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"How's your summer been treating you?"
"Have you been having a great summer?"
Enough, enough, enough. The emphasis on DOING SOMETHING during the hottest, grossest, stickiest months of the year, and not just doing something but FUN FUN FUN, has always been lost on me.
I don't want to go to barbecues and lounge by a pool or go to the beach or do anything involving shorts or other exposed flesh. All I want is to lounge around indoors with a tall glass of pink lemonade, a big bowl of pretzels, The Golden Girls, my cat, and a ceiling fan.
When wearing my computer glasses I look like the non-sexy version of a sexy nerd librarian who spends a great deal of her time, on and off duty, in the library stacks running her fingertips over the worn spines of musty books whose pages haven't seen the light of day since the Eisenhower Administration as if caressing the cheek of a paramour who's never existed, but man oh man do they ever do their job to eliminate the burning, tearing eyes that resulted before I wore them, which made me look like I'd been sobbing over being an unloved spinster.
Gregory Childers is a liar. Anyone who knows him knows he'll say he prefers Coke to Pepsi, even as he's reaching for the latter at 7-Eleven when Coke is available one shelf down.
He'll say, "My arm hurts. I can only extend it straight from my body, where the Pepsi is."
Someone will say, "Then you can squat three inches and get the Coke," and he'll pooh-pooh that suggestion and sigh. But no one indulges his nonsense and get the Coke for him because they're so over it. He's 57. Enough already.
"Childers, you're a child," they'll say every time.
When my brother visited in early June, he had a hankering for lemonade, so we picked up some Crystal Light. I hadn't had it in a long time and was delighted to revisit it. I'm pretty sure I exclaimed that it was REFRESHING, like a dusty spinster who'd been drinking tepid tap water for decades and would've found the introduction/inclusion of ice to be daring.
I recently ordered a six-pack of packets of pink lemonade (branching out from the yellow I had with my brighter) from Amazon and now can't get enough of it. God save me if I auto-subscribe.
You will see typos in my entry for August 25. You will see "here" instead of "heard" and "week" instead of "weak". You will think less of me. You will judge me. You will think, "I don't know if I even want to finish the rest of this month's entries," even though you will only have to suffer through six more, cringing as you read, thinking, "Will there be other typos? How much more can I endure? It's preposterous."
I apologize for the typos. I apologize for not proofreading. I don't apologize for apologizing for them. You're welcome.
It's going to hit me in the face forever, sometimes when I'm not looking. I'm going to be walking down the street and see a dog and I'll automatically do the dog voice and have the dog call me by the nicknames he and I used to pretend dogs used for me and I'll realize the connection and stop mid-dog-voice and tear up and downright cry. I'll imagine him greeting the dog with me, his attention focused on the dog the same way mine is, and I'll hear his voice doing the dog voice along with me. It's happening already.
I have some truly fabulous friends, some friends who text or email just to let me know they're thinking of me, who don't offer any unsolicited advice or do anything but let me know they're aware I'm still in the world and that they thought of me for two seconds and wanted to let me know, who acknowledge the enormous shift in my life. Then I have friends who are silent, who don't even ask how I'm doing, who act like the planet is still turning on its axis the same way it was two months ago. They're not friends.
On the extremely off chance that you can't decide whether to get MRM's Veggie Elite Performance Protein in Chocolate Mocha or the Veggie Protein Powder in Chocolate and need someone who's tried both to make up your mind for you, then you've come to the right place. By all means don't even try the latter. It'll disappoint you, especially if you've tried the Chocolate Mocha first and think "Maybe the Chocolate will be even better." It won't. You'll want to punish yourself and use it up first (thankfully it's a smaller container) so you can reward yourself with the other.
I haven't used the stationary bike at the gym in ages. For a while it was my default "cardio" (I hate that term; hence, the quotes), before I realized that the treadmill is the only cardio that truly keeps me trim 'n' fabulous and able to eat French fries a couple of times a month. For the past two days, I've been using it while a foot injury prohibits running, and I've gotta say, I really dig that I can do it with my eyes closed the entire time. I can't wait to try running that way on the treadmill.
The long-sleeved navy blue dress with three buttons to the waist, zipper up the back, detachable red/white/blue striped belt with long tubular ties, inside placket with the same striping, red stitching, and side-seam pockets stitched in red semi-circles has arrived. I thought it would be nerdier than it is, but I'm thrilled it's groovier than it appeared in its Etsy listing. Indeed, it's pure Mary Tyler Moore fabulous. Its slight twirl in the just-below-the-knee skirt (my favorite length) is perfect for spinning and tossing an imaginary hat amidst the rush of oncoming traffic. I want to rush toward Autumn immediately.
You're in the Witness Protection Program. The IRS was after you or a business deal went wrong and your life is in danger, so you had to go away. Your son was in on it, pretended he saw you lying in your bed, motionless, and took your dog like was always the plan if anything should ever happen to you. You couldn't tell me because you'd jeopardize my life and you'd rather we never be in contact again than to risk that. I know this isn't true, I know you're really gone, but I'd rather this fantasy than the reality.
I watched the entirety of Ray Donovan in just over two weeks. This is big, even for me, but it goes to show you how much I needed to bombard my brain with external distraction and noise in the weeks after The Worst Day. Would I have watched stern-faced Liev Schreiber in his perfect-fitting dark jeans and jacket wield a baseball bat with starry-eyed delight (mine, not his) for hours on end otherwise? Yes. But perhaps not for an entire weekend, where I did little else, only tearing myself away for an occasional delicious tofu sandwich (featuring hot chili sauce).
"Breaking Bad" ended five years ago, and I'm supposed to remember all the storylines and relationships while watching "Better Call Saul" so I can say, "Oh, this is what led up to THAT," and "This is that guy who turned out to do THIS"? Come on.
The only people who remember all that stuff are the superfans, those who supplement their vast retained knowledge with "wiki" whatever, not those of us who, although we loved "Breaking Bad", kicked the addiction after it ended but for whom most of the details went up in smoke.
It's all lost on me now.
"Indiscreet" itself was rather lame and not nearly as cute, charming, or funny as I wanted and expected it to be given that it was Nora Ephron's favorite movie, but it was definitely worth watching for the set (oh, those multiple colored picture frames on both sides of the drawing room fireplace!) alone, Ingrid Bergman's wardrobe and eyebrows, and the entirety of Cary Grant, most notably his dancing at a banquet with his kind of perfect goofiness I've come to adore ever since first seeing "Holiday". (It did nothing to make me glad I live in 2018 and not 1958.)
"Oh, Jodi, you hate so many things. We should make a list of them sometime."
No. No, we should not. We should also not be referring to me hating so many things, because I'm willing to bet you (collectively), too, hate many things but just don't express it aloud for fear of being regarded as a person who hates things.
I hate that.
Here is a list, by no means comprehensive, of a few things I don't hate:
R. Crumb, and that he goes by "R".
Fingernails that know better than to extend past the fingertip.
Cats, coffee, trees.
Next week I'll be in Indianapolis, hanging out with four fabulous gayboys who live there and one straight guy flying in from Albuquerque. I mention the straight guy to my mother, which perks up her ears like a dog hearing the word "treat" or "outside".
"Maybe this could be someone you could talk to or hang out with," she says, or something like that. I don't remember the exact words because I was too busy already hating the turn this conversation was taking.
Because Albuquerque is viable, feasible, and sustainable. And like I give a damn about this crap anyway.
Big Excitement for the Day: Crystal Light pink lemonade, when prepared according to the package, one packet per 2 quarts, is a bit strong (I drank a large glass and awoke stranded on the Coney Island ferris wheel, in a seat at the top, wearing only a propeller beanie and poufy-sleeved prom gown), so I can use half a packet for 1-1/2 quarts, which just so happens to be the size of my nifty vintage Tupperware pitcher, and thus save big, big bucks and, of course, face, because I won't have to explain WTF happened to "the fuzz" again. Win/win!
In 1999, still residents of Philadelphia, we paused to look in the window of Robbins. He pointed out a diamond ring, and although I'm not necessarily a diamond fan, I said, yes, if I were ever to wear them, that'd be the ring. One morning he simply handed me a box containing it as he passed my desk. I wore the ring for 19-plus years on my right ring finger. Several weeks after The Worst Day, I moved it to my left middle finger, closer to my heart and perhaps a "fuck you" to the notion of marrying someone else.
Happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday even though you're not of this Earth anymore. I will never not celebrate it.
Before you meet Floyd Kolodziej you don't expect him to be good-looking. You expect him to look as awkward as his name sounds, even if Kolodziej is as common as Smith in whatever country he comes from. But you like saying it to yourself like a chant as you shower, make coffee, or count the change that's accumulated in your purse. But when he walks into the bank and asks to see the manager, you wish you were the manager so you could stare into his thickly-lashed eyes the color of "American" money and hope your future babies inherit them.
Corey Clagstaff is convinced she's the best-lookin' chick in the room. Doesn't matter which room, even if it's the dressing room behind the scenes at a photo shoot for the Victoria's Secret thing where the models are having wings affixed to their bra straps, nope, she'll still strut around the place smugly, secure in the deluded knowledge that she's got it made over all the others.
On one hand, the rest of the girls wish we had her unflagging confidence. But man oh man, not that wiry hair, crooked tooth, and skin like a topographical map. What the? How the?
The Photo Not Taken:
Two leafy-topped full-sized carrots, sprawled on the slimy sidewalk near the loading area of Fairway in a sludgy pool of vegetative goop, chalk-outline-ready, awaiting my caption of "Car-rot".
A clear plastic carton of brown eggs, upturned several yards away on the street near the same area of Fairway, around which several pigeons of various colors, including brown, searched and pecked, awaiting a caption that didn't come to me spontaneously but would have had something to do with the fact that birds lay eggs and maybe, if I thought a bit more, cannibalism.
You were, thankfully, spared.
Don't ask "Just how much of The Golden Girls can one person watch in a day?" if you think it's a rhetorical question, and upon asking you can shuffle or traipse (your choice) to the kitchen for your third cup (I'm counting!) of Sanka with Sweet 'n' Low. Because I will answer, chest puffed out like a peacock or a lion (whichever one is prouder, and perhaps I'll go with the lion because the collective noun is "pride") and say, as if reciting that my formerly remedial-reading-group child got an "A" in Advanced Placement, "Oh, at least a dozen episodes."
"I love the uniform. Which airline are you with?" My wearing the navy Lacoste dress with thick red trim and belt to match, gold-tone buttons down the front; red/white/blue spectator pumps; and red/white/blue scarf tied jauntily around my neck (my "Wonder Bread" scarf) paid off.
I tell him I'm not with an airline, that it's just for amusement, that stewardesses (feh to "flight attendants") don't wear cute uniforms anymore, and this is my homage to the days when they did and my wish that they still did.
"It's hot," he says.
And this is how you "meet cute."
The baby across the small plane aisle is not Myra, as I thought I'd here. It's Lyra. It's not a family name; they just liked it. The dad, despite having a week chin in profile, is a DILF. The mom has a pretty-ish face that would probably benefit from losing the baby weight, but Lyra's only four months old and I don't want to be too "judgy". The baby's not the cutest I've ever seen but she's cute, as are her pants, and with one exception where she cried for maybe a minute, she's been what they call an angel.
They want to know what I want to do when I'm visiting them in Indianapolis. All I want to do is go out to eat and then hang out at their house watching Sex and the City and The Golden Girls while eating snacks and drinking Diet Coke, so that's what we do, for the most part. I figure I can't be a total drip, though, so when they suggest going to a few bars to hang out for a while, of course I go along. But the rest of the time, at home with the cat is certainly A-OK!
The Sarah Coventry "Egyptian Temptress" choker/necklace I'd been admiring on Etsy didn't budge from $30/$6 shipping for the entirety of its languishing in my Favorites. The brilliant notion of searching for another on eBay struck me late one night, where I found it for $9.99/$3.75 shipping and a "best offer" option. My $7 offer was accepted promptly, and the 1962 beauty will be in my possession soon. I wonder if the seller researched pricing, because from the looks of the photos it's as fine as others priced higher. I have a feeling I'll be thrilled I waited for this one.
Although I don't talk about aloud as much, it's a constant running narrative in my head. It informs everything about me, decisions and actions and reactions. I feel he has become a part of me and I am embodying him, even down to recent minor injuries to parts of my own body that had given him great discomfort over the years. Recently as I limped to a supermarket two blocks away, I appreciated more his struggle to walk the same distance from the subway home. What I wouldn't give to be able to tell him, in passing, in Google Hangouts.
I rarely take anything for ailments. Exceptions have included shingles and accompanying allodynia in 2008 and bilateral adhesive capsulitis, also adorably known as frozen shoulder, in 2014, both of which were so excruciating that I felt blindness was imminent and inevitable and would've been a welcome reprieve.
I recently jammed/rammed the smaller toes on my left foot and suffered several days of hobbling, grimacing pain. My best "gal pal" instructed me to take ibuprofen, which I dutifully did, and when it worked, and quickly, I felt like all the world needed to know.
So now, with this post, it does.
A friend posted on Instagram and Facebook a photo of a tater tot casserole from his mom's old recipe. He said he's never called himself a foodie, by way of a roundabout apology or rationalization, I suppose preempting anyone's sneering, snooty judgment of his taste in food.
All I can say is this: Foodie schmoodie. "Foodies" would eat the tater tot concoction too. The restaurant would just arrange five tots vertically, with a drizzle of gravy and a sprinkling of shredded cheese on a pure white plate, ask if you wanted some fresh-cracked pepper on top, and blithely charge $25.
I'm so proud. I finished the first season of The Golden Girls (25 episodes) in three days and can now sing along to the theme song without mistakes. Several times I went back to the beginning of the song if I made an error, to start again until I got it right, and felt a bit smug in my victory upon successfully "singing" it without stumbling. I can't imagine the joyous triumph I'll experience when I can sing it on my own, unaided by TV, and prove to the world how big a fan I am. Or what a loser.
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