I make the bed every day without fail, usually before leaving for the gym in the morning. This morning I did not because I wanted to change the sheets but didn’t have time. When I returned, I tossed the fresh sheets on the bed in anticipation of doing so. Right now I’m not in the mood to do it, though, so I was thrilled to see that little Lola had decided to lounge among them, thus making it “impossible” for me to do. I like to think she did it expressly for my benefit. I am grateful for my cat.
Okay, it’s November, the month of Thanksgiving, so every day this month I’m going to post something for which I am grateful or thankful, in a 100-word block, rather than save it all for the actual holiday, when I’ll probably be offline avoiding photos of turkey. I’m a day behind, because I just decided to do this this morning. So, without further ado …
I’m several paces behind a person bent so far forward at the waist that his or her back is parallel to the sidewalk. The person is dressed in simple pants and jacket and is completely bald, and I can only see part of a profile tucked below. The skull is studded with several raised reddish blotches and bruises, and just as I think, “Probably from bumping into lots of stuff,” the person nearly does so with a post, but reaches out a hand in anticipation, avoiding more damage. My own problems are immediately rendered bullshit. I’m grateful for my spine.
I enter the subway car and stop short. I can’t proceed beyond two feet without maneuvering around two large lion-colored dogs sprawled by the feet of a guy who looks like Johnny Depp immersing himself in the role of an itinerant man suffering from a disease that has left him thin and in need of constant medication through a tube wrapped around his upper left arm and secured by stretchy mesh/netting. After a while, he smoothes down the dogs’ bandanas, one blue, the other red, that say, “SERVICE DOG.” I think he wants people to know he’s not being inconsiderate.
A woman in red T-shirt and jean shorts and hair that looks like a “Mama’s Family” discard, who’d been seated on the opposite side of the subway car, several seats down the row to my left, who’d also been regarding the service dogs, comes over and sits to my right after the man and dogs exit at Times Square. She makes a negative remark about the trio, thinking she has an ally in me. I tell her the man was obviously very sick and I have nothing but compassion for him. I want to insult her crossed eyes but refrain.
Sometimes my walks home from the gym are buoyant, and the sun offers not only light but glitter, the breeze is as crisp as an apple slice, my hair, released from its ponytail, cascades with Brigitte Bardot glory, and rather than want to spit a hardware store of nails in the direction of every hideous, soulless 7-Eleven that has littered the city in the past few years, I regard the franchise as a charming reminder of 1970s suburban living and think, “I should get a Slurpee for my walk!” And then the needle scratches the record and I wise up.
This morning Amazon presented several “recommendations” to me. One was a zippered case for CDs, with reviews from at least a decade ago. C’mon, Amazon. Who do you think I am? Show me a portable carrier for 45s (like the one I’m showing here, which I had in 1975) or a small suitcase for 8-tracks, and then I’ll know you’re really paying attention.
Way back when I used to write here more often, when I was a lady who didn’t have to work and who spent a lot of time lunching, I used to take photos of my lunches and post them in my “Jodeats” gallery. That was before Instagram, back before the cool kidz were doing it, back when people used to look at me like I was a wacky eccentric who was stealing the soul of a plate of Thai noodles by photographing it. And now that everyone’s doing it, it’s not as much fun, and I look like any other dope snapping a shot of my food in the hopes of having hundreds of like-minded people (among them the dreaded “foodies”) express their appreciation by clicking on a little heart.
I would add this photo to “Jodeats”, but I don’t know how to do that yet, so …
Anyway, this is a lunch I had at Mexican Radio with my gay boyfriend I call “Hysteric Bore” (because that rhymes with his real name), which was the size of a regular dinner. I usually eschew special lunch offers because I’m nervous that the portions won’t be as big and I’ll be left feeling gypped and feel like hightailing it to another restaurant after I’m done and getting another lunch there, but ordering off of the BIG MENU like a rabid hungry adult raccoon. This was the vegan Carne Asadas Fries, described on the “Platos Gigantes” (!!!) section of the menu (in meat terms) as “Chunks of marinated grilled steak served on a hefty bed of homemade fries and topped with melted cheese, guacamole, crema and pico de gallo. Served with sides of tomato salsa and chipotle mayo.” All my dairy stuff was non-dairy and the steak was replaced with chunks of tender and delicious seitan. Not pictured is the guacamole and chips we shared before the “real” food arrived.
I should probably not order in any food for dinner tonight, as is my Friday night tradition. But who am I to dishonor tradition, right?
How do you say “Oink” in Spanish?
This afternoon I changed the tag line of this “blog” to reflect an adjustment in my attitude, in keeping with the advancement of my chronological age and the tenor of my posts. To wit, I changed it from “buttery bits of tender bitchiness” to “buttery bits of blatherskite”, because, quite frankly, I don’t think what I do is bitch. And I don’t really think what I have to say is blatherskite, either, but it’s a fun “B” word, so for now it stays. I must confess to a certain queasiness over the continued use of the word “buttery”, however, in light of my veganism, but for now it stays as well.
This is the sort of thing that, if you know me at all in this thing called real life, I will obsess over and fret over, but not to the point of losing sleep. This is not to say, however, that I won’t wake up at 2:52 a.m., trying to come up with a better word for butter, and perhaps choosing “batter-dipped”, but only if that batter is made with flaxseed instead of egg.
It’s all too much to bear.
Aren’t you glad I’m back?