I’m cruisin’ the Fairway soda aisle for a two-liter bottle of carbonated kicks (N.B.: Can it if you want to tell me soda is unhealthy, and/or you never drink it because you only do stuff that’s 300% natural like dew, and not the Mountain kind), and a stupid song is playing.
An older man, who’s also been cruisin’, sidles up to me.
“What does ‘jamify’ mean? What is that?”
I tell him I have no idea, have no clue what anyone is saying anymore, and he walks away muttering, “Jamify. Jamify!”
I’m delighted that I appeal to the curmudgeon set!
I just cancelled a delivery order from Whole Foods. The guy who blasts off into space like a jackass doesn’t need/deserve my money as much as Zingone Brothers, the little store on Columbus that’s been there since 1929, where there’s a cat who lolls on the old blue and white checkered linoleum floor and the tiny older gentleman whose last name is on the store rings items up on something not much more sophisticated than a 1980s adding machine.
I still use Amazon, but I’m going to go “to market” in little shops more often like it’s still 1974, dressed accordingly.
The other day, while running along the river, I saw the guy who juggles while he runs again, the first time in a while and the second time ever. The other time, I’d grimaced and said to myself, “Oh god, please,” but this time, I grinned at him like a lunatic as he passed, he grinned at me, and we both said “Hi.” I need to see him a third time so I can ask him if anyone has ever called him “The Joggler”, hope he doesn’t say, “No, because I RUN, not JOG,” and we can FALL IN LOVE.
You haven’t lived until you have somehow managed to witness/hear the shower running in my apartment (with me availing myself of its utility), and hearing, over the cascade of water, me semi-sorta “vocalizing” what maaaay sound a bit like the “Munsters” theme, which eventually takes a bit of shape, after several restarts, so that you’re 91% sure that’s what I’m doing, and then being delighted and/or horrified and/or chagrined when, without warning, every syllable is uttered as a “meow”, but this time more loudly and with more gusto as I’m more confident that I’ve got the tune down juuust right.
Listen, AARP, don’t tell me not to bend! If I’m old enough for you to be sending me shit, I should be *encouraged* to bend to keep my ancient joints limber ‘n’ shit. LOL! (Am I allowed to say “LOL” if I’m decrepit?)
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.”
There is a reason my cat’s nickname (well, one of the countless) is Paw Collection. Here’s one. Or four. Or five. Or something.
One of these may or may not (as lawyers like to say) be a tail. Some of these may or may not be actual cotton balls attached to black sticks, as a certain cat likes to whisper in my ear. Some of these may be figments of someone’s imagination, including, but not limited to (as lawyers also like to say), yours, mine, my cat’s, and/or Kermit T. Frog’s or yo mamma (what?).
In any event (yeah, as lawyers …), this nickname sprouted out of nowhere or thin air, spontaneously, on the fly, on the cuff, and maybe on the couch/sofa (I’m more of a “sofa” type m’self, but YMMV, as the kidz are probably not saying anymore if indeed they ever did), and every time my cat finds herself curled into any number of adorable configurations, often on my lap, as seen here — yes, you’re seeing a fragment of my pajamas — I grin with delight over the jangle of paws and the tail mixed in and never want to move from that spot lest I disturb the arrangement.
I want to document them all, but that would be ridiculous, even though if you know anything about my Instagram account, you’ll know that it is home to more than 200 photos of this same cat lounging in a bathroom sink, so be careful what you wish for or what I wish for or what I probably didn’t even wish for but just mentioned here. Whatever.
Anyway, Paw Collection thrills me to no end, both the actual paws and the actual cat.
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.
Quasi-spanikopita. Not authentic, but fuck it. It’s Greek to me.
I made these at home and am quite pleased with them, although I know they can be tweaked, as can just about anything. But I’m not going to say that I couldn’t have shoved at least two more “servings” of these into my maw. Or I could have just heaped more on the plate, or used a bigger plate, and called it one serving, like a pint of ice cream (cue raucous laughter and knowing nods from aficionados of rom-coms featuring single ladies scooping huge spoonsful of Häagen-Dazs into their faces).
Not that I ever really use the term “serving”, especially since it’s just li’l ol’ me, “serving” to myself. But always on a pretty plate.
Next up: I incorporate sumac, thanks to a friend who knows this kind of stuff.
“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.