is not welcome beyond the portal of her lips.
That's what she tells me after I press a spear against them to try to pry
them apart and she's turned her head and covered her mouth with her terrycloth
tell her it's unbecoming for a baby to use words like "portal" when
"door" will suffice. I remind
her that she still doesn't possess the dexterity to handle a simple spoon, her
diaper isn't going to change itself, and that I know where her mom keeps those horrible
flower headbands that make babies look like miniature chemo patients.
This morning, near the 72nd Street subway station, I saw a
teenager wearing bellbottom jeans. For a
nanosecond, I had hope for the youth of today.
I wanted to dash over to her, hug her, and sob into her long white
blonde hair about how wonderful she is to buck the skinny jeans trend, and to take
the time travel subway ("PM" me for its secret location!) to my
parents' house, where we'd sink into my denim beanbag chair and pore over Seventeen
magazine for photos of clogs and belted sweaters. But instead I just sighed and died a little.
Bullied, mocked, and teased by people who only associate
with purebreds, this lonely and dejected lady hightailed it out of town and
found herself at the ocean, where she lapped at the surf and said, "Oh,
this tastes like the tears of my peers!" She paddled out to a big wave,
which swallowed her within seconds,, and was transformed into the first curmaid
the world has ever known, revered and loved and celebrated by her new friends
for her uniqueness.
(This accompanies a watercolor, which you can see by popping
over to Instagram. Look for me. I'm "Jodiverse"!) (Worlds collide!)
Hey, zany-haired mom in leggings covered with
requisite modesty skirt, standing on a corner on Columbus with two boys I
gather are your sons, who look to be about five years old, both of whom sport
sandy-colored crewcuts beneath their yarmulkes: You may want to not only
seriously reconsider the grayish-bluish and whitish striped pajamas ensemble
one of them was wearing, for reasons that should be obvious, but destroy them
so they can be worn never again. Don't make me tuck a DVD of "The Boy in
the Striped Pajamas" into your tote if our paths cross in the future.
a shame about the face," Glenda says.
look up from my legal pad, on which I've been doodling eggplant, lime slices,
aunt in this photo," she says.
"At least she looks like she could be your aunt."
tell her it's the photo that came with the frame I bought at TJMaxx before our
session, and that that's not a nice thing to say about someone, no matter who
you want someone saying that about you?"
already do," she says.
I supposed to feel sorry for her?
This shouldn't have to be said, but apparently it must, so
here goes. I'd never come to your house and
tell you I hate your lavender-scented seashell-shaped hand soap or ridicule your
handstitched sampler that proclaims "You've got nothing to loose!" or
scribble words worse than "REDRUM" on your bathroom mirror in my or
anyone else's blood. So, yeah, yeah (cliché
alert) think of Facebook as my house. If you come here, we play by my rules and you don't
get to tell me what I can and can't say.
In other words, don't be a fucking dick.
Sometime in the '80s, I went on a date with some schmuck who
shushed me when I laughed in his bedroom in his mommy's house. There's so much wrong with that scenario,
just seeing the words in front of me, that I can't believe I allowed anything
to progress on what was probably a twin bed decked out in poly-blend sheets
festooned with cowboys and/or rocketships.
I just looked him up on Facebook (because of course I remember his
name). What a surprise that he's now a
dusty shlub with a beige wife. They look
like a barrel of laughs.
I am up at 4:20 (insert hilarious pot/(wacky) weed/reefer/maryjane
reference here) every morning. On weekdays,
it's to go to the gym and on weekends, it's because Lola is too free-spirited to heed the structure of
a calendar. Sometimes if I have a
pressing assignment, I forego the gym. And
on such days when I'm at home, already plugging away at 4:30, and see that friends
in the same time zone are up too, also plugging away, I'm so happy that I'm in
such marvelous company. Here's to
industrious, hard-working, um, warriors who do what it takes to make it work.
gift to you, which I didn't have the chance to present with a flourish on a
gondola this afternoon, comes in a small hinged box not made of stiff velvet
but soft plush corduroy velour. You
can't help but play with it before opening the box.
is gift enough!" you say, and I know you mean it. You brush the box against your cheek and say,
open the box, and inside is that little circle ring thing that goes above the
"A", like in the word "Angstrom".
hope no one captured our engagement on YouTube.