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Knock on wood, but I don't think I'm going to "grow up" to be a very old lady. I don't see myself into my eighties, like my adorable crazy mom, or even well into my seventies. More and more, the worries of a heart attack, stroke, blood clot, or suffocating during sleep, give me even more concern, in addition to the pain in this body part or that (all of which go away) have me thinking, "Nope. Don't have to worry about Social Security and stuff. You're not going to make it that long." I have to knock it off.
It's the late '70s or maybe early '80s and my mom's telling me that being a legal secretary is a great job. She's been doing it since high school graduation in the '50s! You get to work at a nice desk in an office and wear great clothes! And here she tells me about her hand-tailored skirt suits and I daresay I swoon.
I picture myself in a hand-tailored skirt suit and shiny shoes in a posh office with a handsome lawyer dictating into a machine.
I bought it, but oh god, do I ever want my fucking money back.
I submitted my PPP forgiveness application at the end of October. They have 60 days to send it to the SBA. The SBA then has 90 days to decide. This means I should have a decision by the end of March, at which time I can either breathe a sigh of relief or punch someone in the throat. I'm going to go for the "glass half full" approach since there's no reason they shouldn't forgive the loan. I need the relief that will come from that decision as well as the relief from thinking about this on a daily basis.
Longshore Broderick Manheim Collins says a man with such a strong name shouldn't be afraid to admit to the public that not only does he not take his coffee as black as coal but that he doesn't drink it at all and it upsets what he likes to call, in private, his "stummy", which he pats with all the fondness of a spinster stroking the cat on her lap while giggling over "The Golden Girls" on a Saturday night. When asked if he worries that "lesser men" will follow suit, he says, "Obvs" and "Pshaw," and Twitter flails with joy.
I've been sleeping more on the sofa than on the bed for the past few months for several reasons, none of which I really feel like committing to paper, part of the reason of which is that I don't really know why. Still, every night when I remove the four pillows (two large flat square and two puffier standard throw) and place them on the floor by the "foot" end of the sofa, I tell myself, "It's okay. You don't have to explain why" and then rebuke myself for ever thinking I'd have to explain why (to myself). So normal.
As a result of the unspeakable atrocity of today, the seeping sack of sewage in a poorly tailored suit has had his Twitter and Facebook accounts suspended for 12 hours and one day, respectively. I love picturing him at "home" losing his fucking shit even more than usual, with no social media outlet to do squat about it.
That one-minute recording that he put out, chiding the terrorists to "go home", was the equivalent of telling a bunch of 9-year-olds on their Schwinns to come inside right now before dinner gets cold. 13-1/2 more days, and this twunt is GONE.
If I'm supposed to feel sorry for the QAnon terrorist who died yesterday after she, along with thousands of like-minded cretins, stormed the Capitol Building and tried to murder our country, well, that's just too bad. I don't give a damn that she was unarmed. I certainly don't give a fuck that she was a veteran. She was a trespasser, wrapped in a stupid-ass Trump flag like a cape, like she was some kind of warrior, intent only on upheaval, destruction, and insurrection. She's the worst kind of garbage this country has to offer. If that's "mean", I don't care.
CASTING SPOILER ALERT (THAT IS, IF YOU'RE NOT AS DENSE AS I AM)
For the entirety of "Death to 2020" (Netflix), which I finished moments ago, I wanted to check IMDb to identify one of the actors (no, not Samuel L. Jackson, who is unmistakable from the get go; I was a bit slow on the Tracey Ullman uptake, however), because I'd never seen him before and wondered what else he'd done. I held off, though, and it wasn't until the end credits rolled that I realized, ohdeargod, I'd been admiring Hugh Grant, whom I've adored for years, all along.
(redo of 1/11)
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Fellas, you CAN shave your own faces. Enough with these horribly reckless "quarantine beards". Unless you're a Mr. Fancy Pants, III, Esquire, and pre-COVID, you were being carried daily, if not more frequently, on a palanquin to an oak-paneled manscapatorium for facial hair maintenance, and have no idea how to wield the equipment necessary or never found yourself as a toddler on a stepstool next to your dad, gazing at each other's reflections in the medicine cabinet mirror with shaving cream on your faces, and you removing yours, with the back of, like, a Mastercharge (yes) card.
CASTING SPOILER ALERT (THAT IS, IF YOU'RE NOT AS DENSE AS I AM)
For the entirety of "Death to 2020", which I finished watching moments ago, I wanted to check IMDb to identify one of the actors was (no, not Samuel L. Jackson, who is unmistakable from the get go, although I was a bit slow on the Tracey Ullman uptake), because I'd never seen him before and wondered what else he'd done. I held off, though, and it wasn't until the end credits rolled that I realized I'd been admiring Hugh Grant, whom I've adored for years, all along.
I got a cute lady-voice robocall this morning advising me that $399 was going to be taken from my bank account or PLASTIC CARD for renewal of my subscription. But don't fret, kidz. I did not pick up the phone with my skin hands, so I did not ask any questions with my flesh mouth about an unidentified mystery subscription that I suspect is fabricated out of multi-colored construction paper, tied together with thick yarn, on which "MY 'SCRIPTION" is spelled out diagonally in questionably non-toxic glitter affixed to the cover with fun-to-sniff Elmer's Glue-All (with the pert orange cap).
I now have five pairs of roundish-framed reading glasses in a variety of colors that I think make me look like someone's groovy older aunt, the one who takes the kids out for ice cream before (or instead of) dinner, encourages them to lick their hands clean, and curses in front of them not only without regard for the possibility that they'll repeat it when they're out of her care, back with their parents, but with the hope that they do. Oh, and they're might be cute enough to wear out and about if that ever becomes an option again.
Boring as fuck post: I want a water filter pitcher to keep on my desk. Now I just drink tap, and fill a 36-ounce pitcher twice, excluding the 16 ounces I drink upon awaking (braggart). (Ideally it'd be "cute", although that's not a priority.) I don't want to spend more than $40-ish, but like many things I don't use on a regular basis, if at all*, I have no idea how much they cost without checking Amazon. I'd suck on The Price is Right.
*I was shocked when I learned that a pack of cigarettes is more than $6 now.
It's tenth grade and I suck at Chemistry in a way I don't suck at any other subject except maybe Gym. Biology is fine, Physics even better, but Chemistry vexes me. The teacher looks like he's never run a comb through the crazy mess atop his head or that he's ever heard of H2O in which to bathe.
I have lots of cheaty-things penned on my palm for a test. The beaker I hand back afterward magnifies that writing. He notices, grabs that wrist, and shouts that I'm getting a zero. Still, this is better than crab soccer any day.
A retired firefighter throws a fire extinguisher at the heads of cops during the Capitol horror. His attorney tells Chris Cuomo that it's really not that bad because the fire extinguisher was empty, and besides, the guy who threw it had a "perfect track record" up until then and this is "not who he is". He got caught up in the moment! He wasn't breaking in or nothin'! He's a family man!
Sorry, but that is who he is. I'm willing to bet even Jeffrey fucking Dahmer started out just eating toast and Cap'n Crunch like a good little boy.
Friends, Romans, cunts, trees, men. Lend me your -- never mind. I've made my point, and the point is that I'm hilarious.
Anyway, I'm here to announce that my "blog", which I've had since 2002 (!), is now functional again, after a stupidly long hiatus, hangin' with a new host (it promises to cook and do the dishes in return), and ready for your enjoyment. Or not.
I'm "dialing back" on Facebook, but this isn't one of those solemn "I have no use for Facebook anymore" things. Please.
(The URL is eponymous, so I'm sure you can figure it out.)
Joe and Kamala deserve a spectacular inauguration, modified only to accommodate COVID-19, not surrounded by walls and barbed wire and 25,000 National Guard troops thanks to the filthy fucking domestic terrorists. Tonight I read that defense officials fear a possible "inside attack" at inauguration and are having the troops vetted.
I know we don't want those filthy fucking terrorists to "win", but really, the inauguration should be done in the style of an elopement at this point, with just Biden, Harris, and their spouses, and somewhere down the road we have a "fun" reception. All in favor, say "I do."
I have nowhere to go, nothing to do beyond the boundaries of home, and this would be the case even if not for COVID. Still, I'm thrilled when I see the first signs of snow, followed rather quickly by a dumping of the stuff, inhibiting me from going out "even if I wanted to", which I don't. I guess it's the notion of a snow day, of being let off the hook of pretending that I want to leave the house and go out and do something that, upon my return home, I'd say, "Eh, I could've done without that."
I run six days a week (braggart). If I take off tomorrow, this morning's will be the last one during the Tr*mp so-called "Administration". However, if I do run tomorrow morning, then *that* will be the last one before Biden is sworn in, and the excitement will carry over. But as it stands right now, just knowing that *this* run may be the last one gives me even more chills than those that I'll feel when I get out there in about five minutes and the wind whips me in the happiest face it's seen since the asshole took office.
I drag the 25-pound weighted blanket off the bed and over to the sofa rather than taking the 15-pounder off the chair the way I usually do when I plan to sofa-sleep. Although both are large enough to "hug" me, the heavier blanket is bigger and thus settles on me more not just because of its weight but by its volume. I sleep "like the dead" on the sofa, which is fantastic, but in the morning, I don't want to get up at all, which isn't. I need to hire someone to remove it ten minutes before my alarm sounds.
I was already over the Bernie In His Mittens inauguration meme about 14 seconds after my first exposure to it. And even then I'm being generous. It's already overstayed its (my) welcome.
Wear your big woolly mittens on the way to run errands, sir, and the same with your sturdy Vermont coat and boots. We know you want to get to the dry cleaner and post office before they close, but at least have the decorum to dress a bit for an inauguration. Unless, of course, your good suit is among the dry cleaning. Still, you should have planned better.
Unpopular Opinions That You May Feel Free to Defriend And/Or Block Me For If That's Your Sort of Thing: 1. I don't care for Fran Lebowitz other than in writing. I don't like "Pretend It's A City", at least the two episodes I've managed to watch, and I cannot stand Martin Scorsese guffawing over everything she says like Jimmy Fallon does with ... everyone. I've had funnier conversations with and heard funnier stories from my own friends. 2. I'm already over the Bernie meme. I found it mildly amusing for about 14 seconds. I do like his groovy mittens, though.
I'm not familiar with Christopher Plummer as a young man/actor*, but oh, how I loved him as an older gentleman in EVERYTHING I'd ever seen him do, such as "Beginners" and "Knives Out". He killed me in "Remember" from 2015.
Good night, you brilliant, handsome, extraordinarily gifted marvel. I'm so glad you were in this world for as long as you were.
*Please, please, please don't tell me to watch The Sound of Music. I have less than zero desire. But I will have a strong desire to slap you if say it anyway, and not in a good way.
If anyone's planning to run this morning in Riverside Park in the two-sided kind of pedestrian-ish wide "boulevard" from 82nd-ish to 92nd-ish streets, please be advised that it's not nearly as accessible as you'd want it to be. Take it from someone who did the literal legwork an hour and a half ago and stated it aloud to no one except herself and may have cursed and admonished herself for even going there in the first place.
*I wrote this on February 5th (why I feel like I have to clarify this like it's a legal document is beyond me)
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The Cherry Walk portion of the Hudson Greenway is open again (I'm typing this on 5 February!), as I discovered on a run in the snow/slush the other day. I didn't realize it at first, because I was waiting to come to the blockade/fence that has been in place for a while and the sign indicating a detour. When I realized I was indeed past that border/barrier (what's with all the slashes?), I felt victorious and excited, but then remembered that this stretch of the Greenway is rather monotonous and daunting because it doesn't let up until 125th Street. Oy.
Latest thrill: Drinking two glasses of water before filling the 36-ounce pitcher I keep on my desk during the work day, even before feeding my cat or pouring my first mug of coffee. I get it from the tap. The first glass is cold. By the time I'm done (six big gulps), the second cup is rather warm, which just seems wrong for some reason and grosses me out. I drink two of the pitchers per day and and 6 ounces during my run. Still, every day I add it all up "just to make sure" I'm getting it right.
Delivery.com has an offer for $5 off Bareburger with a $20 minimum. The delivery fee is $3.00, though, and I don't want to pay more than $1.00 for delivery, so I don't feel like it's that viable of a deal. I could always choose pickup instead, but the restaurant is 1.3 miles away, and the weather doesn't make that a desirable option.
I'm further daunted by the calorie counts listed under each item I'd order, which would total at least 1,000 calories. I decide to save the money and calories and make something at home that I know will deliver.
Okay, the snow can go away now. It was "cute" when I was indoors, watching it pile atop my patio table like the most delightful angel food cake (even though I'm not a fan of vanilla and/or light cake and my taste runs more to dense chocolate, like the Bundt I make that I have been known to say "comes out so fudgy", much to the simultaneous delight and disgust of a very good friend). But now that it's been sullied by dogs and geese and probably people as well, it's not cute anymore and can melt the fuck away.
I'm still an illiterate bum and the month is almost over (okay, it is over; I'm typing this in February). I still haven't read an entire book, still dragging my brain heels, still choosing to lose myself in endless movies and TV series (so many good ones) and not have to do any "work" after work. I need to change this pronto. I need to stop my poor brain from degenerating into a totally useless sponge, not the type that thirstily soaks up stuff but the kind that collects insidious mildew in the kitchen sink and stinks up the joint.
February already. Where has the time gone. Blah, blah, yeah, yeah. Ugh.
But really, January can blow me, so I'm glad it's gone. The best thing that happened this month, of course, was not that I made some delicious tofu skewers, substituting tahini for peanut butter for the sauce (although that was splendid and spectacular) but that a shiny new President was sworn in and the repugnant scum who preceded him has hauled his bloated carcass down to Florida with his squinty-eyed wife so they can live a loveless life there instead of here in NYC. Good riddance, malignant motherfuckers.
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