Hey Darling Ones, It was one of the summers of 2017-2019 when I was really invested in dating and dating apps. I get like this occasionally, where I tire of waiting for Prince Charming to hack through the brambles, find me half asleep in my castle, kiss me. Fairytales are never not creepy as fuck. When I get like this I sign up for all the dating apps and spend a ridiculous amount of time flipping through a catalog of…
Dear Darling Ones, I just finished five hours of work,* put on Waxahatchee’s “Saint Cloud” record, and promptly burst into tears. Gee whiz, Jodi’s crying again. Shocker. After all, my dad just died! But these were not grief tears. Not happy tears or tired tears or oh my god I’m hilarious tears or hangry tears or bored tears or horny tears or lonely tears or frustrated tears or rage tears. There are a lot of ways to cry. I am…
Hi Darling Ones, I’m being held hostage by avocados and grief. My plan for today was to work a bunch (still behind due to dad death), make chicken fajita rice burritos for dinner, and then tuck in with The Go-Go’s documentary while I still have my free trial of Showtime. However, the 48¢ avocados I bought on Thursday have other plans. Namely, the “we’re gonna wait to ripen until a more inconvenient time so enjoy your leftover soup, bitch” plans….
Hi Darling Ones, When I tell my friends or family that I’m bad at watching TV they laugh politely and then go on to talk about whatever show they are recommending to me. It sounds dumb, but I am bad at it. For example last night I signed up for a free-trial of Showtime so I could watch the Sinead O’Connor documentary “Nothing Compares.” It took me three hours to watch the 1.5 hour documentary. I paused it to tweet,…
So, Darling Ones, I had a tiny rage meltdown today. When I checked the mail this afternoon there was the usual printed spam, the electric bill, a package containing 300 teeny, tiny phallic-looking stitch markers, and a letter/offer/advertisement addressed to my mom. An advertisement from a monument company addressed to my mom but sent to my house. I went from having a so-so day to incandescent rage in about thirteen seconds. I’m still pretty salty about how expensive newspaper obituaries…
Hey Darling Ones, Before I get into today’s nonsense, I’d like to point out the header image. It says, BOOBS in numbers. As soon as Sister #4 popped that calculator out of her box of Dad’s crap he hauled home from my parents’ apartment I put in some batteries and did the time-honored tradition. The poor children of today probably don’t get to experience the profound joy of spelling BOOBS or BOOBLESS or LOOSE on a calculator that requires batteries…
