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So, are you coming in like a lion and going out like a lamb, March? Is that on the agenda? I don't know about that. I wouldn't mind five days of each week being a lion and two a lamb. Indeed, I'd even say six lion, one lamb. But then again, that would mean everyone who'd been cooped up on lion days would be clamoring to be outside on the lamb days, which would make me want to stay inside to avoid the frenzy and crush even more than I do now.
Can we have half and half? That cool?
Time to hoist myself out of this rut and into the drawing and painting swing now that it's Spring. Time to put on a snappy outfit, strut and/or stroll and rock and/or roll down the boulevard, the avenue, the street and get inspired. I work so much. I work "too" much, some say. But working so/too much allows me to live in the city I love in an apartment I love with no one but a cat who, although amazing and gorgeous, does not contribute to the household budget. But it's time to shake it up. If just a little.
On my way home from the theater, I want to eat something but don't know what. Probably the veggie burger deluxe at Utopia since it's close to home, I love it, and oh, those two onion rings that come with it
above and beyond the fries!!!
Instead, I go to Fairway, nab a box of Raisin Nut Bran, and head to the self checkout, accessed by an app, thus bypassing the masses of people, even at this hour, waiting in seemingly interminable lines.
Pretty smug I am for a girl who's going to eat an entire box of cereal alone!
Before the apartment in front of mine was occupied, my landlord sometimes had friends of his use it when visiting. Several years ago, I ran into a couple, a very nice older groovy-looking man and woman, who was staying there. The woman said, "Oh, so you're the singer!" I cringed heartily inside my ladyskin-suit but smiled outwardly. I don't remember if I said anything but probably chortled in acknowledgment. Oh, so they'd heard my YouTube karaoke after all. Oy.
"We've heard you through the wall. You're very good! Your voice is beautiful!"
And that, friends, is how I was discovered.
I mean, he called himself the Queen of West 81st Street, so why am I even pretending I think he may be straight? This, on top of him using words like "Fendi" and "Louboutin" and telling me I'm "fancy". I tell myself, no, no, it's okay, he's not from here, he's from South Africa, men are different there, they have to be, and he and his lilting accent and twinkly eyes and mischievous little smile and adorable sense of humor would make for marvelous sights across a table when we go on a dinner date. But I know. I know.
I didn't feel like being completely upright anymore, but wasn't ready to leave the gym because despite having done lots of free weights earlier and then doing hills on the treadmill, I didn't feel like it was enough. The realization that, oh, that's right, I can always do a bike over on the mezzanine for another 20 minutes, made me so giddily happy that I felt like I was handed a marvelous treat. I shudder to think of the facial expression I was no doubt making from one end of the gym floor to the other to claim a bike.
Let's see if anyone notices.
CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT.
And P.S. CUNT.
Is anyone out there anymore?
It goes without saying, but I'm going to say it anyway. I feel so much better when I don't eat baked goods, when I don't dash up to Murray's Sturgeon Shop in a frenzy and buy two hunks of crumb cake, lying to myself that I'll save one hunk for tomorrow, but then, of course, scarfing both in one afternoon or evening or whatever day-part it is, maybe not in one sitting but certainly in the span of a few hours, because, really, why spread the enormous guilt over more than one day? Complete abstinence is the only viable solution.
I'm increasing the volume and skipping tracks using my Bluetooth headset/earbuds like a pro. I'm pressing the button on the side of my Fitbit to get to the desired screen like a pro as well. I'm wondering if those around me admire the skill with which I perform these tasks that have now become "second nature" to me. Surely they're silently applauding me, knowing how stupidly anxious both devices made me at the outset, when I had marveled at others' ability to use them with aplomb. I'm certain a novice is awestruck by my ability now and is secretly wowed.
The vegan black bean and corn "skillet burrito" thing is fun to make and even more fun to eat. The recipe says that you can add any "protein" you like, and I shudder to think of some schmuck tossing hunks of chicken or pork into it so he can feel like he's eating something more substantial that's going to FUEL HIS MACHINE when he goes to Crossfit boot camp and slippery-sweats his way through countless burpees and medicine ball shenanigans. If anything, I'd add a few soy curls for a little extra "chew", but even then, why tamper with perfection?
When wearing earbuds at the gym, with white noise or music jamming my brain, everyone else may as well be on the other side of a TV screen I'm aware is on but that doesn't demand attention or participation. I see movement, I know there's activity, but the people involved aren't quite real. What they do has no bearing on me, and what I do doesn't affect them.
So when a certain someone caught my eye and smiled several times, I was somewhat startled, quite like if Stephen Colbert had looked straight into the camera and addressed me by name.
Nobody is reading this anyway, so I may as well describe a piece of my vintage loungewear in as many details as I can cram into 100 words. Further, I may as well go through the entire collection, and it is indeed becoming a collection because I keep adding to it, one item per entry, because my brain is so atrophied by now that I feel like I can't think of anything of "importance" to say (here or otherwise) and all I care about anyway is nylon nightgowns, pajamas, robes, and peignoir sets and a few pair of coordinating slippers.
My foray into vintage loungewear began with a two-tone pink zip-front full-length Vanity Fair robe/lounger with spread-type collar and what I think are bishop sleeves, cuffed. The sides and back are darker pink, as is its waist's drawstring cord, and the collar and panels (trimmed with piping of varying colors) on either side of the zipper are lighter pink. The metal zipper starts at the bottom of the V created by the collar and goes about 3/4 of the way down so you have to step in. It's soft nylon, substantial but not heavy. I'd estimate it's from the 1960s.
I'm at my desk, transcribing the deposition of a police department employee who'd moved up the ranks and is now sitting in what I imagine is a generic conference room in Chicago, perhaps daydreaming of lunch as he answers questions. He seems pleasant enough and the attorneys are behaving themselves. I'm sure no one in that room knows that the person transcribing the proceedings is in a vintage Henson Kickernick peignoir set and white chain and bead double-strand necklace, and that when she gets up to grab a TaB from the refrigerator, she slips her feet into vintage brocade slippers.
The mid-lime green and navy peignoir Gossard Artemis set is perhaps a touch too long or maybe I'm a touch too short, but either way, it drags a bit on the floor when I stand and walk. Or, rather, glide, because when you cannot see much of my feet, it's as I have miniature wheels instead, like those on the bottom of the skate-sneakers kids were wearing several years ago.
This is the "sportiest" of my vintage loungewear, bought in 1973 according to the seller. I think of it as something Kate Jackson would wear as Sabrina on Charlie's Angels.
After the duo-tone pink Vanity Fair robe, I switched gears and decades. I found an Evelyn Pearson robe/caftan sort of thing, again with a zipper that went way down but not completely, but shaped more like a column without much of a "sweep". This one has a white ground with vivid florals of pink, green and blue, highlighted with yellow and outlined in black. Its bell sleeves are edged in cobalt blue, as is its placket. Although I saw several of its kind for sale, this was the only one that had a white O-ring on its zipper pull. Swoon.
A bit of time passed after the Vanity Fair and Evelyn Pearson acquisitions before I added another piece. This time I went with something decidedly more frothy, between coral and hot pink. It's a chiffon wide-leg one-piece pajama-y sort of thing, open to the high waist, pearly buttons on the torso, white-trimmed narrow ruffling along the neckline and edges of the poufy short sleeves. From the waist floats an attached skirt, open over the pants. Although missing its original sash (which I didn't know when I purchased it), I added a gorgeous slightly sparkly sheer long oblong pink flocked scarf.
I apologize to the people in line behind me at the will-call window who are also eager to claim their tickets here at Vineyard Theater. I don't want to be the discourteous jerk who's oblivious to the rest of the world as I wait for the woman behind the window to sort out why my ticket isn't available. I also don't want to be rude or short with her, because it's not her fault, so I'm not. So, I, like those behind me, am kind, patient, and understanding. It feels much better than making any sort of "scene", however mild.
You held such promise when we first talked. You were funny, smart, had a fantastic smile and laugh, a handsome face, and if the rest of your body was like your arms, well, wow. You asked if it would be okay if you had my phone number and I said sure. You texted later to say it was a pleasure meeting me and other complimentary whatnot. So why, later, did your texts degenerate into telling me you'd always been interested in threesomes? Yes, you said it in a nice way, but still. Ew. No. Couldn't you wait, like, ONE DAY?
Crunchy peanut butter is my "jam"!
2. I used to hate "LOL" but have come around to think it's quasi-cute, especially when it gets bastardized in AutoCorrect or my fingers are on the wrong keys and I type "KIK", think "kike", and then think of Archie Bunker and how Carroll O'Connor was only 46 when the incredible "All in the Family" started and younger than I am now when it ended.
3. Does anyone say things are their "jam" anymore or just old fucks who think they're "hip"?
4. Oh, and the kind that's only peanuts and salt.
Flefferpleff shows up on Lila's doorstep, unannounced, bearing a small shaker of pepper which he presents with a flourish and curtsy before sashaying down the street to the corner, where he pivots without turning to see if Lila's watching from the stoop, and goes back to wherever it is the rest of his day takes him.
"For you, Miss Flora," he says, every time.
The first time, Lila thought he had the wrong address, but her landlord later advised that Flora was a tenant who'd died in the apartment 20 years ago and Flefferpleff had been her most ardent suitor.
The nylon vintage loungewear is a surefire crowd-pleaser, even if the only crowd is me and my cat. A friend visited several weeks ago, witnessed me in an Evelyn Pearson floral zip-front caftan (oh, the round white zipper pull!) and tri-tone Daniel Green slippers, and expressed great joy at the getup and that I would be sitting around the house so attired. My landlord has yet to come to my door for his usual whatever, but I look forward to his reaction at his favorite tenant (he told me so!) channeling a (much) lower-key Auntie Mame. (Mrs. Roper? Absolutely not.)
I tell myself I'm not going to yell at the cat anymore, but man oh man, my patience is fucking tried when I'm trying to look at the computer screen and she just stands between it and me like she doesn't know she's about to get a faceful of her crazy human mommy's curses fueled by rampant impatience, a dearth of calories, and frustration with work. Earlier this morning I had chastised myself for this sort of thing, reminding myself that she's a cat and doesn't speak English, but right meow all bets are off. I am a shitty parent.
The acquisition of a new clothing steamer has already made me stupidly happy. It arrived a day early (oh, Amazon, I can't quit you!), and I read the instructions with a bit of trepidation because even something as simple as this has the potential of confounding me. But I was able to complete the task without event and was "proud" of myself for not cursing. This doesn't mean I didn't almost scorch the hell out of my left hand when, like a dope, I went to remove the brush attachment when the thing was still creating steam. It's always something.
My mom wants to order a book online for my sister but doesn't want my sister to see that she's done so. I want to ask, "What the fuck; are you like an old married couple that shares an email account?" but I don't. I find the book online, use my credit card, and have it delivered to their house. My mom says she will reimburse me by mail.
When it arrives, inside the envelope is a piece of note paper with a handwritten note folded around a ten-dollar bill. This is so old-fashioned and old-lady-like that I practically swoon.
Whatever it takes to make me "happy", I'll do. I'll never truly be happy, just "happy" encased in the bubble of quotation marks, ever since June decided to steal my favorite person in the world and leave me utterly rudderless.
So if it's vintage loungewear, so be it. I spend so much time home, working, and sitting at my desk in a business suit or real pants wouldn't make me feel any more professional than if do so, in, say, a floor-length nylon nightgown in the most fantastic shade of 1960s pale green. Whatever works, he said. And this? Does.
Megan and I met at Veselka at noon for lunch on a Saturday. It was packed and people were waiting, mostly milling outside beyond the side door, for their parties' names to be called so they could come in from the cold and cram themselves with pierogies and kasha and whatever other delights this fantastic place has to offer. I wore a fantastic black and green dress with ridiculously coordinated scarf. My black and white spectators were a bit too big, and I wish I'd thought of secreting two pierogies in each shoe's toe box for the return trip home!
I just signed in to my dearly departed cat, Shana's, Facebook account (of course she has one) and saw that Bob had "waved" to her on March 18, three months before he left this world. Had I signed in then, I would've noticed and would've "waved" back for her. It is tempting to do so now, nine months after he has gone, but I like to think he doesn't need to wave to her in cyberspace anymore because they are romping together somewhere better than Earth now, years past their days of being able to "romp" in their earthly form.
Nineteen years ago today you came into my life, Shana Shornstein. You'd been hanging at the Jenkintown train station several days until a co-worker rescued you. Although her last name was Katz, she wasn't a "cat person", and I wound up with you, in part, because I didn't want the other prospective candidate in the office, who I disliked, to have you. You expressed gratitude for your new home by providing a hostile home in your mouth for my fingers any time I touched you. Thank you for a wonderful 15 years, 5 months, and 15 days. I miss mew.
"Time you enjoy wasting was not wasted."
Thank you, John Lennon. And thanks, Internet, for the ability to find the quote whose words I couldn't recall the other night but whose meaning I remembered, as I spent what I'd considered an inordinate amount of time searching for and looking at vintage loungewear online.
Even as I was doing it, I was thinking, why am I wasting another night with this when I could be doing something more "productive", but then realized, why did I have to, when this simple activity brought me such pleasure and did harm to no one.
Oh, handsome gym denizen P, you of the red running shoes, of the hair you run your strong hand through because you must know that that makes me want to do the same, hair you want me to know you have in the first place by doffing your baseball cap so I don't think you're one of the many less "blessed", you who I once caught checking your abs in the mirror from afar and who I hated for a moment even as I appreciated the fine results of your hard work. Where have you been the past four weeks?
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