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Only two more months to go before this hideous year is over. Not that the bullshit is going to automatically disappear with a flip of the calendar page or the dropping of the Times Square ball or any other ball that drops (ew) at the stroke (ew) of midnight. But still. We can put 2020 behind us and look forward to change that'd definitely coming two-thirds of the way through January.
I never want to see "MAGA" again or the accompanying "MAGAt". The sooner we cut off oxygen to that nonsense the better. Onward, upward, and carry on. Soon. Soon.
The Brooks Cascadia 14 GTX are definitely great for keeping the feet warm and dry while running in the coldish rain, but I would not recommend running in them more than three miles. They're too stiff and hard for anything more than that, and if you go beyond, you will probably regret it the next day and will be tempted to not run, which kind of defeats the purpose. And by "you" I mean "I". As they say, your mileage may vary. Literally. And by "they" I mean faceless people I've never met. (But still, the shoes are really good.)
Peppercorn Flannery lives in a split level house at the end of a cul-de-sac. She's hanging upside down on the monkey bars, her long blonde hair obscuring her face as well as her shirt, which she acts like she doesn't notice even though it's 40 degrees outside and she's only wearing a tiny concession to a bralette underneath, the only girl in fourth grade to even pretend to "need" one. Marnie Newsome has never been more jealous of another kid in all her life, a brunette living in a duplex on a highway with barely a need for an undershirt.
I get this weird breath feeling when at home, like a slight menthol-y feeling, as if a tiny teenager is hiding out inside my chest, sneaking a Kool purloined from her mother's groovy hand-tooled leather shoulder bag, before her brother also sneaks into my chest and threatens blackmail if she doesn't pass the butt.
It doesn't happen when I'm outside, and I have absolutely no problem running quite good distances outside, even in the cold and am never winded after running, so I don't know what it is. There can only be one real explanation: A GHOST HAUNTING THIS APARTMENT.
McAllister J.P. Dash Horton Cravensworth expects me to believe that's his real name when he can't even spell it. "Would you mind spelling that for the record?" I ask, stirring in my coffee, batting extra-long, extra-fake Liza lashes (at least in my imagination) and he stares at me like I just asked him to spell "#67DC5!!syc4%@" while juggling with one hand tied behind his back. He tells me he can spell the "J.P." part, doffing what I think is an imaginary tophat or some sort of chapeau, which I would've found endearing only lying and poor spelling weren't such turnoffs.
In 1983, my friend Lori and I met three guys at a Beach Boys concert at Six Flags (typing that is so laughably painful!) who said they were from California. "My" guy's name was Tad and "hers" was, I think, Skip. I think the third's guy name was Biff, or, if not, something as ridiculous as that. Why we believed they were from California is beyond me, especially since somewhere along the way, we all ran into some chicks who were friends of theirs from Temple University. Who from fucking California comes out to the East Coast to go there?
Here on the Upper West Side, when reveling this afternoon on Broadway, a much older woman, hunched a bit over her walker, raised her fist, and said through her mask, "Right on!" This is the outpouring of joyful relief I've been daydreaming about for oh so long. Cars honking, some with people poking through the sunroofs, cheering; bus drivers, delivery truck drivers, and taxis honking; "one-off" people on the sidewalk calling out with joy to me; and me jumping up and down, arms overhead with double peace signs, shouting my fool head off because I know there is a tomorrow.
Please, don't forget, kidz, that no matter how much we want to dash out into the middle of traffic and lick each other's faces (especially if someone has errant chocolate near his or her mouth because they scarfed celebratory chocolate) and do a huge conga line around the entire island of Manhattan and then across the Brooklyn Bridge, and, I don't know, share ice cream cones in honor of President-Elect (!!!) Biden's fondness for the stuff, there's still a pandemic raging. It didn't magically go away on November 4 like a certain motherfucker claimed it would. Be safe. January's coming.
This past week was like when Glenn Close bolts upright in the tub toward the end of Fatal Attraction, we all gasp and scream, but then Ann Archer puts an end to it and we gasp and scream again, this time with relief and victory. Still, I need the final credits to roll.
P.S. Don't cry "SPOILER ALERT!!!" It came out 33 years ago, and if you haven't watched by now, if only for the shallowest reasons, i.e., to gaze upon a handsome Michael Douglas, a delicious Glenn Close, and a gorgeous Ann Archer, there's something quite wrong with you.
Imagine my dismay when I recently realized that the pitchers I've been using for water that I thought were 32 ounces turned out to be 36 ounces, because this means I've been inadvertently underreporting my "hydration" for my Garmin Connect records since the end of August!
I suppose this is better than overreporting, though, so I will NOT HYPERVENTILATE OR SELF-FLAGELLATE and instead realize my supreme good fortune, go about my day free of needless fretting, and be grateful for an abundance of clean water that I don't have to carry in wooden buckets from a well three miles away.
"I flatiron my hair too," I say to him. I haven't seen him in a while and his hair is about the same length and color as mine. I think we're matched in shininess too. It's clear he takes this as a positive observation, a compliment, and I don't give him any reason not to, but inside I'm cringing, because he's trying so damned hard to look like a "rocker", even in his late forties, and yes, he's an accomplished musician, but this is a look that needs updating if not downright abandonment. I want to silently hand him scissors.
Wake me when it's January 20th and our fresh new President has removed his non-tiny hand, the one that can easily grip a glass of water bigger than a thimble, from the Bible, a book he's familiar with, takes over the reins of the country from a shambling, inept, petty, vindictive, bullying, shitfaced toddler who straddled (sorta, because even that would challenge his range of motion) this place like his own hobby horse, or when that same stain suffers a debilitating stroke that renders him incapable of communication and he can't blink even a simple "I won." Whichever comes first.
JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!! JOE BIDEN!!!
How much of a despised mound of molten shit do you have to be that when you're fired from your job, people all over the planet are dashing out into the streets to dance, jump up and down, wave their arms in the air, sing, scream, flail, honk their horns, stand up out of their sunroofs for hours?
What an absolutely delicious demonstration of relief, what an ebullient display of joy, what a magnificent feeling of perfect togetherness to be out in the neighborhood and hear the shouts, some from my own mouth, and witness the teary-eyed faces of community.
"Sorry", but you've gotta be a real fucking idiot to even consider getting together with anyone for Thanksgiving who's not in your immediate family or in a "bubble" that you know for absolute sure is air-motherfucking-tight. Stay home. You have to be taking up residence at the center of the earth, way beneath the magma and crust, to not know the pandemic is raging even worse than earlier this year and that it doesn't give a fig and/or fuck what time of year it is or how much you want to pretend you're living in the Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving painting.
I hate that in a sweep of my closet quite a few years ago, I got rid of a bunch of belts that would have sat on the "natural" waist because I was convinced that no way would higher-waisted pants ever come back in style and that the hip-huggery style that was all the rage would endure. Now I regret it, because I those belts possibly could pair marvelously with some of my vintage stuff acquired in the past few years. Not that I have anywhere to truly go now, of course, thanks to COVID, to flaunt the fabulous finery.
I still haven't gone to my Manhattan Mini Storage unit, because, really, why bother now with COVID. Although I can easily run down there, thus avoiding public transportation, I can't easily transport anything home because I can't very well run home with stuff and again, I refuse to take the bus, subway, or even a taxi or Lyft. In addition, I can't make room in my closet because the Salvation Army isn't picking up now and I refuse to have a big box sitting in the apartment. So at least I can scratch ONE needless fret off my list, right?
Somewhere in this "batch" is an entry where I inadvertently typed "it's" instead of "its", and I'm mortified because that's one of my ultimate usage peeves. I didn't do it on purpose, though, and at least I'm acknowledging it. Still, the thought of someone who might actually read that post independent of this one and thinking "Ew, her usage is SHITE" makes me queasy.
One of my friends tells me I don't have to self-edit, that people will know what I meant, but that's not good enough. I must admit my egregious typo so I can be excused or FORGIVEN.
I finally stowed three of my five pairs of "active" running shoes (I'm brand loyal to Brooks!) in their original boxes under my desk. I can easily access them if I need them. There's no need for them to be hanging out by the front door the way they had been for way too long (even though they told me they liked congregating). The remaining two pairs didn't come with boxes because I ordered them through used/resale sources, but that's okay. When you live in a smaller space like I do, even that minor reduction in clutter makes a difference.
Joseph R. Biden, Jr. won the election, and if you're too much of a sniveling, whining, red-faced toddler to grasp that simple fact, and deny it the way you do Brussels sprouts or some other "yucky" you refuse to eat, you need to be given a permanent "timeout" that has you facing the corner, wearing an enormous dunce hat, denied participation in snack or nap time, and only permitted half an hour for recess each day in which you stand in the center of the school yard while being the target of dodgeball so reality can be pounded into you.
If a little boy who comes up to my hip can ride a scooter while wearing a helmet and a mask, alongside his mask-wearing mom who's carrying an even smaller kid also wearing a mask, and none of them are crying or making a fuss and are just going about their day, going wherever they're going, doing whatever they're doing, then you, as a grown-ass person going about your day, doing whatever you're doing, can do the same. You can't even be called a toddler if you don't, because these little ones are setting the example you should be setting.
I blame a certain adorable fella for introducing me to Lesser Evil popcorn. First it was the Himalayan Gold, which I tried several years ago, and more recently, it was the No Cheese Cheesiness. Ordinarily I make my own popcorn from kernels, either in my Whirly-Pop or the silicone contraption that goes in the microwave, adding "parmesan" made from nutritional yeast, cashews, garlic powder, and salt, and as delicious as that is, it's still missing a certain something that this bagged stuff has that makes it impossible to eat less than an entire 5-ounce (15 cups!) bag in one sitting.
Hey, kidz! Lola and I will be blissfully at home on Thanksgiving, and there's nowhere we'd rather be as long as it means everyone we give a fuck about is safe and alive (and people we don't know either, because we're not selfish twats) to see a new President sworn in who actually cares if they live or die.
So, let's have a virtual potluck! Please "bring" vegan Thanksgiving food in the comments, so I can feast my eyes. (And yes, I know it's not until Thursday, because even though it's 2020, I still know what day it is. Sorta.)
I hate the Facebook posts that say, "Let's see who's reading this and can follow instructions" and include a plea to cut and paste whatever the post said onto your own page (or "wall", as some people still call it).
But still, let's see who's reading THIS, these 100 Words. If you are, go to my newly fixed blog at jodiverse.com and leave a comment just to say hello. Tell me you're followed me there from here and tell me how long you've been reading my 100 Words. (Of course you can comment on the actual blog post too. Duh.)
I finally have a new phone after like four years, and I'm obsessed with it. This is not shocking. I'm also eager to learn how to properly use the camera, but every video I've found on YouTube has been woefully lacking even though often the comments are enthusiastic and claim that this is the best video ever. You'd think I'd know better than to trust any comments anywhere.
You'd also think there would be a definitive instruction manual out there, too, since the camera is one of the biggest features of a phone. Certainly it's not to actually make calls.
I am enamored of my Goodr sunglasses. When I wear them to run, coupled with my gaiter and hat, I feel like I could actually consider myself "badass", a word I rarely, if ever, use. I have said to myself, aloud, during my runs, under wonderfully anonymous cover of my gaiter, "These glasses are fuckin' rad!" a word I never use. And then I have said, "But they really are rad and it's the perfect word for them." These are the first sunglasses I've ever had that I actually like on me. It only took 57 years. What a milestone!
He posts on Facebook that he "adopted" a turkey for himself on Thanksgiving. I am bowled over, because not only had my sister done this for me six years ago, from the same sanctuary, but I had actually planned to do it for him as a gift. So I tell him so and show him "my" turkey from 2014. Later he tells me one of his goals is to get to one of those sanctuaries to volunteer or visit, and I tell him it's one of mine too. He suggests we do it together next Thanksgiving. I'm over the moon.
It's a story as well-worn and ancient as the ages. I realize, with a start, that I haven't read a book in longer than I care to admit to anyone, even myself, and vow to start again instead of watching so many goddamned movies and bingeing on too many shows. I tell myself if I want to feel even quasi-intelligent, I'll pick up a book, or, really, the Kindle, and devote time daily to reading. I know that once I start, I fall in love with it all over again, so why must I make it so difficult? (Don't answer.)
BIG ANNOUNCEMENT: My "blog" is back, up and running after almost two years of being completely fucked up (technical term) and causing me such immense grief that I would find myself worrying about it, fretting about it at random times, unprompted, not "triggered" (pause to throw up) by anything. What truly blows, though, is that images within posts before I'd switched to Word Press a few years ago are gone, which really fucking sucks, and captions on my old dog photos from almost 20 years ago are gone, the pups' identifies lost to the ether. That one really saddens me.
I renewed my HBOMax subscription last night, for a month, so I can watch The Undoing. In the event that some inconsiderate jackass rushes to spoil it for the world now that it's last episode has aired, I'm staying off of all social media until I'm done, which, knowing me, will be tomorrow at the latest. Don't fuck this up for me or anyone else in the interim. That shit works for The Brady Bunch (OLIVER MURDERED ALL OF THEM IN THEIR SLEEP) but not for something that just ended a day or two ago. Thank you, and good day.
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