There I was on my way to the train, discussing the craziness of these gps systems with the senior citizen with whom i was sharing the cab.
(The fact that the majority of people I befriend around town are octogenarians clearly is some sort of reflection on me, not sure what, but some.)
I was sweating, in a sweater, thinking why the hell am I in a sweater.
Once on the train i took out the eggplant and hummus sandwich I’d made for my lunch from a neat little baggie. After about 3/4 of it, i was full, but I looked at the crusts. “I could put it back in the bag, sure, but then I have to sit here with this thing that kinda smells.” So I ate the rest of the sandwich to get rid of it. No tasting. No enjoying. Pure mastication. Swallow. Gone.
I’m on the train now and its raining, really raining, and I’m wearing gold boat shoes with no socks. Great if I happen to find myself later on the Down Easter Alexa. Not so much if I navigate the dirty puddles of Washington Heights on my way to my doctor’s appointment at Columbia Presbyterian, which has a 100 chance of happening over the Alexa.
I’m planning our family vacation. How can something with the best intentions be such a nightmare to plan? Where should we go? Nantucket? Martha’s vineyard? Block island? Maine? (And with this in mind, should I go to Brooks Brothers now, or later?)
I’m looking up houses to rent. “Sunny” says hot to me. Come to my hot house in the middle of August w no ac. “Cottage charm?” Small as hell. “Private.” In the middle of the woods where your closest neighbor will be Jason. “For antique lovers:” our house and its appliances are 100 years old. “Country house.” Full of bugs with no working toilet.
It’s hard to rent a house on line without seeing it.
It’s hard to hold in this pee until my doctor appt at 2:45 pm.
And may all your problems stink as much as this.