Ladies who won’t lunch

The surgeon’s new digs are fabulous, swanky but comfortable, and I want to hang out for hours in the waiting room with the woman I’ve been chatting with. We’ll call her “D”. When the receptionist calls me in for my procedure, I want to do the equivalent of hitting a snooze button a few times, because I haven’t had the chance to ask the woman if she’s on social media or if we can exchange contact information. I have her name, though, and I know where she works, so I plan to call to say hi and hope she doesn’t think I’m a stalker.

Several days later, I call D’s office. The receptionist asks which client this is in reference to. I say, “I’m not a client. I’m a personal person,” with magnificent eloquence, and state my name. She puts me on hold, and when she returns, she says D isn’t available, which naturally means D said, “JFC, what a stalker. Tell her I’m not here,” which I believe even more when I don’t hear back from her.

“Oh, well,” I think. “One less person to make lunch plans with that I’ll want to cancel.”

Charles Chips

At the very end of my run this morning, or, more technically, my cooldown walk, I ran into my buddy Charles, the overnight manager at Fairway in my neighborhood,

He was on West 75th, at the back of his car, with the trunk open, and inside were several big bags of potato chips, mostly the Ruffles depicted here, and one bag of Lays ruffled chips as well. I made some remark about how wherever he was going was the place to be because of the potato chips.

He immediately grabbed a bag and handed it to me, and I told him he just made my day. He said, “What, you’re not allowed to have chips in your house?” I told him that I have absolutely no control when it comes to chips, so I usually don’t allow them in my house.

I said that for a lot of girls, diamonds are a girl’s best friend, but for me Ruffles are. He laughed his big laugh and told me I was silly, and the entire exchange was just so giddy-making.

Anyway, this reminded me of Charles Chips, which we used to have delivered to our house back in the late ’60s in a big mustard-colored tin with a brown logo, which always delighted me. So today’s exchange really was, literally, Charles chips!

Photo, finished

Somewhere along the way in the past several years since switching my “blog” from Moveable Type to WordPress, or maybe it was when switching hosting companies from PowWeb to SiteGround, the folder containing all of the images used within posts was lost. So any post that contained an image, whether an illustration by me or a photograph, is missing that element of the post, and it saddens me because I took great pride in all elements of a post working together to create the little “experience”.

The separate photo albums, however, remain intact, but most captions/explanations are missing, which also pains me because I remember being very pleased with that stuff as well. This blog served as my Internet “home” for such a long time.

I know that in the so-called grand scheme of things, none of this really matters, and this is what people call a “First World problem”, a phrase that I detest for a variety of reasons I don’t want to even address. Hey, I live in the First World, so “sue me” (which is really a First World problem; litigiousness, that is).

So what does any of this have to do with the price of beans or a roll of film for an old Kodak Instamatic with a flashcube that rotates on its own after each picture (swoon!)? Nothing. But this is my blog, and this is my “home”, where I can complain about First, Third, or Tenth World problems with aplomb and cry into my defunct TaB if I want to.

I had relied on the marvelously helpful Joni Mueller for years for any problems I had with this blog, but that wonderfully generous woman left this world two Mays ago, so I can’t enlist her help. I mourn the loss of her life, but know that if she were here, she would tell me if there was any chance of me recovering the old photos. I’m pretty sure they’re as gone as she is, though. Alas.

What’s the point of this post? There is none. And there doesn’t have to be one. Ahhh, the beauty of being “home”.

I hath spake. Or something.

Life is too motherfuckin’ short to save the good china, the old scotch, the fancy dress. Use it, drink it, wear it. Get the hell out there and make an ass of yourself, in a way that’s not rife with “look at me” Instagram desperation. Laugh that laugh some jackass told you was too loud. Have dessert. Have it first, before dinner (or lunch) (or breakfast). Hell, have dessert FOR dinner (or lunch) (or breakfast). Don’t save anything for a rainy day. And when it rains, get out there and sing in it, with or without an umbrella, even if off-key.

Nacho, man

After lunch at Gee Whiz Diner (in operation since 1989!) with one of my favorite gal pals (ew) on Friday, (not pictured!), I met my top secret husband at Jajaja in the West Village for nachos (and more) and sundry nonsense. I walked home five miles from Astor Place, through way too many clones with egregious sartorial taste. Last night was one of the only times I was unable to finish every last atom of food on my (or Eric’s) plate. (The cocktail is his. I was tipsy on his mere presence.)


I saw “you” again this morning.  This time it was along the promenade around the 80s, east of Carl Schurz Park.  “You” wore a baseball cap, white hair peeking out, slowly jogging, and I thought, “Nope, it’s not you.  You hate cardio!”

But maybe the you I pretend has been in the Witness Protection Program for the past four years jogs now.  Maybe it’s part of the ruse to throw off those who know you, for whom the mere thought of you jogging is amusing.

I love seeing “you” from time to time, oh dear DOG, how I miss YOU.

The (brief) skinny on jeans

You will not find me in skinny jeans.  You may want to, you may say with my slender form, I’d be rockin’ ’em.  You may sing their praises in the shower, karaoke, or a choir, but I’m still not going to succumb.  I will forever be a fan of the bootcut as the narrowest leg opening, and the flare or wide bottom, bordering on, if not actually being, bellbottom. My aesthetic doesn’t include tight *anything* or the revealing of too much body shape than is necessary to let the world know, hey, look, she kinda looks like a girl maybe.


2022? How is this even possible?  This number is the purview of pulpy paperback science fiction, sold on a rotating rack by the front door of the corner drugstore including, at the very least, monorails and jetpacks, and maybe even teleportation without having to wriggle our little noses like the beautiful Samantha Stephens. This is the stuff of metropolises untouched by sunlight, shrouded by dark clouds, anarchy in potholed streets, burned-out husks of abandoned cars, and the like. This isn’t a real year in which real people live real lives. This is far-fetched teenaged fantasy, fomented by imagination, isn’t it?

Yet here we are, with none of those things, except maybe an occasional monorail that’s most likely a tourist trap, not a viable commuter option for residents, although I don’t even know if or where that exists.  Most people aren’t even responsible enough for the responsibility of jetpacks or the ease of teleportation.  They can barely walk on the sidewalk without disobeying the most common form of peripatetic decency.  They can’t move aside to give passage to others, so what’s to keep these miscreants from purposely colliding midair just because they can?

Give me 1975, please.  Take me the fuck away.