its lumbering guardian as I am observing it. I wish it would just pack up its things and move to another part of her body, one that remained hidden to casual public observers.

Continued 6/2

Continued from 6/1

The more time I spend behind this woman and her curiously-placed mole as we stroll along Broadway, the more I'm convinced its placement is the least of its puzzling attributes.  There's also the question of its shape.  Because we're both in motion and my eyes must also occasionally look elsewhere order to avoid the risk of collision with with other pedestrians, I cannot focus only on the back of her leg.  Still, what is it?  Kidney bean?  The state of New York?  A basket of kittens?

 At long last we both stop at the corner.

 Continued 6/3

Continued from 6/2

 Knowing I have seconds to act, I drop the lace-edged hanky I always have on hand as a prop.  While retrieving it, I blush internally, realizing I've no doubt spent more energy on this mole than its owner has in her lifetime.  (Even a particularly enamored lover would not have been as transfixed.)  It's now a mere foot from my face.

"If you can read this, you're much too close!" the mole says in a small, amused voice in an accent I can't quite place.  At least I've identify its shape, though, as a pair of lips!

Donna sulks in the corner of my office, feigning great interest in a copy of Field & Stream left behind by another client. I don't know if she's holding it upside-down on purpose to prove she's actively ignoring me, or if she is unaware of its position, like someone out of an old sitcom. All this because I told her how lovely her skin looks. I thought this was a compliment, given that for the three months she's been under my care, her face has never been clear and at times has resembled a topographic map of Peru.

Continued 6/5

Continued from 6/4

"Donna," I say to the upside-down magazine, "as your therapist, I must be honest with you.  I'm sorry if the truth is painful.  But you weren't looking too -- how do I put this -- sane? -- with those tiny faces drawn over your blemishes with a marker."

"Those weren't just faces," she says.  "They were Jeanette and Bruce.  Wendy and Penelope.  Alan.  I grew to love them.  And then they had to go and abandon me?  Don't they know I have what you people call 'abandonment issues'?"

This, dear Donna, is the least of your problems.

 

 

 

You'd think that after living with me for nine years and working as my assistant for three, Shana would have a handle on the sort of behavior I tolerate and the sort I find wholly objectionable.  Where in the realm of our joint experience did she get the idea that presenting me with a dead bird would be met with something other than shrieks, laments, and pleas to "take it back" imbued with drama on a Joan Crawford scale?  And merely carried in her mouth and plopped at my feet with not even so much as a bow?  Really, now.

 

 

Once again, a girl has pulled her cardigan back over her shoulders in disgust and bolted out of Bruce's apartment almost faster than he could say, "Pull my taffy." (He knows. He actually starts to say it as soon as he sees his date's shoulders shrug in anticipation of the cardigan. Once he even managed to say it a dozen times before a girl even made it to the door!)

Bruce is baffled. Maybe next time he'll pull the Murphy bed down a little slower so the stuffed animal orgy doesn't overwhelm his date so much, like Mr. Bear advises!

Dear People Across the Street From My Best Friend's Apartment:

If you're going to prance around your apartment with the shades up and the lights on -- you, Sir, shirtless, and you, Miss, in a white bra -- you'd better live up to the hype my friend, my boyfriend, and I created for you the moment you stepped into the window frame. This limp "push-me/pull-you" stretching nonsense you're doing isn't doing a thing for us and certainly wasn't worth the energy we expended turning off the lights so you wouldn't see us watching you.

What a non-fucking waste.

xoxo,
J.

Brian sneers at the scrambled eggs his mother-in-law has set before him. He doesn't disguise his disdain, instead making a bigger show of it than is necessary. Because, yes, it is necessary, given that this is the 24th time in the two years he's been married to Krista that he's told her he can't "do" eggs prepared by someone else. He must have handled the egg, intact in shell, himself, cracked it into a bowl, whisked (never a fork) it, and scrambled it, not once taking his eyes off his creation, in order to be able to actually eat it.

It is lamentable that excessive funds allotted to the research of "the inner child" of the adult especially when one considers it is at the expense of the same treatment of the lesser known phenomenon, "the inner adult" of the child. I trust this is because, as has been the case throughout history, children's wages are considerably lower than that of their adult counterparts and they thus have less disposable income to toss to significant scientific causes. Alas, their childish whims keep them from diverting their hard-won funds from the purchase of "gummi" candy, non-filter cigarettes, and rent.

Continued 6/11

Continued from 6/10

Although precious little research has been done into this phenomenon, one can easily conclude, based upon casual observations made without the benefit of either an advanced scientific education or a specially-equipped laboratory, that a child has no say when it comes to allowing his "inner adult" to manifest itself in the business of everyday life. For instance, no child worth his weight in pastel-colored play money would ever say to his mother, "Mummy, I think I should like to cart around a wheeled book-bag so large that it makes me resemble a miniature court reporter."

Continued 6/12

Continued from 6/11

After all, most children, if given a choice, would prefer to have nothing to do with the court system but instead enjoy being mistaken for astronauts, senators, FedEx deliverymen, or the family dog. Likewise, rare is the child who wishes for his inner adult to be expressed by way of wardrobe, especially if it involves double-breasted blue blazers with shiny gold buttons or foundation garments heavy on the spandex. Not so rare is the child who wishes for a beefy whiskey sour, a queen-size bed, and the love of a good woman. Not necessarily in that order.

In the dreams, my mustache is incidental.  No mention is made whatsoever of its quiet existence or its many impressive characteristics (full, lush, well-maintained, rich shade of espresso with not a hint of gray).  No, I'm just a hapless girl going about my business, making my way through streets of a city whose familiarity I have overestimated enough so that a simple walk turns into a labyrinthine exercise in Finding A Way Out or witnessing teary-eyed, flayed horses' raw and shiny fleshlessness being beaten with thick sticks by degenerate toothless policemen deep in the fiery woods of a hidden hell-forest.

It is with great sadness and shame that I inform you that this morning I broke your mother's back, Sir.  And several backs of other mothers, all of whom many of whom I would gladly visit in the hospital to apologize for the back-breaking while they're unable to spring from their beds to strangle me for landing them there.

At first, while skipping along the sidewalk, I did attempt to not step on any cracks, but the length of my stride and the placement of the cracks were not conducive to avoidance.  I regret your spinal health was thus spared.

 

 

People who adore dogs but not cats will spout vehemently about their preference.  Likewise, those  who love cats but not dogs will sniff disdainfully about theirs.  Meanwhile, when left alone at home during the workday, the dogs and cats splay on their backs across a variety of divans and settees, princess phones tucked against their pointed or floppy ears, chatting with each other not only about the ridiculous rivalry of their people, but also spilling their secrets ("Madame Fancy often doesn't use soap when she bathes!") ("Mr. Gourmet Host has been known to taste my food straight from the can!").

 

If you want to be my friend, you must know I am only accepting applications from people who are truly fabulous in that "lay down my life for you" kind of way. Take S, for instance, recently introduced to me by a mutual friend, who just donated a kidney to one of her other friends. Talk about enormous generosity and unparalleled selflessness! I just pray S hasn't established the same criteria for friendship, lest she revoke her acceptance of my application upon learning that I glower when someone takes a french fry off my plate (even if they ask nicely).

I suppose I cannot fault Shana for not knowing exactly how I take my tea. Alas, I did not tell her I prefer it dark, in a sturdy mug, so I had no business giving her any guff when it appeared on my desk lightened by milk, in a delicate cup, a tiny almond biscotti perched on the accompanying saucer. This is apparently the way cats take their tea, and by presenting it to me in this fashion, she was saying, "I accept you as one of my own."

I am ashamed for baring my claws. And for the hiss.

Bettina Tritt, dubbed "the hottest cripple" by the good people at Spine and Cheese, the combination physical therapy/social club she's attended since a six-car collision left her paralyzed from the waist down, has just been crowned second runner-up in the annual Miss Disabled pageant.

"What's a girl have to do to win this damned thing?" she asks the competition's version of a bronze medal, a tiny crutch made of milk chocolate. She eyeballs winner Cynthia McQuade, who grins toothlessly through drool, and gives her the finger, knowing, of course, there's no way Cynthia can see her through eyes sewn shut.

I'm amazed at the state of absolute oblivion that so many people live in, especially those in a city not only as heavily populated as this but as full of opportunities to be at least marginally awake and aware of the surroundings. This morning, en route to the bus, I saw a particularly fine specimen of imbecility, who may as well have had a thought bubble with "Duh" dangling over his head, walk right into a blind guy with a rolling cane going in the opposite direction. I wanted the blind guy to say, "What the fuck! Are you blind?"

My experience with the unpleasant task of disposing of the corpse of a cockroach has progressed to the point where I am able to do so without suffering some variety of myocardial infarction or a breakdown of my mental or emotional capacity. Although I am still saddened by the sight of an expired little body lying supine on the floor, and alarmed when my foot has almost come into contact with it, I can now go about the business with much more efficient dispatch than I had when I was new to New York and this unprecedented problem.

Continued 6/21

Continued from 6/20

Whereas my first encounters with cockroach corpse disposal were fraught with all manner of girly shrieks, chair-standing-upon, and other manner of histrionics befitting the trauma, I now merely bow my head, apologize for the loss of life, and set about shrouding it in paper towel for transport to the toilet. However, I cannot watch as I drop the body into the water and certainly cannot watch as I flush, lest I see the body free itself from the paper towel and swirl clockwise to its destination. There is just something too amusing about the spin.

Continued 6/22

Continued from 6/21

I know that in saying even cockroaches deserve respect, I will be ridiculed with eyebrow-raised smirks, lumped into the same category as the PETA people, who were not too thrilled with the President for his recent on-air capture and insouciant murder of a fly.  I hesitate to say "even cockroaches", as this implies these creatures are not inherently worthy of respect, a stance I do not uphold, especially when we consider their physical sturdiness and the boldness with which they hold court when entering a room where they surely know they are not welcome.

Continued 6/23

 

 

Continued from 6/22

Impressed by the courage of the cockroaches and their tenacity, I bestow upon their memory the honor most people don't afford them during their lives and certainly deprive them of upon their death. I apologize for the loss of life, confident that their passing was not due to old age, emphysema, or automobile accidents, but to the monthly ministrations of my landlord's exterminator or Shana's swift and nimble paw-work.

I flush them, careful not to see their faces as they go. And hoping they won't rehydrate along the way and resurface to bite me on the ass.

Yes, the hourglass with wasabi-colored sand that perches by my phone serves its purpose as an attractive desktop ornament, but it's not serving as a time management aid, the primary, more important function that I'd intended upon its purchase. I favored it over a more traditional timer, without taking into account the fact that it would not reward me with a congratulatory "ta-da!" when its 15 minutes were up, to herald the completion of whatever task I'd assigned that time limit. I need audible validation of a job well done, timer. I need fanfare! Fireworks! Or just a little "ding"!

Thanks to the unplanned circumstance that allows my gaze to alight for a split second on the same swatch of air space upon which his alight at the same moment, the man with the perpetual goofy grin and wavy bangs and curious stains of murder on his shirt interprets this to mean we are destined to not only meet but to exchange tiny talk here in the gay bar somewhere in Hell's Kitchen. He closes the small gap between us. At long last I assess the reddish areas on his shirt are not murder-related blotches but design elements.

Continued 6/26

Continued from 6/25

As he fills our common air space with Milano-accented blather, I wonder if I should reveal that I'd been wondering why he'd wear a blood-stained garment in public. However, he diverts my attention with an out-of-the-blue assertion that I'm a quintessential New York Jew. I slink away, but he inserts himself back into my space later, effortlessly lifts me in his arms, and carries me to his lesbian friend. If I hadn't already realized his shirt was as impeccable as his English, I'd worry that he was presenting me to this woman as their next murder prospect.

Although everyone in group therapy is impressed, no one is as thrilled with her progress as Phyllis herself.

"I no longer arrange my canned soup according to label color!" she's just revealed, puffing her chest out like a pigeon on a mating mission. She looks to Marvin for approval. His double-eyebrow-raise doesn't disappoint.

"I do, however, still arrange them alphabetically," she says with a wave of the hand and shrug of the shoulders. "Everything from aardvark to zygote!"

The group shudders collectively, remembering potluck lunch/group therapy sessions where Phyllis giggled when asked what that "interesting" flavor was in the soup.

On their date three nights ago, Bill told Katherine his prized hilarious story that never fails with his drinking buddies: once, in a friend's bathroom, stuck without toilet paper and too embarrassed to call out for some, he stood, removed his underwear, and used it instead!

So why isn't she returning his calls? Aren't women supposed to fall all over guys who call when they say they will? Isn't "sense of humor" always at the top of the "what do women find attractive about men" lists in magazine polls? And what of resourcefulness? Haven't these bitches ever heard of MacGyver?

As is my custom, I must take a moment to announce my plea for you to disregard any typos or other errors (excluding factual, because everything here has been researched within an inch of its motherlovin' life) that you may have noticed while perusing my words this month.  Although I would like to shove the blame on Shana, my assistant, this is not fair given that typing without the benefit of thumbs is a challenge I know I would not be able to face without considerable grumbling and resentment.  Yet she perseveres in admirable silence, especially remarkable for a cat.

 

Thank you, patchouli-drenched cretin, for forcing me to cut my stationary bike ride to 42 minutes instead of the 60+ minutes I'd planned. Luckily the good people on the treadmills on another floor hadn't doused themselves in that repellent skunky garbage as well.

 

If I wanted to chew patchouli -- because, really, that crap's so thick it can't be merely contained to offending the olfactory sense -- I'd go downstairs to a yoga class and suck on someone's the bare, dirty toes.

 

Can we please return it to the 1969 time capsule where it belongs, never to be unearthed again?