I don't know how many years I have had this fabulous old pitcher, which is made of etched glass and has a separate aluminum cylinder/core into which you put ice so it doesn't mingle with the liquid inside and melt, but today is the first time I have ever used it. I have no idea why. I think I was saving it for a so-called special occasion, but at the risk of sounding trite and cliche and eye-rollIngly cloying, isn't every day a special occasion? The point is, don't save the good china. Don't save the good dress. Don't save the good anything. Today is good. Today should be the special occasion you have been waiting for.
🍎🍎 The Photo Not Taken: 🍎 Two leafy-topped full-sized carrots, sprawled on the slimy sidewalk near the loading area of Fairway in a sludgy pool of vegetative goop, chalk-outline-ready, awaiting my caption of "Car-rot". 🍎 A clear plastic carton of brown eggs, upturned several yards away on the street near the same area of Fairway, around which several pigeons of various colors, including brown, searched and pecked, awaiting a caption that didn't come to me spontaneously but would have had something to do with the fact that birds lay eggs and maybe, if I thought a bit more, cannibalism. 🍎 You were, thankfully, spared.
“Oh, Jodi, you hate so many things. We should make a list of them sometime.”
No. No, we should not. We should also not be referring to me hating so many things, because I’m willing to bet you (collectively), too, hate many things but just don’t express it aloud for fear of being regarded as a person who hates things.
I hate that.
Here is a list, by no means comprehensive, of a few things I don’t hate:
R. Crumb, and that he goes by “R”.
Fingernails that know better than to extend past the fingertip.
Cats, coffee, trees.
Big Excitement for the Day: Crystal Light pink lemonade, when prepared according to the package, one packet per 2 quarts, is a bit strong (I drank a large glass and awoke stranded on the Coney Island ferris wheel, in a seat at the top, wearing only a propeller beanie and poufy-sleeved prom gown), so I can use half a packet for 1-1/2 quarts, which just so happens to be the size of my nifty vintage Tupperware pitcher, and thus save big, big bucks and, of course, face, because I won’t have to explain WTF happened to “the fuzz” again. Win/win!
So much I want to tell you. So much of so little. Stupid stuff, “nothing” stuff, but the kind that fed our days, enriched them, made them feel complete.
A video of a dog, especially a German Shepherd, the ultimate “good boy”. My feeling like a fucking “fatzu” for skipping the gym. A cookie I tried. Meeting a new dog on the street, greeting a familiar one. A general, all-around, all-encompassing “Ugh” about everything or anything. Something cute the cat did (like blinked).
I miss every little thing about you and the uniqueness of us. Every second of every day.
Every quirk, idiosyncrasy, and petty preference you have is not “OCD”. Washing your hands 140 times a day; taking three hours to leave the house because you don’t trust that the stove burners are turned all the way off even though you’ve checked them three times, three times, three times; having to tap each finger against the desk four times before answering the phone, all could qualify. But having a preference for stapling something a certain way or liking your desk organized doesn’t count. I know you’re desperate to qualify your quirks, but really, it’s nothing special. You’re not special.
I cannot have the one offending obituary changed since I’m not family, so I need to go “on record”, as much as this blip on the Internet is a record, as saying Robert A. Hanamirian of Philadelphia and New York, who left this world last month at his home on the Upper West Side, was NOT married at the time. He married twice, and the second divorce was in the early 2000s. He isn’t “survived” by that woman. She was out of his life years ago, and he wouldn’t appreciate the illusion/allusion of that association if he were still here to protest.
I don’t belong in 2018. In 1977, I felt like I didn’t belong in 1977, but now I’d belong there, at my current age. Back then, I longed for 20-plus years earlier, knew I belonged in the ’50s even though I’d never experienced the decade. I don’t think there will ever come a time when I’ll look back at the 2000s and think, yeah, I wish I could return to that. There’s nothing nostalgic about this “digital age”. I don’t want to swipe left or right to make it go away. I want to flip a switch to do so.