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"Take it to the worms," Faldo Finch said. And no one knew what he meant.
Legend had it that Faldo's name was supposed to be Waldo, because his parents decided he would be born on a Wednesday and wanted a name that began with W as a way to commenmorate that, but when he entered the world late by two days, they hadn't prepared for an F name, and before either of them could come up with a simple "Frank" or "Fred", one of them blurted out "Faldo" to be cute, and somehow it found itself onto the birth certificate.
2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME 2020 CAN BLOW ME
GAP needs to bring back the classic Breathe T-shirts, both long-sleeved and short-sleeved, that it has replaced with shorter, boxier versions that, if the site's ratings are any indication, very few people are finding acceptable. I will never understand why a popular item, a sure-fire easy-selling shirt that garnered raves and a devout following, is discontinued and replaced with inferior schlock. Now the offerings are trying to be "cute" with twisted or knotted fronts, too-low necklines, high slits on the sides, and other manner of nonsense. What's next? The "cold shoulder" bullshit? (Is that still happening?) I shudder to think.
He/she was on his/her (using personal pronouns because the animal is not an "it") right side on a stainless steel (I suppose) rolling cart, being unceremoniously pushed by a person. All fur intact, nose and lips and other skin pink, and the light pink showed through its white fur. Eyes open, mouth at ease in what I would have otherwise called a slight "smile".
I pictured myself as a kid and telling myself, "He's just not feeling well and he's being taken to the doctor!" or "It's a fake, not a real animal" but couldn't lie to my adult self.
Today, alongside Chelsea Piers, I saw something so utterly heartbreaking that all I can say is FUCK YOU AND YOUR BACON. It's a good thing I always bring sunglasses on my runs because I had to put them on immediately and run back home, bawling my fucking face off the entire time behind the security blanket of the glasses and my gaiter.
(If your reaction to this is, "But what about my ribs? Should we fuck off as well?" and you feel compelled to say that to me, either here or in a private message, I will defriend you immediately.)
Is it written in NIcole Kidman's contract that any character she plays has to be singled out for her incredible beauty and praised for it, or is it just in The Undoing (binged in two days) and Big Little Lies (just started)? It's like when Susan Lucci played Erica Kane for 500 years and every man fawned over her like she was the most exquisite, ethereal beauty not only Pine Valley but the world had ever seen and any other woman in her orbit, no matter how lovely, fell by the woeful wayside in the presence of such exquisite rarity.
Get off your moral high fucking horse and pretending to be a superior human being because you don't wish the worst for Giuliani or any of these motherfuckers who are hellbent on destroying the country and the planet. I refuse to say "Gosh, you're a better person than I am" when you post that you don't wish him any harm, that you could never wish anything bad upon someone else who doesn't give a fuck about you. I will gladly dance down Broadway when this bastard or any of his ilk expires, without hesitation, with gleeful fanfare. Fuck fake compassion.
We're standing in a plaza in Spain, shouting at each other in English like the ugliest Americans this side of the Atlantic. We're fed up with each other's shit on this long vacation. He says he's leaving, will give me the car keys, and I can drive back to the Paris and the airport without him.
This was 30 years ago, pre-GPS, and I was very bad with maps. If in the same situation today, at that same age, with technology, I like to think I'd be all Romcom Brave Girl, snatch those keys, and have myself a solo adventure.
I'm a cocky fucker when I run and others are in the same space, just walking, at a leisurely pace or otherwise, enjoying the sunshine and fresh air. When we all reach an area where there's a barrier, like, say, something to keep bicyclists from proceeding beyond a certain point, I feel like they owe it to me to yield because I'm faster than they are, much like I yield to other runners who are faster than I am. I act like my run is more important than their walk. Later I realize what a dick I am and cringe.
Still waiting to TRULY care that I can't do much right now other than hang out at home with my ridiculous cat; flopped on the sofa watching movies that I can stop and start at will; eating delicious food that I've prepared by myself, so I know exactly what's going into it; running alone outside in my favorite city, seeing a variety of dogs, depending on the route I take; and transcribing a bunch of stuff for lawyers I never have to deal with directly, cursing at their recorded faces aloud, and frequently, in the comfort of my own home.
My wardrobe is weeping behind the closet door, worried that it will never have the opportunity to be seen outside those confines and paraded around town. I assure it this is temporary, that we're not even going to deign to call this time "the new normal", that eventually we'll have places to go and people to meet and shows to see, and even on days when we have nowhere in particular to go, we'll be able to strut our stuff just for the sake of strutting it. This horror will eventually end, and the outfits will make a triumphant return.
DeBlasio is shutting down indoor "dining" in restaurants. Who in their right goddamned mind was even *doing* that? Who are these selfish fucks who have decided eh, never mind, it's okay to do some stuff because it's been nine months since the lockdown/quarantine/whatever it's called now that they think it's fine to flout it, and everyone else, including those of us who haven't even done outdoor "dining" (don't get me started on those asinine "bubble"/pod situations), have to suffer because the actions of these impatient me-centric mavericks think nothing of being gigantic assholes and causing these horrifying spikes in infection?
Every once in a while you'll see some enterprising maverick ask something on Twitter like, "Is it okay to eat breakfast for dinner?" and people can't wait to chime in with a response, like they're unique because they eat Cap'n Crunch or French toast after sundown. Everyone loves to think they're groundbreaking, bucking the fucking system, so special and fun-loving.
Look at me! Sometimes I'll even stay in pajamas all day when I have nowhere to go! And I might take a shower at night! And I'll eat dinner for breakfast! Cold pizza at daybreak? Just try to stop me!
"The Proud Boys". "Operation Warp Speed". The kind of appellations a toddler would come up with when playing with action figures or babbling to himself in a bubble-filled bathtub. I just want all these fucking cretins and their vitriol to vanish from the face of the planet posthaste. I'm so sick of unbridled willful stupidity, churlish chauvinism, and peculiar pride for having been born with a dick and growing up to be a bigger one than any pants could ever hope to accommodate, all this rancid toxic tripe, and any bubble-headed woman who supports this megalomaniacal man-baby bullshit. Enough already.
My Kindle tells me I'm 6% into the first (of five?) Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy book. At best, I've been mildly amused so far, but now I've reached Chapter 4 and it's losing me. There's too much mention of goofy names of other solar systems/planets/whatnot, and it's reading like something an eighth grader would hand in for an assignment where he wants to come off as clever and kooky. I'll give it to 15% to recapture my interest, and if it fails by then, I'll abandon ship. I hate feeling like I'm "supposed" to like something but just don't.
Okay, who wants to join me for a run in about five minutes? Meet me by the Eleanor Roosevelt statue at 72nd and Riverside.* You can't miss her. She's wearing a mask (really).
Just kidding. The thought of running with someone is much more NOFUCKINGWAY-worthy than running in the biting cold, by the river, at all. This is just my way of showing off that I'm superior because I'm going out there and you're not. (But really, if I don't do it, I'm a miserable motherfucker. Consider my running my gift to YOU. Happy holidays, kidz.)
*Not really, would-be stalkers.
I'm the hip 'n' swingin' aunt who lives in the city, the one the kids love to visit because she not only lets them eat ice cream for dinner but gives everyone their own pint and spoon and won't even think of putting it in a bowl, the one who not only lets them pretend to smoke French fries but encourages them to inhale and crush their "lit" ketchup tips into the palms of their hands, the one who encourages them to sleep in their clothes to save time in the morning when she sends them out for hot bagels.
People have been wearing their "soft clothes" since the lockdown/quarantine/whatever it's called started in mid-March, and I hear a lot of them saying they never want to wear real clothes again, or shoes, that they'll want to stick with elasticized this 'n' that beyond the confines of home when this horror is in the rear-view mirror. To that I say NO FUCKING WAY. As soon as it's safe, I'm cramming my feet into heels even if my feet have morphed into Fred Flintstone slabs and dolling up like it's 1974 and I'm en route to WJM to bicker with Lou.
Unpopular opinions that would have some skewer me, I'm sure:
Meryl Streep is a good actress (even though woefully miscast in Big Little Lies) (Frances Conroy would've been perfect) but I would not want to hear her "read the telephone book". I can think of no one whose telephone-book-reading would not make me bleed rom the ears or worse.
Folding pizza before eating it is dumb.
Also, do not dab off the oil with a napkin.
(I have eaten it with a fork and knife, and for that I should be skewered. This does not count as an opinion, though.)
One month from today, this repugnant sack of sewage is fucking gone. People need to calm their fucking tits over all this nonsense, the supremely stupid "stop the steal", and the bogus lawsuits that keep getting thrown out. We all know he's doing it to bilk his moronic "base" into giving him money as he pretends to be doing everything in his power to serve their interests by staying in office. I can't even pretend to feel sorry for them. Anyone with a functioning brain stem knows he doesn't. But really, in one month, Biden is sworn in. The end.
If not for saving the email confirmation of my Amtrak ticket, I would not have known that the last time I saw my mom and sister was 19 October 2019. I will not be traveling anywhere at all that I cannot reach by foot (I won't even use the subway or bus or a taxi), or maybe by bike, until there's a vaccine and it's safe to do so. I have a feeling this means it will be a full two years, at least, before I see them again. I will have missed my mom's entire 83rd and 84th years.
My pressure cooker is still going strong after almost 25 years. I haven't even had to replace the gasket for the lid, although for a time I thought I would have to, but that turned out to be a user error, meaning, of course, that I was to blame. I hate seeing the term "instant pot" being thrown around these days, with all its gadgetry and settings. What I love about my now-vintage (!) Kuhn-Rikon is that there are no settings and the only measurement are two very small red lines on the little part that pops up (technical term).
I'm not loving this book like I think I'm supposed to. The friend who gifted it to me months ago told me he gave me 50/50 odds of liking it, and I was hoping I would err on the positive side. I don't want to disappoint him, and I don't want to disappoint myself for finally getting around to read this thing decades after its first printing and not finding it to be the bee's knees or even its ankles. But I fear it's going to be like so many things that everyone else loves: I just don't get why.
Christmas has been bullshit for me for at least 30 years, probably even longer, but I'm trying to pretend I ever truly gave a damn about it. In 2006, when I went to Arkansas with a new boyfriend (the first of several trips there for the holiday), I pretended I was delighted at all of the hubbub and fuss, the decoration, the tree, the presents, and the joyless singing of several Christmas tunes while gathered in a living room they didn't seem to really use. His mother never did ger around to spelling my name properly on the gift tags.
Merry Xmas, everyone! Kindly leave "gifts" for me under my "tree". And by that, I mean post an image here of something you'd bestow upon me for the occasion. And nope, this is not innuendo and I don't mean anything prurient intended to garner winks and/or nudges. If the image you want to post is "sexy", I'm not interested in the least, unless by "sexy" you mean Gregory Peck in flannel pajamas reading The New York Times by a fireplace with a dog at his feet and a warm brownie (or three) on a beautiful old plate within arm's reach.
Nope, no resolutions for 2021. As always, though, I need to read more, to be more "creative" (meaning use those paintbrushes and pens and other art supplies), to maybe not eat chocolate chips by the palmful, to stop bingeing on TV shows, to sort through my 525 junk drawers, and I'll make some headway with all that, maybe. I'm super proud of myself, though, for not ordering dinner in, remembering that not once have I done that in recent memory and not regretted it because, after the first few bites, it's never as delicious as I want it to be.
I've resumed avoiding Fairway like the plague, not even popping in just for chocolate almond milk or a random item or two, and instead am having everything delivered by Amazon Prime Now with occasional shipments from Thrive Market and Imperfect Foods. I haven't used Vitacost or Misfits Market in a while, but they're still good and reliable sources. But really, delivery slots have been easy again with Amazon, so there's no reason to go into a store where many people are breathing at the same time even behind masks. I'm not willing to take any risk, no matter how slight.
In case you're keeping track, and scientific studies and polls indicate that less than 5% of readers are doing so, my "blog" is up and running again after a long hiatus, and I've switched hosting companies, so I will post more there starting in 2021. Regrettably, however, the images folder fell by the wayside somewhere along the way, so any images from the site pre-WordPress are gone. The images in the "Gallery" remain, however, although their captions are kaput, so descriptions of dogs and food are no more. The former depresses the fuck outta me and the latter merely saddens.
How many different ways do some motherfuckers need to be told to knock it off with the "just this one time" visit poppycock and going anywhere but to run essential errands and back? Unless your job requires you to travel by plane and there's no way you can get out of it, stay grounded, both literally and figuratively. You're not special. Your "freedoms" are bullshit. You're just inconsiderate, selfish schmucks. If you're one of these gigantic raging miscreants, defriend me immediately. You don't have to tell me you're doing it. I just cannot go into 2021 being associated with you.
"Note to self", people used to say, but I suppose it's fallen out of fashion, and for that I am grateful. But as I type "I am grateful", I cringe because I'm not the sort of granola, yoga-pose-on-a-rock-at-sunrise-and/or-sunset, namaste/om type of person you'd think would not only think that but say it and write it. So maybe I can just say I'm glad people have stopped saying it, but now on Twitter we have people saying "Thank you for coming to my TED talk" and it raises my hackles, whatever they are, and I still want to punch nearly everyone.
Luca, an adorable (of course) Dachschund, who was stolen by an as-of-yet-unidentified (at least to the public) man late Sunday afternoon when he was tied up outside Garden of Eden Market at 107th and Broadway, has been reunited by his family.
Stop tying your dogs up outside. Leave them at home if you're running errands. You don't have to fucking multitask every goddamned aspect of your life. Your dog's walk should be for him or her, first and foremost. Feel free to tell me to fuck off for saying this, and I will defriend you for being an inconsiderate dick.
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