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I still have not broken in the sparkly BRITTANY SPEARS SKECHERS QUAD SKATES that I bought lo so many moons ago. Which one of you fabulous glittery bitches is going to be the one who witnesses the marvelous spectacle and then waves good old-fashioned smelling salts (in a charming petite apothecary bottle) in front of my face after I take a nasty spill that will then require me to be transported to an urgent care center where my dashing future husband, Dr. Chad P. Rosenfeldowitzberg, and I exchange witticisms and vegan recipes as he tenderly fixes me up 'n' stuff?
Oh, how I miss the good ol' days when, upon seeing a pregnant woman, I'd immediately think, "Hey, you had sex!" and if she were with a man, I'd add, "With HIM!" Times were so much simpler then, weren't they? All you had to do was picture the couple in the missionary position with the lights off (but with the lights on, in your head, so you could see), no fuss, no muss. It's not so easy anymore nowadays, with all this in vitro and donor stuff. I liked it better when I was forced to reflexively envision rote copulation.
No sooner has his wife and her ample bottom in its somehow-baggy-anyway Old Navy cargo pants retreated back into the SUV after dropping him off at the train station and waving at him as he looks out the smudged window to his right, than Martin Phelps is ogling the tiny tush of a nymph half her age, who has just passed by the vacant seat to his left in favor of sitting with a young guy with tattooed forearms who looks sidelong at her as she reaches into her Dunkin' Donuts bag and says, "Better not, or you'll pork up."
He's 30, lives near Zabar's, and finds me on JDate's IM. We exchange pedestrian pleasantries for a few beats, he asks why I have such big muscles, tells me mine are bigger than his, and then asks if my tits are big or small. I say "goodbye" and go away. He does as well, for a beat or two, but then resumes, saying that the reason he let me go so quickly is because I'm actually a man and you can tell by the first photo on my profile. Then why did he engage me in the first place? Pussy.
He's 28, lives in California, and initiates an IM on JDate. What grabbed his attention is that I love dogs, he says. And that I'm really cute. I roll my eyes and bite, knowing I'm in for bullshit. We exchange a few courteous lines, and then he asks if I have Skype. I say I don't, because I don't, and he asks why not. I tell him I just don't. He says, "You don't have to do anything. You can just watch." I write back with an "ugggh" and a "goodbye". Who are the girls who actually want that crap?
Wow. If it weren't for you, MapMyRun, I never would've known I'm capable of zooming from 0 to 12.8 miles per hour, while WALKING, in 3 seconds. Thanks, also, for placing me in Madison Square Park several blocks before I reached it. You're the inanimate equivalent of a self-aggrandizing schmuck I met on OKCupid in 2010 who, before we met face to face, bragged about the size of his manhood, incredible stamina, and prized, um, oral communication, only to reveal a pretzel nub with the staying power of a transistor radio in a thunderstorm and a mouth better left shut.
Stuff I'm digging lately (not all necessarily "new"):
Gus Dry Meyer lemon soda (more fun than lemonade and more elegant than Diet Coke)
Vegan "cheese" sauce by Skye-Michael Conroy (so good I want to drink it straight from the ladle)
Dried figs (holy hell, like the cookies without the "newton")
Spotify on my phone (why did it take me so long?)
My new phone, which is not an iPhone
Texting like mad (truly unlimited)
Vegenaise horseradish sauce (drool)
Sriracha sauce (faint)
Long walks home through Central Park after the gym
Chatting with my friend Dawn (am I in seventh grade?)
If I wanted to stay home and do almost nothing, I could have easily done that here in the comfort of my own Manhattan apartment. I didn't have to fly to New Mexico for that. If I wanted to indulge in a subpar dinner at a Crapanese restaurant in a bland suburban shopping center, I could have taken a bus to New Jersey for that as well. The trip would have been a complete waste of time if it hadn't been for my curmudgeonly host's gorgeous hunk of a dog, who was the real reason for my visit anyway. Woof.
On the phone he says he feels like he's in the center of a wagon-wheel and all of the spokes leading out are things he wants to do. He wants to feel everything, do everything, be everything. And he wants me with him, feeling and doing and being. This is not a guy who wants to live small, this is a guy who isn't just content with what he already has, who is set in his ways. He doesn't only want to jar up the so-called status quo, he wants to take it by the shoulders and shake it hard.
It's not everyone's face that can live up to scrutiny at such close range, but here she is, sitting at her desk in the dark, gazing at her monitor, zoomed in on his face, wishing she were tiny enough to take up residence in one of his pores on his cheek. She is imagining herself sitting in one if it were a window seat, or a fire escape, like Audrey Hepburn in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" singing a wistful, melancholy song. She wonders if his pore could accommodate a tiny ukulele and if the acoustics would lend themselves to gentle reverberation.
I'm all for marriage equality for everyone. Marry who you like, who you love, who you want to fuck, who you don't want to fuck over, take the leap, the plunge, sally forth, and tally ho ahoy. The only drawback to gay men getting married, though, is that now when I see a man wearing a wedding ring and I'm trying to decide whether I want to potentially ruin his marriage by sleeping with him, I don't know if he'd even be receptive, not out of any loyalty to his wife, but because his wife might be a husband. Hrmph.
My cat has a Twitter account; I do not. She doesn't "tweet" often, but occasionally she deposits a little something into the kitty Twitter. She should do it on a more regular basis. She likes it more than I do. Writing in her voice, is often easier than writing in mine. Neither of us really has a "process" (in case you're wondering), and we do not like writing about writing.
I talk in her voice, too, when I say things that I don't want to say as myself. But only to myself, by myself. I'm not completely meowtta my mind.
I went to my mom's yesterday, the first time since my dad died in November. The room he used as an office showed no signs of his life except for a photocopier photo of him and the dog neatly tacked on a bulletin board. I almost lost it completely a few times, silently and away from the rest of the family. So, go figure, when I checked in for my New Mexico trip this morning, and successfully changed my dreaded center seat to an aisle, I didn't feel as triumphant as I'd hoped. Still, I can't get there fast enough.
If the worst thing about this gorgeous guy with the fantastic Richard Gere hair and body that men half his age (51) would strive for, who has a lust (!) for adventure (and I'm not just talking the salacious kind), is crazy about dogs, was a helicopter pilot in the military, who wants to whisk me away on all kinds of trips, and thinks I'm the cat's meow, is that he uses a lower-case "u" when texting throughout the day, I can let that slide, right? (After all, Prince says "I will die 4 u" and I still love him.)
I am not a big fan of making plans, because often on the day they're to occur, I'm not in the mood to follow through. So oh, how I love when the other person cancels/postpones when I had been considering doing the same. This allows me to be graciously saint-like in my acceptance of that person's apologies and to respond with all the calm patience and benevolence of a wimple-adorned, crepe-sole-shoed nun enjoying a cup of Lipton's tea and a modest sandwich as she peers down at the church newsletter through reading glasses worn on a chain around her neck.
I am not a big fan of making plans, because often on the day they're to occur, I'm not in the mood to follow through. So oh, how I love when the other person cancels/postpones when I had been considering doing the same with/for/to. This allows me to be graciously saint-like in my acceptance of that person's apologies and to respond with all the calm patience and benevolence of a wimple-adorned nun enjoying a cup of Lipton's tea and a modest sandwich as she peers down at the church newsletter through reading glasses worn on a chain around her neck.
Dear Ms. Post,
What's the appropriate reward for staring so intently in the direction of my roommate's right foot under her desk that she's compelled to look down to see what I'm focused on, only to discover a cockroach the size of a Medjool date (but perhaps a tad less tasty), loitering an inch from said foot, on the verge of scaling her foot and calf like Mount Everest? Shrieking like a 1950s housewife and a few shouted words of thanks does not suffice. Should I not be bestowed with poached salmon in a light butter sauce?
I am transcribing the deposition of a plastic surgeon who apparently has had every drop of blood in his body replaced by Folgers and doesn't know how to listen to questions posed to him. Words are tumbling and fumbling out of his mouth willy-nilly, like the reverse of a drooling glutton shoveling food into his gaping maw during a eating contest. I would sooner trust a sleep-deprived, snack-deprived toddler wielding safety scissors, a Sharpie, and a juice box straw, using the board from the game "Operation" as a reference manual, to perform liposuction than I would this bumbling Board-certified buffoon.
Last night a cockroach lounged on the bathtub drain basket/cover thing, and when I went to pick it up with toilet paper, thinking it was dead, it moved. I shrieked like a good 1950s housewife and bolted from the room. It was still there this morning, and this afternoon, so rather than not shower until September, I decided to scoop it up in a large takeout/delivery container and put it on the patio. The little guy wouldn't comply at first, so I shouted repeatedly, "I'm the only fucking person in New York who won't fucking hurt you!" My app-roach worked!
Never mind the mouthful of Listerine held in puffed-out cheeks as he did pull-ups, facing me, in the doorjamb of the office, never mind the endless hateful skepticism, never mind that he cancelled a daytrip to Santa Fe after realizing he wouldn't get to visit my, um, southwest region, and that he would've taken me grudgingly anyway. As if all of that and so much more didn't turn me off, on Thursday afternoon he said that debarking a dog is a good idea and that neutering is worse. Here's a guy who needs his own vocal cords slashed. And castration.
Oh, Universe, how droll you are. What a marvelous, finely honed sense of humor you have. When I asked you, on a recent morning walk through Central Park, to heed my call for a groovy vegan guy with whom to skip down the cobblestones, I thought I was being specific enough without being so restrictive as to rule out some slight aberrations. So what do you do? Send me a "raw vegan" in whose three photos he displays Michael Bolton hair of which he seems inexplicably proud, who sees no point in coffee and asks me if I meditate. Next!
I'm now in "talks" with a revoltingly handsome fella I met five and a half years ago in the Time-Warner Center when one of my oldest friends and I were acting like complete freaks, laughing in a way that would make hyenas cringe. We had an instant connection, he and his perfect teeth and I, but I did nothing about it because I had a boyfriend at the time. Now that I have nothing going on, and the online shtick is once again proving to be a massive sewage heap, we're making plans. My oh my, this cloud is cozy.
I took a leisurely walk home from the gym this morning, four miles in 1-1/2 hours, without looking at my reflection once, not even in the plate glass of store windows. Just now I looked in the bathroom mirror and, at the sight of hair frizzy from humidity and skin shiny as well, exclaimed, "Oh my god! NOT CUTE at all! Not cute!"
I don't know what's worse: That I walked around thinking I was pretty damned cute while looking like hell or that I was smiling at people and they were thinking, "I think I just saw Howard Stern."
An hour and a half after I disregarded a limp "flirt" from some shmoe on JDate, he sends this charming note:
"Sorry, butt you're too old for me and wayyy too pretty. I have extrememely low self-esteem and I can't seem to kick it. Best to you on Jdate and off."
This literate Lothario is ten years older than I am and his profile states he's looking for women in an age range in which I squarely fall. Am I supposed to find this so adorable that I have no choice but to write back with playful faux indignation?
I suppose there are worse things in the world than having a very handsome man who, while he's in London, sends you texts asking if you like weekend jaunts outside the city or if you mind being whisked off to his condo in the mountains. Let's just hope this one (1) doesn't do pull-ups with a mouthful of Listerine; (2) doesn't believe in debarking dogs; (3) actually likes to leave the house once a decade; and (4) looks, through his underwear, like he has something between his legs more substantial than a desiccated Vienna sausage. I have my priorities, y'know.
Hey, drinky drunky derelicts, sloshy sots, thirsty flophouse friends, and such and the like! Did you know that, if you order something from its brunch menu, the dimly-lit Village Lantern (167 Bleecker) will supply you with as many mimosas and/or Bloody Marys you can dump into your drooling hobo maw for a solid two hours? I didn't. It took two fabulous drunkard friends visiting from Indianapolis to slur the news to me across the table when I joined them (but the lass did not partake, alas) yesterday afternoon. See, contrary to very popular belief, tourists aren't all bad, after all.
I'm an agnostic/atheist. I've never believed in God, won't replace the "o" with a dash, and I'll be damned if I "pray" for anything. But some of my friends, Facebook and otherwise, do believe in that stuff, as is, of course, their prerogative. So, when I'm going through something difficult, such as the rather sudden death of my dad in November, and they tell me I'm in their prayers, I don't begrudge them that. I donít sneer and say, "Save your prayers, I'm an atheist." If it comes from a good heart, who the fuck am I to refuse it?
This morning at the gym, while waxing what could be termed "rhapsodic" about the incredibly handsome guy who wants to whisk me away for weekend jaunts, including his condo in Park City, Utah (where I'd probably be the Trophy Jew), I told my friend Megan that, even though several fellas have been vying for my attention, I'd really rather put all my eggs in the D.S. (his initials) basket. I then said, "Hey, he can put his basket in my eggs anytime he wants." It took a beat before I realized just how hilariously gross that sounded. (Funny-side up, anyone?)
Why today is a banner day:
1. I removed a shmoe (mentioned earlier) from my phone.
2. My wonderful new kitchen trashcan arrived from Amazon, and my adorable UPS guy brought it back to my front door, showing off his hairy legs in those brown shorts.
3. The deposition I am transcribing today does not include a shitty plastic surgeon.
4. I just made a big ol' pot of percolated coffee.
5. Pineapple chunks in the refrigerator.
5. A very good-looking fella is mildly "sexting" me, the modern-day equivalent of sending me a note in seventh grade Social Studies class.
In all the excitement surrounding the new fella, somehow I neglected to ask him the one question that could change EVERYTHING. So I texted him the question and was on pins and needles, turning all shades of blue while he was on an airplane, offline. Finally I got my answer:
"I love dogs. I travel too much or I would have one. I volunteered for some time at the humane society walking the dogs. It was awesome. And yes, I did get business class on the flight."
Thank Dog. I'd hate for him to have to be stuck in coach.
So, as titillating as it was to be contacted this morning on OKCupid by a lesbian with a "rockin' bod" and an ass that could double as an end table, young enough to be my granddaughter (had both I and my non-existent daughter been teenaged sluts), I must say that my appetite was whet* much more by receipt of a cell phone photo of my incredibly handsome suitor-to-be, post-workout, gorgeous hair a mess, sporting nothing but a white bath towel just like Jake Martin used to wear when answering the door of his condo in "All My Children".
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