I’ve become that weird single lady who uses a special pillow for her buttocks

I’ve become that weird single lady who uses a special pillow for her buttocks. As I sit here decluttering a corner of my house, I’ve had some important Saturday realizations. First off, I don’t know about you, but over the past two years, I’ve done more sitting than a Las Vegas poker player constipated from the hotel buffet.

Woman Seeking Torso

From time to time I have dreams of Peyton Manning pulling me into a power hug while in a confined space such as a small kitchen or an elevator in a second-tier Las Vegas resort. And in that moment, when my head is pressed firmly into his larger-than-life, Superbowl-winning, Hall-Of-Fame, most-seasons-with-at-least-4000-passing-yards, chest cavity, I feel all my worries completely disappear.

All I know about Chanukkah, I learned from Charleton Heston

When I find myself in a conversation trying to draw upon any Jewish history, my first thoughts always take me to an old movie I saw as a little girl, the 1950’s epic saga, The Ten Commandments. I was probably six or seven at the time. I had been allowed to stay up past my bedtime to watch it while next door my parents rocked out to Barry Manilow. I credit the entirety of my musical style to having heard the somber, celebratory, and terribly confusing mashup of, “The Lord’s Prayer” and “Copa Cabana”.

The Smell Of Farts And Desperation

This is not a story about covid. This is a story about when I decided to adopt a dog while recovering from covid. You get to decide which has been more stressful. I thought a dog would mean unconditional love and cuddling and yes, an occasional poop in the living room. And also sometimes he would go to the bathroom in the house. But I think I actually got catfished by the dog formerly known as, “Inmate Number 799.”

Who Wants Muffins?

By day three in quarantine I started to develop some odd symptoms. I initially chalked it up to your run-of-the-mill anxiety attack: racing heart, sweaty palms, brain fog. Then by day four, I was hit with such extraordinary fatigue, I thought I’d been kicked by a horse, dragged behind it for twenty miles (or 32 kilometers if you’re un-American), left to barbecue out in the middle of the desert, doused in someone else’s cold sweat, barbecued some more, then electrocuted by the horse’s owner who was mad at me for stealing his horse, then forced to wear a child’s-sized helmet for the next thirty-two days straight. All while being chased by a mob of angry land sharks.

Aim For The Middle

You know how people say when someone starts day-drinking, it’s a red flag for depression. My version of that has been, day watching. Lately, you can find me mid-day, binge-watching old episodes of Star Trek while eating burnt home-made cookies.

Camp Fun N’ Stuff

After driving in half an hour of traffic we arrived at what looked like an abandoned vet clinic and/or mineshaft. Two giant stone doors opened to reveal an enclosed cement “play area”. This would end up being the location of eighty percent of our camp activities. City camp, it turns out is really just like waiting in line at the DMV. Everyone around you is stuck being there, so you inevitably bond, but no one really wants to be there longer than they have to.

Birds In My Box

For the past thirty minutes, I have been sitting at an overrated hipster cafe in the heart of the trendiest and shabbiest part of Los Angeles trying to log on to a painfully slow wireless connection. I’m parked alone at a table on a secluded back patio covered in big, leafy trees gently rustling in the spring air. I feel both casually frustrated and aggressively serene. In the past half hour, an arbitrary internet thingie has captured my Facebook profile, my Instagram handle, my favorite type of donut and my shoe size. Now, this six-dollar cup of watered down chai tea that tastes more like mouthwash is probably going to cost me my identity and my Costco membership.

Win By Knockout

Last week I got cold-cocked by my freezer door. In that moment of blinding pain and disorientation, clutching my head, I remembered thinking, how mad I was at both my inability to duck oncoming vegetables, and how grateful I was for the sold ground beneath me, which soon came to be my best friend for the better part of half an hour.

Sweat Hog Part II

Now that I’ve beaten down the traffic gods and made my way to yoga class, I hurriedly gather my belongings like a nameless forest creature scurrying to avoid getting eaten by a bear.