Pesach!

In yesterday’s posting, I mentioned that I had received a real reply from em dot com.  I e-mailed the individual in question to say that I would be in touch when I returned from celebrating Passover.  I received another response from him.  It was a long reply.  My first (unfortunate, sexist) thought was, “what are you…A GIRL”  because I consider these verbose replies the purview of women (or the unemployed).  Word Count reveals that this gentleman wrote me 462 words!  To a stranger!  Now I am afraid that he is manic or bi-polar.  I feel that my space has been crowded.  Go away with your words!  Your letters are oppressive!  Apparently I have issues–who knew?

Much of the e-mail covers his fondness for old standards.  but then he also goes into his philosophy of dating, “I do not just write because I like a picture, but to be fair and compliment you, I do find you very attractive physically.”  All right then…um…thanks?  God this stuff is SO AWKWARD. 

In any case, I have a bit of a respite from everything while I visit my mother for the next four days to prepare for Passover.  Yesterday I had the opportunity to taste and critique a friend/co-worker’s (Protestant) boyfriend’s matzoh balls and chicken soup.  When I e-mailed him my feedback he was surprised that I could tell that they hadn’t been made with chicken fat.  I also had to inform him that the poultry seasoning spices he used in the soup were unacceptable, since there were no fancy schmancy herbs in the land/s of my ancestors.  He took it very well–he is apparently responsible for all the cooking for a Passover seder and, not being Jewish, he is struggling.

I will not be struggling–just helping my mother to prepare for two seders.  Read more about Passover here.  Later.

I wanna cry

I am in a killingly bad mood today.  The most likely culprit is the pain I have that I thought was a psoas problem. Now it’s seeming more like a pulled groin muscle.  No problem, it only hurts when I move.  I really want to be at home alone in the dark.  Ok, writing that sentence made me want to cry.  But I won’t.  My closest co-workers are women and are understanding of moodiness.  Good thing.

I received a real response from em dot com.  It actually refers to what I wrote in my profile. He is Italian-American, lives far away, close to Philly, but I’ll e-mail him next week after I return from the great Passover extravaganza.  I leave tomorrow.  We will be making chicken soup, brisket, potatoes, brownies and eating a lot of matzah. That’s the plan.

I must go and re-group.

Poonilda Devine

I just spent $75 on a “hair iron” because with the coming of Spring I get obsessed with my hair. I would like to get it cut much shorter but for now, I will settle for something a little different. There is no evidence that I will be able to straighten my hair since I am impatient about such girly things, but I am going to give it a try.

I would also like to try something like this.  A BOOTCAMP!  To get me to exercise more! And do strength training!  Of course, the problem is that If I did a morning class I would have to get up at 5AM three days a week.  And if I did it in the evening I would be either running or bootcamp-ing every weeknight.  Either scenario sounds like a recipe for a tired, irritable me.

Speaking of irritable, this weekend I had a coffee incident.  I asked for my coffee “dark” and got it “black,” which is becoming more prevalent.  Is this a regional problem?  Are dark and black synonyms in…say…Ohio and then the Ohioans come here and give me their snotbag attitude when I try to patiently (ha!) explain that I said dark…NOT BLACK.  Soon I’m gonna sound like one of the Bev3rly Hillbillies when I order, “Honey, could y’all just add a tetch of milk to ma’ coffee…thanks a bunch!”

And, to add to the list of names for my cat, a new one is Poonilda Devine.  I sing her a song that goes with the name and she seems to like it.  And I like it too.

Hello gawgeous

I haven’t gotten any worthwhile responses from em dot com lately.  Here are the responses of two, um, charming gentlemen who contacted me over the weekend:

***

Hello Beautiful, I read your profile and I find it very fascinating. You seems like a very interesting person. I would be honored to get the opportunity to know you. D–.

***

My name is C–.
I love your profile & I think that you are very BEAUTIFUL.
I would love to get to know you better.
Feel free to keep in touch.
I am ready to meet you.
I hope you have the best weekend ever!!!

Peace & Love always,

C…

***

Well…good to know that I “seems” like an interesting person. On Friday, even before these lame-o emails I changed my profile and it now says this:

 

Things to bring with you on our date:

Intelligence

Your reading glasses

Enthusiasm

A picture of yourself as a toddler

Conversation

A list of any current or past medications

Quirkiness

Willing suspension of disbelief

A book for your ride home (unless you’re driving a car)

 

I’ve done this mainly because I believe that if someone has ACTUALLY read my profile, they might refer to this weird list.  I can entertain myself, if nothing else.

 

 

 

Diversions

I just did my 6.7 mile run in the incredible humidity.  I was NOT dressed for it, but managed to keep myself going.  The park was swarming with people today–Spring is really here.  I always remind myself that there are probably a million people living with a mile of that park and that outdoor space is at a premium–plenty of expensive large homes have no outdoor space.  So begins another season of sharing the park with many people doing many activities.

Meanwhile, the lines at the fish stand at the greenmarket have reached new heights, but the line goes fast and 15 minutes isn’t SO long.  There are plenty of dogs and kids and moms and neighbors to eavesdrop on talk to.  I’m having company for dinner in a couple of weeks and I used the time to figure out what kinds of food I’m going to serve…tasty…easy…seafood, cheese…couscous.  Something.

I’m running out to go see August: Osage County.  I don’t know the last time I saw a show or movie that lasted over three hours.  But it’s supposed to be diverting and I am ready to be diverted on this warm humid afternoon.  Go!  Divert yourselves!

Who has a butt? Everyone!

My cat is very particular about her poo.  Generally, she waits until I am around to do it in her cat box.  Then she races back and forth and forth and back up and down my long hallway to let me know…SHE IS LIGHTER!  FECAL MATTER IS IN THE HOUSE!

Lately, in order to get my attention, her meows have gotten increasingly creepy.  She has been using the “I caught a mouse” deep, throaty meow all the time.  It drives me insane (short distance).  When this happened the other night, I chased her down the hall and grabbed her up in my arms so she was belly up.  Unlike a normal beast, she lay there with her front and back paws open, giving me a perfect view…of her “poo butt” and all the cat litter that was stuck to it.  I was briefly tempted to balance the cat in one arms and balance the cat in another arm, so I could take a photo and send it to Claudia, with the “poo butt” caption that she sent me a couple of months ago.

But then I realized that C would probably think that I was being psycho and that maybe I shouldn’t be sending photos of my cat’s anus around the internet…so I didn’t.  But now I am sad–perhaps this is the weekend of the poo butt.

 

J’apprends comment on dit “eight-ball” en français

My Netflix is getting a good workout; last night I watched the season finale of season 1 of The Wire.  I had my wine, my macaroni and meatballs and all the necessary accoutrements ready.  I bought the DVD player less than two months ago and am still discovering what it has to offer me.  Last night, I watched about 10 minutes of an episode with the French subtitles on.  I haven’t studied or used French in many years, but  I got endless pleasure from translations of drug dealers in Baltimore into French:

“My uncle tol’ me to go up dere an give her an eight-ball”

becomes:  “Mon oncle m’a dit de lui donner 3.5 grammes”

It’s amazing how French seems much more formal, though there was plenty of slang in the translations.  In fact, every instance of “fuck” used as an exclamation was translated as “PUTAIN!” [slut, whore]–and then, of course, there is “go fuck yourself,” which, as I learned in 9th grade, translates to “va te faire foutre“–very faithfully rendered in subtitles.

In February I asked H to buy me Brideshead Revisited for my b-day and started watching it over the weekend. I’ve seen it many times, and always enjoy it, but I was quite disappointed that there are no subtitles/captions included.  I was hoping for “Otra visita a Brideshead,”  but no.

My Netflix queue is taken up strictly by old TV shows–after the Wire, I have Upstairs Downstairs and Danger UXB.  It’ll probably take me until sometime in late May/early June to finish with the Wire and I need to brainstorm more good TV/DVD rentals.  Since I pay for cable channels galore, I’m not so interested in renting movies.  I want DVDs with good subtitles…maybe I could learn German?

Low inventory

It is not my job to be easygoing, I say.  And thank [SPIRITUAL BEING OF CHOICE] for that, since I would be poor if it were my job.

I do try to be easygoing, though, when someone reminds me that my advanced age makes it unlikely that I will find a mate–often it’s someone with a shitbag mate who will remind me of this supposed fact. Although the word “terrorist” is never mentioned, I am always reminded of this story from the 80s.  Hyperbole, whatever.  I don’t think of 39 as being particularly old, given that I live somewhere where you routinely see 45 year old women with newborn children.  And when I get my botox injection, I won’t look a day over 38.

So I ran off my irritation about my advanced age at the park last night. I am signed up for the marathon, but am beginning to wonder if I will be doing it alone again this year–my running buddies are dropping like flies.  I would be fine to do it alone–it’s a long run, but if I do it lots of friends will come out to support me and that’s the part that I love.  Even if I don’t have a mate, shitbag or otherwise.  I won’t say much about terrorists–given that I work about a half a mile from Ground Zer0, it isn’t very funny.

The people in the neighborhood

My morning routine does not vary much at all–I get off the subway at Chambers Street, and on the corner is a Greek diner.  I love this diner because, with the exception of the electric cash register, you could plunk it down in any of the past 30 years without making any changes to the look of the place.  When I walk in the door one of the two guys yells out my order to to the cook, “Double Scramble on a Roll” and all I have to do is stand there, reading or watching the world go by.  The two guys who take the orders are Greek and Latino–the Greek seems like an owner to me and the Latino an apprentice, if there is such a thing any more.  There used to be diners like this all over the city, but they are slowly being replaced or the prices are going up and the decor fancified.

Often they are taken over by *bucks, which is my second stop in the morning.  I used to dread going to this branch, as it was staffed by rude, obnoxious baristas, who couldn’t be polite if their lives depended on it.  They have recently been replaced by two REAL young guys.  What I mean is that these guys don’t appear to be actors, models, artists or literary critics trying to make sure that you know that they are better than you–they are just two guys getting you coffee. That is very uncommon here.  The guys have that 20-something Mutt and Jeff look, one a tall, skinny white guy and the other a shorter, heavyset, black guy.  They too know my order and call it out when they see me.  I like that–it gives lower Manhattan a neighborhood feel.

And today I got a card for free coffee every Wednesday for the next 6 weeks!! Woo Hoo!  It’s enough to make my Tuesday worthwhile.

Toenail Management

Race Day plus one…I am eating a hearty soup and trying to relax, which given that I am at work, is not an easy task.

Something that I didn’t include in my little race report was that once again I ended up with bleeding toes due to poor toenail management–I’ll make sure not to put that on my resume/CV.  I’m using this problem as an excuse to go get myself a pedicure after work.  It’s nothing fancy–just a basic cutting, shaping and polishing job.

This is the first week in a while that I have no weekday plans aside from running and working. I have to admit that I am relieved to be able to get some extra time to myself before Passover comes.  It’s a theme–when I wonder why I don’t meet more dating prospects, the answer is “Um…you like to spend a lot of time alone?”  Shocking.

I wish you all a happy Monday, and lots of time alone.