Life Listed - Chronologically

If the sun doesn't start shining again soon, I'll be forced to do something drastic. I might slit my own throat. Or go around thumping the top of every umbrella I see with my own umbrella. Bathe in a puddle. Wear unmatching clothing just to give me something to look at other than gray. In the southern part of Asia (India, etc.) where they are prone to a monsoon season, people seriously don't do much for like 2 weeks. They rarely leave the house and mostly sit around and get drunk. If we could just treat this rainy season in the same manner, I won't be forced to take that short trip to utter insanity.
Wednesday, October 16, 2002

Retail and crafty therapy. Everything is technically okay on the work front but it doesn't change the fact that this woman slang shat about me across the office in the "innocent" form of emailing everyone I work with stating she was having a problem and did they ever have one. She had a problem with me not applying the correct number of asteriks, and needed to share with everyone. The result is people treating me somewhat differently, not with the same confidence. Fortunately, I won't have to work with her much for, like, months. At which point I may to be too busy to assist her at all.

Regardless, I went out last night and spent too much money (in my poor opinion) on double pointed needles, circular needles, multi-coloured purple yarn made by South American Indian tribes and a huge book with more knitting knowledge than a retirement community of grannies.

The slight twinge of consumer indulgence, the guilt of spending when I should save, was lifted when I spoke to my father. I was explaining my plans for several projects and the money I spent, when he mentioned that needles and books last forever. I was making investments. He wanted to know whether I ever made anything for myself. The answer to that is no. "All she does is give, give, give. And all she wanted was a Malibu Barbie." Seriosuly, he said that to me.

I then proceeded to stay up half the night while late night show after late night show was on the television and I worked with my new needles, tried to teach myself new techniques, and realized you can't learn everything in a night, especially things involving 4 needles at once.
Wednesday, October 16, 2002

Yay! Good ole Jimmy Carter wins the Peace Prize. Peanut Farmer Jimmy who saw us through the Disco-Years, unfortunate Jimmy who scary assed Regan sent right back to the farm after 4 years. Some people say it's a direct criticism on Bush's current desire to turn Iraq into a Texaco oil-field and not a self-governing country with a beef with the US and a desire to not to have to spread its cheeks to our wills. Because Carter was a peaceful guy, a diplomat, and not a power hungry monkey-boy. I personally like the guy.

Last night, a charming youth swindled a cigarette out of me. Standing under the completely unneeded scaffolding near my house, 4 young boys were drinking from a can of Bud. I was walking home from the train, exhausted after a particularly bad day at work, listening to the sounds of my canvas bag rub along my rain coat with each swoosh-swooshing step forward of my left leg when I cam upon the boys. A sparkly blue eyed boy of Irish ancestry asked me for a cigarette. I, as I usually do, asked him if he was even old enough to smoke. The stutterring blabbler I got as a reply indicated that he wasn't, as one over 18 would be indignant that I thought otherwise. But he and his friends were just passing a nasty night, sitting on scaffolding, drinking someone's father's beer. And this wide smile and the way the temporary lights installed to light the passsageway hit his blue eyes made me give him one anyhow. Sometimes, everyone needs to be cut a break. And an American Spirit should have gone a long way with those boys.

Bloomberg, the relentless ex-smoker, still insists that we should not be smoking in bars. There was apparently a pregnant bartender who wanted it to stop because she feared for her unborn child. Which I understand and all but at the same time you know the risks when you take a job. You don't hear about no coal miners trying to ban the earth from collapsing on top of them. If required, I will become a bartender since I don't mind secondhand smoke. Those opposed to secondhand smoke believe it's their human right to not have to inhale dirty air.

I'd like to start a campaign against two other air-polluters that mess up my ability to breathe. Firstly, SUV oweners who drive on flat, well-paved urban and suburban roads for putting out unneeded amounts of exhaust which ruin my air. Plus, if you're obsessive about cleaning your ears like I am, I notice a bit of blackish gunk on the outside twists and turns everyday. SUVs surely do not help with this.

Secondly, people who wear too much perfume. Not only does it make me uneasy of stomach, my sinuses also stage a rebellion and I generally want to ask them if they have any olfactory glands as the scent is only slightly less stonger than a skunk's spray. My mother is violently allergic, unable to walk through certain areas of department stores. She luckily does not have to commute daily with countless careless people who simply smell too much. These people are a bigger public nuisance as there is no escape. Smokers, at least, can lower their cigarettes, blow smoke into the wind.

I understand banning smoking in perpetually perfect California where stepping out for a smoke is not too bad. It's actually probably more dangerous to go out and breathe the southern part of the state's pollution than it is to smoke. However, when it's snowing, gale force, negative zero winds and one is trying to warm ones toes with a hot toddy at a neighborhood establishment, and then desires a smoke, one just stay home instead. I realize my fellow friends who read this already agree, being great smokers and all.

On the positive side, now that the weather has turned me to investigating my warm pants, sweaters and other seasonally appropriate gear, I found a lovely surprise this morning. Looking through pants that have been lying cozily in the bottom drawer of my dresseer, I realized I had some comfy looking cords for this nasty, damp day. I pulled on a pair that fit lovely but are an off shade and have rarely worn, found an empty match book. Then I pulled on the dusty black, slightly purplish ones and reached into the pocket. Ten bucks!
Friday, October 11, 2002

I've been looking for a single piece of information about food stamp rules in the fair state of Pennslyvania. I have been looking for this finer point of the law for a while now. Let's say at least an hour. Because government web-sites are notoriously disorganized. Then I started to laugh when I came across this in the list of ineligible foods:

Alcoholic beverages, pet foods, and hot foods prepared for immediate consumption (such as barbecued chicken).

I don't think I need to expound.
Thursday, October 10, 2002

Last night was a particularly hilarious “Craft Night.” Everyone, it seemed, showed up with wine, so much wine that the inevitable drunken “opps I’ve been cross-stitching this for 8 months and just spilled wine on it” occurred. These kids are still freshly enough out of earning a BA that they are still filled with hope, buying into the hype they give you at graduation that you are something with your $100,000 education other than a great donor to the endowment of your college. Eventually, I know, this wears and you revert to the cynicism and bitterness that you hadn’t had since being a teen. Frequently, this is referred to as 25. I rather enjoy it now that I’ve accepted this is what life is throwing at me. Maybe it goes away again when you’re near 30, or at least that’s what I see in some of those “old” people I know.

They were playing Beck’s new album, which is a long series of drawn out, depressing tunes of him whining while strumming the guitar. It was one of those maybe if I play this as background music I’ll learn to like it since I was pretty excited that this was coming out before I heard to how horribly depressing it is. Sarah, who is viciously funny, described that it made her want to “stand on a fire escape in the rain, smoking cigarettes with a small trickle of blood seeping from my veins that rats below are feeding on as I slowly bleed to death.” Later on, “this is the part where I say fuck it to bleeding to death and throw myself over the railing but it’s only a two story building so I just break my back and drown as rain water fills my mouth.” Her roommate added in, “self pity and depression is fine and all, but not in front of other people, please.” I’m pretty sure these types of descriptions do not appear any where in reviews of this album. But I think that sums up whether you should buy it in case you were considering.

Williamsburg, or, as in the the local internet site, Billburg (which makes my heart skip and forces me to break out in a cold sweat), continues to inherently creep me out. I know too much about the average, upper-middle class, Northeastern, organic, creative-type life cycle now. They start in Williamsburg (or the East Village or Soho, depending on their generation) and live there like it’s Never-Neverland and they’ll never need to join the actually world of people beyond their age cohort. Eventually they fall in love, get married, which makes their parents very happy, and move to a “quieter” neighborhood where they begin to nest. These quieter neighborhoods are generally all stops on the F-train before mine. They decorate, plant windowbox herbs, and commence to breed.

After 2 to 3 pop out and they realize it’s ridiculous to own more strollers than backyard square footage, they move to the suburbs. Generally, this any town along the Morris/Essex line in New Jersey, like the town where I grew up. They buy SUVs (or minivans or station wagons depending on the generation) and find the need to have “play dates” so that their children may socialize. They buy organic and their children know more about the flavor or rice cakes than Wonder bread. Some of their kids aren’t too smart and go to Sylvan. No matter how dumb these brats are, they mysteriously all get into good colleges thanks to generous donations on their parents made to their alma matters. Their children then move into whatever new neighborhood of warehouses and immigrants to create their own Never-never lands. The circle is now complete.
Song of the day: The Circle of Life
Thursday, October 10, 2002

Things that don't let go:
1. Pitbulls
2. CNN when there is a disaster
3. Capricorn to a bad relationship
Yes, the very same qualities that make you the best friend in the Zodiac, make you a lousy boy/girlfriend. Still, your tenacity is very good in marriage. So basically, if you're a single Capricorn, try to reassess and try to release yourself. PS Pit bulls are lovely sweet dogs and we are sorry we disparaged the breed and used a cheap stereotype to make our point.

That makes me rather, um, cheerful, thanks. It's all about the upperhand though, who's following whom around like a puppy. If you got that upperhand, you win. That's one thing I'm learning. That and fiddling around with your necklace chain in your mouth smarts your fillings much like tin foil.

Someone, but I don't know who is going to be 25 in exactly one month. You'd think it was my birthday, but really it's just the magical not even 60 days when we are essentially "the same age."
Wednesday, October 9, 2002

I've been waiting to talk to an actual live person at the insurance company, rather than "please hold for the next representative" interrupting the muzak just when it's getting good, with the strong held belief that this is a completely legitimate way to pass an hour at work as they are the ones that set me up with the crappy insurance that is closed in the evenings. The banalities of adulthood sometime make me have hives. Talking to insurance companies, the guilt of not ironing a shirt that really could have used an iron, smelling the milk first before I use it since I never seem to use it up before it goes bad, stuff like that.

I spent my lunch in Madison Square Park, wondering if anyone actually gets to live facing this park and knitting. I kept the sun just so on my face as not to be shining in my eyes but keeping me warm. I actually spent more than 20 minutes outside of the office. It was refreshing. Strangely, I haven't much actual work but a lot of checking in on people doing work. This get boring. So I go knit in the park.

I have this shabby canvas sack my fiber arts are toted around it. It's of the type school children paint upon for arts & crafts. The Park Avenue crowd looked down upon me for walking in the middle of Manhattan carrying only this around as I didn't feel like taking my entire bag. I guess I need a more Mid-Town acceptable bag to carry yarn in. Maybe there's a Kate Spade knitting tote I can get a knock-off copy of on Canal. With like special side vents for extra needles and scissors, small compartment for cell phone, stuff like that.

I noticed while in my hometown this weekend, there's a bird near my parents' home that sounds a lot like Conrad. I wonder if it's Conrad that taught him the whistles or vice-versa. If it was Conrad's high pitched construction-man wolf call, I'd know for certain.
Tuesday, October 8, 2002

Right now, I'm testing my resolve, my patience and my ability to put good faith in humans and my own actions. I am not hyper-reacting, I am not demanding, I am just letting whatever occurs to happen. I am, by nature, impatient, quick to the point. I have the tendency to rush people in a discussion when the point they are attempting to make is obvious to me and I don't want to hear it through since I already believe I understand what's going on. I hate when I catch myself doing that as people unfamiliar with this style of communication might take my interruptions as rudeness rather than efficiency.

I have the tendecy to want everything settled and on my terms. But not now, the outcome isn't that important to me. I have the tendency to tire people out trying to win arguments but am now choosing to keep my mouth shut. I'm allowing my on-going personality / mid-20s / general crisis to alter me rather than fighting it as I'd normally do.

I've been buying strange things lately. They are fairly boring objects, but as a collection of purchases in a week, they are rather odd. Such as 6 foot of cable, 2 sink aerators, 4 rolls of paper towel, thin metallic cord. None of these things are being used in conjunction and possibily they only amuse me as frequently there are things that only amuse me. Maybe what makes it more amusing is that fact that I've been using travel-sized toothpastes since I returned from Haiti and have yet to buy myself a full tube. But have purchased plumbing.

I've been seeing the same hairstylist for 3 years and have been consistently happy with her styles as they do not require too much daily styling to actually look nice. When I felt like it, I could blow dry, apply product and do something else but it would generally look no better than air-dried, just a bit more fussy. However, this weekend she gave me a cut that I am not too cheesed about. It appears to require those aerobics of dryer, brush and wrist to sectionally dry hair to make it look cute, something I am completely unwilling to learn. This is too big of a test of my patience. Elsewise, it's kind of a boring, bob-like do and I look a little lame. Even if I half heartedly dried it this morning, it reminds me of the cheap cuts I'd get in college every 6 to 12 months until I could afford another, except this one has a bit more layering. I do not like it one bit.

My stylist also stopped smoking and suggested that I do as well. Since I knew my older sister had been in that morning for a pre-wedding trim, I asked her if my sister had told her to tell me to stop smoking. Her reply was a quick hit of the comb on my shoulder, because, of course, my sister had. Part of me also wonders if my sister asked for my hair to be cut so it's sufficiently grown out for her wedding. I seriously wouldn't doubt this.
Song of the day: Midnight Traing to Georgia
Monday, October 7, 2002

Today I bring you vocabulary builders. Using such words will surely make you the envy of your peers as they stand stunned at your clever twist of phrase. Which, by the way, I notice is most of the new world making we do. At least, by "we", I mean white people. Because the hip hop world has added many worlds to our vocabulary that are not repackaged older words such as phat (and phatty) and, a favorite of mine, bling bling. Any way, in leui of a song of the day, I present two words of the day:

Metrosexual: (MET.roh.sek.shoo.ul) n. A dandyish narcissist in love with not only himself, but also his urban lifestyle.
Social swarming:(soh.shul SWOR.ming) n. The rapid gathering of friends, family, or colleagues using technologies such as cell phones, pagers, and instant messaging.

Obviously, social swarming is a big activity for the metrosexual. However, social swarming does not always indicate a case of metrosexuality. Catchphrases such as "throw up in my mouth", however, immediately do indicate a metrosexual.
Friday, October 4, 2002

I had the "debriefing" with the woman I wanted to "kill" last week. The woman who consistently underestimated my intelligence. Who takes all my suggestions of how to make things more interesting and basically discounts them since she thinks I'm an idiot. Who basically believes that she only changed tables twice when I indeed have 4 directories of previous versions of tables with major changes, beyond me messing up and doing all these typos.

I hate it when someone blatantly wants to criticize you / talk to you about their problems with you, they make you talk first. Like, let's chat, tell me how you feel and I'll pretend to give a flying rat's ass and then tell you how you didn't have the correct number of asteriks, how you misaligned the cosmos by making me think there were no asteriks when there were four.

I wonder how honestly I can speak at this job. Can I say I do not want to do this or that ever again? Should I just except whatever crap is thrown at me while other people get to fly on planes to go to conferences instead of, like me, just taking a taxi to whatever Maryland suburb whatever government agency is housed?

I was reading some obscure book by Ken Kesey for the past week or so. I retured it today, 75 percent unread as I just did not like it. I got some other books but I'm very preoccupied with the idea of several books that are soon to be published that I doubt that I'll enjoy these too much. I'm trying out some new authors, a very bold thing for me to do.

My yonger sister just called me at work since I needed to know something (like my grandmother's birthday since I always forget). While talking to her, the dog started to "speak" in the backgroud.

Kasey: Say hello to Roxy.
Me: Hello Roxy.
Kasey: Wait, wait . . . she moved (calls Roxy, come here, come back over here) okay now say hello to her.
Me: I really would rather not talk to the dog at work.
Kasey: Just say hello.
Me: Hello Roxy.
Kasey: Wait, she moved her head again. Hold on.
Me: I'd really rather not.
Kasey: You'll break her heart. Go ahead.
Me: (cracking up since I'm being forced to talk to the dog at work) Hello Roxy.
Kasey: No louder.
Me: Hello Roxy.
Kasey: Her ears perked.

I had to talk to the dog just so her ears would perk? Seriously.

Song fo the Day: I Walk the Line
Wednesday, October 2, 2002

When I saw the people from the middle of nowhere (you can tell, they just dress strangely, a bit off) just south of Washington Square Park taking pictures of each other agains a fire truck, I thought I'd instantly puke. I guess where ever they're from, there are no fire trucks. Seriously. And then today I came across this: "wallpaper" for your desk top because, yeah, that's what we all want to look at all day long. The careless insensitivity of the outside world drives me up the wall. Mostly because they do it with some twisted degree of righteousness, as if truly, putting up a "vacation picture" of what is essentially now a construction site is all American and crap.
Tuesday, October 1, 2002

Right now, I'm supressing the urge to play hooky. It's taking everything I have, every other minute that outside, not at work, not in a stuffy room, out in the air part of me tries to convince the part that's just trying to get paid that we should get up, leave for the rest of the afternoon and maybe go for a walk in Prospect Park, get a lemonade, watch young boys play baseball, look at the city from high hills. That part of me is very good at letting me know how great it would be out there, maybe walking over the Brooklyn Bridge with hair whipping in my face, that particular smell that creeps up from the Fulton Fish Market, seeing the Watchtower Building, maybe a walk to Borough Hall. That part is telling my ass on this office chair how nice it would be if sitting on grass, my wrists how happy they'd be if knitting, my face how warm if in the sun. I don't know how much longer I can last. I don't have the willpower.

I suppose I can go take yet another stroll around the neighborhood, crossing streets, hidden from direct sunlight by the shawdows of buildings, smelling bum piss and smoking cigarettes. But I require a bit more than that right now. I require lots of treets, greenery, grass, water, non-concrete beauty. Two more endless hours to go.

I hope I survive. My edginess just might give me hives, which will then close up my throat and then force me to stop breathing, to spend the remainder of the day in the hospital which would really piss me off because if I don't suffocate from hives, I'll at least get a good couple of hours to play before the street lights come on. Please excuse me while the walls are crawled up.
Song of the Day: Over the hills and far way
Tuesday, October 1, 2002

A smallish boy of 3 was being carried by his father on Fifth Avenue near 17th Street. The boy was in brown and white checked paints, a green zip-up cardigan, big light-colored eyes, whitish blond hair with a haircut that looked far better than mine. His father was sandy haired, probably named Ashton or Ashlee, definitely not Steve, of the type that either lived in the immediate area or was down from Park Avenue on the UES for a day of shopping. They were obviously well-to-do. The father was asking his son where mommy was.

Boy: I dunno, where'd she go?
Dad: Where's mommy, do you see mommy?
Boy: (points over dad's shoulder at a particularly pitiful pigeon on sidewalk) There she is!

I attempted to go to the so-called "Ribbon Store", although I had known it as a trimmings store until it's casual social reference had developed amonst my circle of friends, but found it clsoed for the weekend. I'd thought that all of the Jewish holidays for the month of September were over and called the live-in Jewish consultant in New Jersey. She asked if the Hassidim were dressed in funny outfits, which I laughed at. "How can I tell if there's dressed particularly funny today? They wear woollen hats and black trench coats in 95 degree weather." (It was Purim, the Jewish "Halloween" where some folks are known to dress "funny".)

When I've grown accustomed to disappointment, when my gut reactions are to inherently distrust all but very few people, it's strange to find out that my anger was unneeded. Before I knew the truth, I was hurt and disgusted and ready to put on a slightly over-dramatic exit. Emotions stirred and disturbed me. But after the truth was revealed and no wrong had been done, I was probably more overburdened with feelings. A conflict of stupidity at being so upset and of knowing I expect to be upset brewed inside.
Happy 100th Flatiron!
Song of the day: Fire and Rain
Monday, September 30, 2002

Sopping wet and overburdened. I'd gotten sick of smoking the Marlboro Lights I bought on special (buy 3, get 2 free), and insisted I stop to get real cigarettes, Camels. It's funny how the particular chemical equation becomes so important, how you just get used to how they coat your respiratory system and other's just don't do it the same. Maybe, just maybe, I was smoking too much and convinced myself it was the Marlboros bothering me and not the smoking too much.

My feet never felt so wet. I was convinced I came down with a case of spontaneous Athlete's Foot, although it was pointed out that my feet would burn if such was the case. They did burn, kind of, from the mixture of soaked feet with wrinkled and softened skin and walking making them kind of tingle. Admittedly, they didn't burn like I had an infection. I was just complaining about how wet my feet were. Admittedly, some guy in the book I'm reading complains about his Athlete's Foot.

The city in the rain poses it's own challanges and "fun" is a less readily available thing to be had. You stay at each place for about 2, 2 and half hours, just to wait for your feet and clothes to dry off before entering the rain again, just to put you back where you started. However, the foggy low sky and the white of the Empire State Building make for a strinkingly beautiful, almost breath-taking image that requires frequent stops to admire under scaffolding.
Song of the day: I'll be your mirror
Friday, September 27, 2002

Current Personality Crisis Explained in Under 100 Words in Horoscope.

This is your conscience speaking: "Proceed with caution. Be careful you don't get too damn impressed with yourself. Don't deviate from the good old formulas that have brought you this far. Do what's expected of you and don't offend anyone." This is your genius speaking: "Tell your conscience to SHUT UP. You have a poetic license to be a cute brat, a curious seeker, a sloppy kisser, an extreme talker, a loud laugher, and a me-first-er. This is your big bad chance to imitate God. And I mean 'bad' in the best sense of the word."

My dreams last night were completely out of control. For the second evening, I’ve become aware that I really must either close my windows a bit or pull down the comforter as most of them feature me being freezing. There were all these shredded pieces of material every where, long ones hanging from the ceiling as a sat at a faux-wood-grained topped folding table, tearing t-shirt cotton into even smaller pieces. I was talking to someone on the other side of the table but could not see them because of all this shredded material in my way. I recall saying, “The Japanese sure like to keep it cold” and then “I guess it’s better for all these precious materials.” Really, that was my dream.

Craft night is a generally pleasurable experience. Especially when gelatinous chicken potpie is not served but instead an apple pie purchased from Chelsea Market. The piano was put together, plans to tile a floor made, the progress on my knitted scarf discussed as well as detailed points on the limits and capabilities of knitting. Michael Jackson frequently came up as I’ve noticed he’s become a topic of conversation recently in many social settings. While an enjoyable way to spend a mid-week evening, it’s too darn far from my house and actually takes longer to return home from Williamsburg than it does from the Upper West Side. Williamsburg : art student types - - Hoboken : fraternity types. It’s a lot like 90201 when they got out of high school but mysteriously held together the same social lives.

Tara: (on phone with sister) What’s the name of the bakery?
Kasey: Um, don’t go there, it’s too expensive. Sarah isn’t worth it, I hate her, she’s boringly freakish. It was like . . .
Jenny: (in the background) Go to Little Italy, they have bakeries.
Tara: (to Kasey) She has no idea that Little Italy is a two block tourist trap, does she?
Kasey: No, she’s doesn’t actually go into New York Jenny: (in background) She should go to Little Italy. Did you tell her to go to Little Italy?

The plus side is finally riding on the JMZ, which had been the final subway line I had yet to travel on. While the Delancey Street F platform has never particularly bothered me / made me feel uncomfortable, the JMZ platform and the transfer to the F is rather empty and creepy. As I rounded the corner to climb the stairs of a newly tiled area where the tiles and grout are not yet the non-descript gray of most of the subway system, a large man was sprawled down several steps, beverage in brown paper bag in hand, completely passed out. After I pirouetted to avoid stepping directly on stop of him, I practically took the steps two at a time to catch up with the young Latina mami who was also transferring J to F as to have company in case Thriller-style ghouls should start pouring from crevices and nooks.

While such occurrences should not be shocking in the New York Transit System, the good old MTA, they have definitely decreased in the past few years. In college, I would wait by the token booth until I heard the train coming if there were very few people around and I would always ride the train in the middle of the train where the guy who opens and closes the doors operates from. But recently, with fresh-scrubbed young people flooding the city with excessive disposable income, Guliani-era “quality of life” initiatives cleaning up what we see, and a general change from the 1990s world to the current day, this world of New York has all but disappeared.

When I was a teenager, New York was full of strangeness and grimy, bordering on dangerous experiences. The East Village was a world of freaks like no other. You could buy pot in Washington Square Park. Times Square was not a theme park. Part of it may be that I’ve gotten used to the place, I’ve aged and now take much of what goes on for granted. The other part is that it has truly changed here, unless you transfer from the JMZ to the F at Delancey.
Song of the day: Driftwood
Thursday, September 26, 2002