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Is this the one that's supposed to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb? This is the one with the Ides, right? The one that sorta seems like a bridge between, I dunno, things, a sort of vague, "whatever" month that can't decide if it wants to cling to weather or play with spring, yes? Yes. It's the one that has me question whether I should take a light jacket or not and do I need gloves.
Although I'm not a fan of wishing away time, I want to march over it and sashay into April.
I wonder what Lonny from the cul-de-sac looks like now. He was two years older than I, had the longest lashes, biggest chocolate eyes, grooviest deep-side-parted light brown hair, and looked a lot like Shaun Cassidy even though Shaun wasn't yet in the public eye for us to swoon over on Tiger Beat covers. I wonder if he grew up to be a local heartthrob in his own right, or if he outgrew the looks and became just another nondescript suburban guy with a mustache, maybe a paunch, and no memory of having made any starry-eyed second grade girl swoon.
Food I need when it's safe to eat INSIDE a restaurant again:
Veselka vegetarian combination platter (kasha!)
Spicy Moon cumin EVERYTHING
Red Bamboo Southern fried "chicken" platter with mashed potatoes substituted for sweet potato fries (sorry, guys)
Lekka Burger (masala variety) with "everything" fries
Beyond Sushi rolls
Buddha Bodai "pork" and stuffed fried eggplant, etc. (the latter even though I know I'll be "over it" after about four bites)
Van Leeuwen ice cream, two scoops, maybe even with fudge sauce
Modern Love Brooklyn poutine
Broadway Restaurant AND Utopia veggie burger deluxe Taim falafel
Pommes frites, largest size available
I'm finally starting to feel like "me" again. The urge to wear vintage loungewear while working has resurfaced as has the desire to go outside for something other than daily runs, mostly so I can wear an outfit and feel quasi-cute instead of hiding away thanks to the pandemic.
I've ordered four new masks to make it "fun", to add to my collection. I refuse to wear a disposable light blue thing. If we're going to do this, and we absolutely still MUST, I insist on coordinating them as if they were another accessory. Which, at this point, they are!
In 1982, I was dating this kid named Norman, and my dad insisted on calling him Norton, even though he knew that wasn't his name. I can't remember if it rankled Norman, and I can't remember if it annoyed me. I wonder if now, almost 40 years later, Norman, if he ever hears the word "Norton", as a name or associated with computer virus protection, feels a little twinge, like the most mild of electrical shocks, somewhere in his brain and wonders why and remembers himself sporting a baseball cap and an unfortunate quasi-caterpillar mustache that obscured his handsome face.
Margo Makeshift tells me that's not her real name, and I tell her her real name is on her insurance card, so she can call herself Kitty Carryall or Cindy Brady for all I care. I chortle and may even wink, but she stares at me mutely, so I repeat what I said, and she says, in her trademark monotone, "I don't get it."
She's only a few years younger than I am, so there's no way in hell she hasn't even seen The Brady Bunch. I can understand if she didn't "get" Kitty Carryall. But Cindy Brady? Come on.
A friend of mine who's a bit, as they say, "woo-woo", told me not to point my infrared thermometer at my forehead because it interferes with something-something, that it's not good for that something-something, and for about two nanoseconds I bought into it, so I took my temperature inside my elbow, the alternate location she suggested, and although it jived with my forehead temperature, I felt like an idiot heeding that warning so returned to the trusty forehead. I don't need one more small thing about which to be paranoid/concerned/alarmed. If I sprout a third eye, though, I may revisit/reconsider.
I'm in a food rut, but I don't mind because I love the food with which I'm rutted. I can be like a toddler that way, and eat the few food for a long period of time until I decide, no, I don't want Tyson chicken nuggets and tater tots anymore, so let's find something new. (For the record, I don't eat chicken, so that's out of the question, and I don't eat tater tots only because I'd have no self control so I can't keep them in the house). So roasted veggies, "butter" tofu, and tofu skewers it is.
I'm drinking coffee out of my Jesus S(h)aves mug and marveling not only how amusing it is (and how young Mr. Christ looks in the illustration!) but how fortunate I am to have friends who occasionally send me surprise gifts. For some reason I think of this as a "weekend" mug, but because I'm such a maverick, I'm using it on a Monday morning to buck the trend and free myself from the shackles of my self-imposed "rules".
It's bold moves like this that, if I chose to announce them on social media, would make me an instant Instagram influencer.
Take my advice and don't re-watch Magic Mike all the way through. Or even watch it all the way through on your first viewing. Save your time and eye-rolling and just find "the good parts" on YouTube. Although I find Channing Tatum and Matthew McConaughey incredibly appealing in a variety of ways, it's just not worth slogging through this pap to see their magnificent torsos on display.
I say this years after its debut, so you've probably already wasted your time. I must cringingly confess that I saw it in an actual theater and probably while eating a delicious cookie.
I am increasingly running faster, and it gives me a frisson of a thrill. Now, by "faster", I mean for me, not for you or anyone else, and indeed someone might even chortle at my progress. But it's coming to me without any sort of plan or goal, just by going out every day (as of this writing, it's 20 in a row) and doing it, even if some days it's a slog and I feel like it wasn't even "worth it". I have no delusions about becoming a speed demon and no desire for marathons, and that's absolutely fine.
During my run in Central Park this morning, I came up behind a huge dog with a stiff-hind-legged walk and gray on the backs of otherwise medium-brown legs, and pre-swooned, knowing I was about to see a gray-muzzled dogface.
I was right, natch, and met Sadie, a 13-year-old Mastiff/Great Dane, about 150 pounds (yes, I asked), a lifelong New Yorker since puppyhood. I let her sniff my hands to say hello and I told her about 3,000 times how beautiful she is.
This afternoon, I'm seeing Hysteric Bore for the first time in exactly ONE YEAR.
It's a banner day!
The Upper East Side seems to have retained a lot of its "old school" vibe more than the Upper West Side, and I know I'm not "supposed to" like it, but I do. It doesn't feel as "mommy" as the UWS, with its glut of kids, but maybe that's because I don't spend enough time there to know what it's like at all hours. I do like running there, passing unfamiliar shops and bakeries and restaurants, and fantasizing about walking over in cute non-running clothes and having lunch, even if it means doing so outdoors thanks to this shitty pandemic.
I spent a fuck-ton (scientific term) of time trying to figure out why my printer wasn't working the other day and may have cursed more vehemently than any sailor ever to grace the planet for the duration. Once it was back up and running, I changed my tune and felt like Julie Andrews singing that the hills are alive with the sound of music (I've never seen it and have zero desire).
I apologize (maybe) to anyone who may have heard my tirade, including my cat, who doesn't bat her one eye anymore when I fly into a blind rage.
My promise to you: I will never use the term "self care" or say I'm "empowered". If I ever do, you are officially permitted to ban me from smooshing dogs, strutting around town like I think I'm the second coming of Mary Tyler Moore, draping myself on the sofa in vintage loungewear while swooning over dreamy Al Pacino, or devouring French fries.
Speaking of which, that last one: I haven't had fries for at least a year. This is probably the longest I have gone without them since my adorable anorexic days of yore, about 40 years ago. Fuckin' COVID.
I want to see the dog but don't want to engage with the guy who accompanies him, who I dated for a couple of months almost four years ago and indeed met because I had admired the dog and wanted to meet him (the dog). The last time I saw them both was when I was running in Central Park, and fortunately social distancing prohibited the guy from getting close. The dog, however, was free to come over and say hello, which he did.
I declined the guy's invitation to walk with them, partially because I hated his Dad Shorts.
I'm on the fence about the prospect of coloring my hair. On one hand, I like the "highlights" that the slight grayish streaks lend to my overall still dark hair, but I'm not fond of those that sprout at the crown. I have no desire to go the "funky" color route and go with lavender or pink or bright red or blue and would only want as close to my natural color as possible.
But is it worth the trouble/expense? I don't know. I remember when Bubby stopped dying her hair and went natural, she looked so much cuter. Hmm.
I have added several pieces to my vintage loungewear wardrobe recently, spending only a little more than I ordinarily would, and of course that means I occasionally suffer from buyer's remorse. I have to remind myself, ALOUD, that I don't have the expense of the gym anymore, I'm not going to restaurants, and I'm not spending money on anything otherwise except for food (and a few other vintage pieces that aren't loungewear). It's ridiculous that I feel I have to justify this to myself, when I get great pleasure from these things and a lot of utility. Oh well, right?
I used to watch "Here's Lucy" when it first came out, although I can't remember which season I started during its 1968-1974 run. I haven't seen it for decades, but now I'm watching on Amazon Prime mainly to see Lucy's groovy house and everyone's wardrobe/fashion/style. On that front it doesn't disappoint.
On all other fronts, though, it does. Not only is it raucously unfunny, but the episodes' situations end abruptly. But even worse is Henry Carter, Lucy's brother-in-law/boss, who is a total boor with not one redeeming feature. Was Mr. Mooney, in "The Lucy Show", as much of a dick?
I cannot possibly be the only one who feels bludgeoningly murderous when subjected to the horror known as "vocal fry". How this came to be an accepted way of speaking boggles my fucking mind. I would rather hear someone scrape the fossilized fingernails of a desiccated corpse down a floor-to-ceiling blackboard than be assaulted by that despicable little curly sound at the end of words and sentences. It's even more aggravating than gum-chewing, coffee-slurping, and a baby wailing on an airplane (especially because I suspect the baby will grow up to chew gum, slurp coffee, or speak with vocal fry).
Along with one other person, I am the "admin" for a Facebook group called "Time Capsule Homes", which as of this writing has just shy of 53,000 members. One of the overarching rules of the group, embedded in several of the individual rules, is to be nice, especially about the location of a home and its price.
I suppose I shouldn't be shocked that even with near constant reminders, quite few "folks" feel they have to disparage a home, call it hideous, they wouldn't live there if you paid them, and a whole host of other charming unwelcome jive bullshit.
(Continued from 3/21)
Before joining, prospective members are instructed to agree with the group's simple rules. Still, some too-cool-for-school mavericks blatantly disregard them, and when I point something out, sometimes I've been told to "fuck off" and called "mom".
I consider the group a "home" itself. I would never enter someone's home and disobey the rules. If they ask me to remove my shoes, I do. If they tell me not to use the little snail-shell-shaped soaps in the powder room, I won't.
If you can't muster the most basic respect, you have no place entering someone else's home, regardless of its form.
If not for COVID, I would've been with him at his home for his birthday, to witness him opening the mound of gifts from his dog (hahaha) in person, rather than on Facebook Live along with many of his friends. But this is fine, this is great too, because at least I get to see him (and the dog) and join in the thrill of seeing the gifts. I get more than a frisson of a thrill when he opens the gift that is for me and him to share, like I'm Courteney Cox and Bruce Springsteen's pulling me onstage.
A Facebook friend posted that she took her dog to the groomer, and instead of doing what she instructed, the groomer clipped the dog quite close, like a crewcut. She asked her friends if they'd complain, and some responded that she shouldn't, that the dog looks cute (she does), so why bother. It shocks and rankles me how namby-pamby some people are. You paid for this service, so you should get what you asked for. Speak the fuck up. And if the groomer doesn't give you prompt satisfaction, find another groomer. How is "Do I say something?" even a question?
I'm walking to the East Harlem location for my first shot of the vaccine. If I'm not already feeling jaunty enough, I have my brand spanking new Cariuma sneakers to add extra pep in my step, and I'm feeling so retro-vintage cute what with the sneakers and my cuffed jeans and the rest of the adorable vintage ensemble, like I should be on my way to meet someone at the malt shop to share something with two straws, although of course even before COVID that would have kind of grossed me out and not just because I don't like sharing.
In case anyone is wondering if I've had any side effects from yesterday morning's first shot of Moderna, I have, but none of them are horrible in the least:
A bit of throbbing (ew) at the injection site (ew). Usually I don't throb at all. (Ew.)
A tiiiiiiiny fleeting intermittent headache.
A bit of tiredness and fatigue. Usually I have so much energy I need a sedative.
Slightly breathless after hanging clothes to dry. Usually I can run double digits of miles without feeling it. (Bragging asshole.)
My telling you any of this. (Ordinarily I'd be like, "Nope, too personal.")
I left my vaunted position as "admin" of a Facebook group because I'm sick of reminding members daily of the rules of the group that they were supposed to have read when submitting their requests to join. I suppose it's too much effort for some "folks" to contain their rudeness, bad attitudes, and negative opinions. Mind you, this isn't even a political group or anything that would invite debate, but too many people still have to smear their shit all over its walls anyway. I'm done trying to corral people who think they're mavericks when all they are is assholes.
Lola just dashed into the bathroom, slopped onto her side, received quite a few pets as she stretched herself out to her full length of 50 feet. I said, "Were you just on the patio, sipping coffee?" She reminded me it was raining and said, in a singsong voice that I'd say was a bit too loud to be considered an "indoor voice", "I'd like to be on a veranda in Palm Springs, sipping a mimosa, wearing a muumuu!!!???" (She poses everything as a question.)
Neither of us said, "Of course that should be 'mewmew'???" We're clearly losing our touch.
I don's miss spending close to $250 a month for my Equinox membership, although I do miss the ready access to free weights and having a space in my life dedicated solely to that pursuit. Every time I feel a bit "guilty" about spending money on something like a new piece for my vintage loungewear wardrobe, I reminder myself that it's a mere fraction of what I was spending each month for something that, with a little bit of discipline, I can do at home. And remind myself, further, that running on the treadmill is bullshit compared to running outdoors.
I want to get into the habit of drinking a "nice cup of tea" every afternoon, but I don't know if I should do it at a set time or whenever it strikes my fancy so I don't get locked into what my best friend calls "Jodi Rules", which would turn it into a rigid chore instead of fun, and I dread what should be a delightful ritual and sap all life out of it. Even as I type this, I fret over the mechanism of doing it, and tell myself "Have tea some days when you feel like it."
I haven't been on the subway for more than a year. I'm getting a little giddy envisioning myself taking it again after I'm fully vaccinated toward the end of next month, which means that since I won't be walking as far to get where I want to go, I can wear groovy vintage shoes with a bit of a heel (to me, that means about 2.5 inches, no stupid stilettos) and not have to "worry" if I can't walk all the way home if my feet, now unaccustomed to wearing such shoes thanks to the pandemic, finds it a challenge.
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