The goods

The Photo Not Taken, No. 1


“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.


I suppose this is what they call “adulting”.

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 little, so much

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.

End of wife

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 here

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.