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Of course, having people looking at your site because they are looking for terrorists on the web or something (as below) it's refreshing to see good old perverts looking for naughty girls in tight silk shirts and to see that you are #5. It makes me so happy to give the perverts of the world a glimmer of hope and then to know they get so deparately upset to realize all this page contains words and stuff.
Monday, October 22, 2001
Blue Light Specials Firstly, this weekend was too beautiful to truly accept that Monday is actually here and I'm actually at work and not just dreaming about this whole situation much like the splendid dream I had over the wonderful weekend with cool fall breezes passing over my face as I slept. It all began with walking home over the Brooklyn Bridge, watching the sunset on a Friday with the red sky behind the Statue of Liberty. Since that moment, perfect.
Lately, I have a disease. It's called waking up earlier on the weekend than I ever do to go to work. Result: long weekends, late-for-work-weekdays. To remedy this, I finally purchased
the alarm clock I've wanted for ages. Recently, at Bess's party, I noticed she had a sleek little CD alarm clock number in her room. I decided that there was no reason holding me back other than my refusal to spend the money.
Ever since I knew they made such appliances, I've been wanting, desiring, desparate for one. I'd have conversations with friends and family about what song would be joyfully, happily or at least not so grogily wake to every day. But never bought the appliance I'd need to make such a dream a reality.
I guess I was hoping that the radio would magically play me songs to wake me. Which they do, about once every other month. That leaves some 39 work days where I don't wake up because the music on the radio is nothing that puts me in the mood for the day. And it makes me late. It isn't as if anyone notices here, I just feel as if I should act like I'm not a temp but a benefit-receiving, vacation getting, salaried employee and get to work roughly at 9 am.
I spent most of last week attempting to get a CD alarm clock on eBay just to get outbidded constantly. I had no patience for this, went over to K-Mart, since Bess said they had cheap ones, at Penn Station during lunch, but was unable to part with any cash or shop since it was lunch time at K-Mart. Finally, yesterday, when I realized Monday was approaching which would be the third week I've vowed to get to work at 9 am everyday, I sucked it up and went to the Astor Place K-Mart.
After consulting with my mother, who has bought more appliances in her life than needed, I decided that the extra $20 was worth a Sony in case I wanted to listen to CDs in my room. We didn't mention what I was thinking: how this would be beneficial while getting it on as my very large stereo is in the living room. K-Mart also has "self-check-out" where you scan and bag our own items, swipe your credit card or put cash into a machine and then leave the store. I used it but was completely freaked out, my entire trip require no interaction with K-Mart employees.
And this morning, at 7 am sharp, I rolled over as the beginning verses to A Day in the Life by the Beatles began to fill my quiet bedroom, making me aware of the soft morning light, the stuffed llama I was holding in my hand, and generally reflect without the instinct to quickly shut-up a DJ talking about traffic. Because this song is one I've wanted to wake to for ages. And tomorrow I shall wake to Chat a Psalm by Steel Pulse and have reggae in my head all day. Now will this really work? Will I get to work on time?
I must say that the bitch of it is that I didn't this morning. I left the house before 8 am, showered with light make-up carefully applied rather than a smeared attempt, hair dried and parted rather than me running my fingers through it so it's not too slicked back looking and in doing so tangling it, bag packed with all necessary things for the day including books to return to the library. Sitting on the train in a skirt rather than lightly-wrinkled-enough-to-get-away with it pants, I reading the $2 copy of In Cold Blood I found for Angel five seconds after we discussed whether he should buy the $12 new copy in a book store, the train began to delay at each stop and finally sat at Second Avenue. It was 8:40 am and I was hoping it would move, hoping to be on time. And it stayed there, and people were muttering shit about the service under their breath.
Finally, at 8:55, after the young guy sitting next to me asked me for the time, we decided to get up. Because the 6 train is a 5 minute walk away. And because, finally, the truth to why we were sitting there came out: "police investigation at 34th street", 5 stops away! And at 9:20 am, I finally got to work. I could've done that ignoring my old radio alarm until jumping out of bed at 7:45.
Monday, October 22, 2001
So I was checking my sitemeter because I've been going between terribly busy and utterly bored in 0.5 seconds. And I got a google referral for anthrax+fedex. My site comes up as #11
1) I am a good citizen who supports the actions of the US government.
2) Anthrax and Fedex did not appear in the same idea, thought, etc as each other.
I seriously doubt terrorists are using their on-line journals to share secrets, but this page isn't one. I'm all creeped out.
Friday, October 19, 2001
RidTex The media is all up on Anthrax because they are the only ones who seem to be getting any of it, that and Senators but they never really counted as people to begin with. What makes me happy is to know that there is a plan in case of a smallpox outbreak. If there was one, just about everyone under 30 or so would get sick, fast. Smallpox would spread like lice on kindergarten sleeping mats, but unfortuantely you need a bit more than stinky Rid or Tex or whatever the lice shampoo is called.
I babysat for a girl who got lice from her best friend. Her mother would check my hair daily. We mostly played outside those days and I would let her ponytail get all messy. Although her mom never found anything, I still used Tid or Rex during that time because I thought 19 was a bit old to be getting lice. I was happy when people like Marie and the rest of the Jersey people still would hang out with me after I warned them I'd been around a louse infected stinker.
Once I manage my way through part of that $1400 scratch I put in my sister's car, I'm ready for a real grown-up, week-off, with pay, vacation. What I'm thinking about flying is JetBlue, even though they only leave JFK. My problem with JFK used to be that the only planes that crashed off the east coast left from there. Well, now there has been 4 planes that left from not JFK that crashed. I wasn't allowed to tell Angel's friend this factoid when he visited since the guy was terrified of flying and Angel said he would never leave if he knew.
But JetBlue seems pretty cheap and flies to all the places I'm interested in anyhow. Plus, I don't have a "flyer's preferences" with them so they won't wake me for my vegetarian meal which my mother added to my Continental account a few years ago which leads me to being woken up but a cabin-bitch asking me if I want my special ordered meal. (yes, please wake me for your processed food!) Instead, you get cable tv and snacks. Maybe I'll go to Denver, I've always wanted to see REAL huge mountains other than the ones I flew over in route to Seattle.
And finally, I need some books. I need reading material. Actually, I'd be better off without any reading material other than a couple magazines to entertain me on the train, but I'd rather a book (since I am supposed to take my evening hours to study for the LSATs, ha!). So, let me know any way you'd like.
Friday, October 19, 2001
Busted Bubble After a frantic afternoon where in I probably never picked a wronger moment to go for a cigarette, I finally have about 3 minutes before it gets that way again. I feel too edgy to be here. You can tell when I'm busy because I don't post every observation, reflection or seemingly profound thought.
Instead, I write about work, because it's the only thing on my mind, because I'm too busy to even think. And I'm not dong that very well. I need to like jump up and down, run in circles. I think I need a trip to see my family because we are the craziest people around. In that house, I learned the best way of venting frustration is simply through hilarity.
My FedEx packages got returned, for stupid reasons and all I know is that someone was in no mood for imperfect penmanship and not immaculately drawn 1's at the FedEx last night. I was ready to flip my shit at the FedEx place when customer service took over. The lady couldn't have been nicer, so I couldn't scream "why did you return the ones that were filled out right, what's wrong with you people, aren't they supposed to drug test you" and stuff like that. She even packaged my multiple FedEx paks into a FedEx box to save money. Bitch, I needed to vent.
When I'd gone out for a cigarette, I was completely boxed out of returning to my office. Because they were taking Board Member pictures right in the hallway area that connects my office to the elevators. So I was stuck. And returned to emails of 'where are you on this' 'how's it coming along.'
So I went about finding a distraction. And the photo store that Marie and I went to on Sunday and had a brief conversations about the Willy-Wonka quality including a very loud exchange between us and sales person about oompa loompas was compared to Fraggle Rock on this page. Whatever analogy/ metaphor/ illiteration/ comparasion/ rhyme scheme you want to make of it, that place is nuts.
I whole heartedly agree with this opinion about how much Congress needs to get some bigger balls. I don't agree with all her opinions on said link, but geez, shut down the government? The "Salon Premium" article talks about how anthrax scares in the past were vastly ignored. I can't really say more because I'm too poor to read the whole article.
Thursday, October 18, 2001
Dork We have Board Meetings twice a year here at work. This week is the first one since I've been here. It's rather exciting in an abstract dorky manner. It's nothing like Bess having Michael Douglas in the same building. But these people here this week are the people who wrote all the books I read in my sociology course work, were the one's I used to guide my study, were the ones that my professors got all hard for. Like William Julius Wilson; I just saw him walking down the hall during their break. With my woke-too-late-to-shower dirty hair, my face puffy from my bout with severe insomnia last night, carrying about 500 pounds of FedEx packages to the mailroom. And I used to stay up late at night underlining his words, making note cards and inserting comments from class notes. There are a couple of other people that I know all about, but none like WJW, studied to death to write kick-ass exam essay answers.
On a side note, I feel like frigging hell. Besides trying to sleep from like 10pm to 5am, I also did something very stupid yesterday. I hate feeling ashamed of myself, embarassed by my actions, astonished at my ability to act in certain ways. But I guess it's already been done, and the damage which has been mended will not be used against me in the future (I hate that shit, but am also guilty of it myself).
Wednesday, October 17, 2001
Hero I love Andre Dubus. He is my hero-writer. I have always loved him. During my senior year when I took hell-writing class with mega-bitch Mary Gordon, we had to choose an author that we would use in various projects. Most of the people chose like, Marquez, Tolstoy, and others of the cannon as we as Barnard girls were not forced to read as Columbia students were. I think the only reason why this woman respected me was that I chose one of her contemporaries, legitimizing her in a way the brown nosers never could in mimicing her tone and style in their writing.
He died that year. We talked about it as I was in the middle of one of our projects, and we both tried to act as if it was just news that did not effect us. Because we didn't really like each other. Or, at least, I really didn't like her and she wasn't one to ever show emotion to her students. But each of us had tear swells in our eyes.
When I returned from Ireland, got viciously ill in my sister's twin bed at BU, covering her sheets with sweat and germs and then getting better just in time for my drive to visit my fairy-friend Anne in Vermont, I passed the Merrimack River that he'd written about so many times. And I said hello to Andre, and told him the Yankees won the world Series since I loved baseball much like I talk to my grandfather when crossing the Verrazanos Bridge.
Dubus refused to reprint his first novel since he did not think it was very good. That didn't stop me from endlessly searching for it. I'd forget for long periods of time, but when I went to the library a few weeks ago, it was there. Honestly, it isn't very good. But the dust cover contained a picture of him when he was still young, not the bearded gray man in a wheelchair I'd always seen him as. He had a big Starsky and Hutch mustache. He was very handsome. And now that the first edition printing of the paperback is on ebay, and I used to collect random editions to the random authors I love, I think I need it.
Tuesday, October 16, 2001
Follow-up In my neighborhood a lot of things go on, and I wrote about what I love best on that link back there. What made me happiest was to see that the Arabic store ownders still get packed in the morning, still have people buying 24 rolls of toilet paper for next to nothing. The Hasidic store owners still remain opened, still sell eletronics at amazingly cheap prices. The entire racial atmosphere has gone unchanged. If anything, people are a bit more careful in their dealings with one another.
My mother says the deli she has always stopped at on her way to work for a pastry, coffee, pack of cigarettes and so forth is now mostly empty. Whereas before there was generally 5 or 6 cars in the parkig lot at any given time in the morning, she sometimes in the only one in the lot. The stupid part of the situation is that the owner is not a Muslim, not an Arab but Indian. So goes the ignorance of people who live in towns named "Dun Ellen."
I've been reading up on Anthrax. Really, a severe outbreak seems unlikely. Planes crashing into building also seemed unlikely. But the simple biology of gathering enough spores is pretty difficuly, like gathering pollen from pansies. I think that WebMD does a pretty god job with the facts. Anthrax just has this terrifying name. Honestly, smallpox is a bit more effective if you want to kill off a population other than the fact that most older people are already vaccinated. Because it's contagious but smallpox just doesn't sound as scary. You can't catch Anthrax from other people. I'm afraid that I may have to eat my words in several months, but I can't imagine Anthrax killing off as many as have already lost their lives to terrorism these past weeks. I wonder how the old Anthrax/music group albums are selling these days.
Tuesday, October 16, 2001
I heart Brooklyn Besides the fact that I'm storing up instances in order to write an longer entry here, I still constantly have so many experiences that further prove how great that borough is. Beyond the every day life and people, some events just prove that Brooklyn is better.
I registered to vote at the end of this past August. I didn't transfer my registration but actually registered for the first time. But I get nothing in the mail, no "thanks a lot" messages, nothing indicating that my registration actually went through. The reason why I registered wasn't just to get in the jury duty pool, but to actually vote. And with the elections on the 16th of November, I wanted to know if I could.
So I began calling around trying to find out if my registration has gone through. I tried all the numbers I could find through the Board of Elections web page and got the run around, endlessly ringing calls transferred and no good answers at all. Finally, I asked if there was a number in Brooklyn that I could call.
Unfortunately, there computers are down today. The lady, who called me every term of endearment on record in her raspy 2 packs a day cigarette voice mixed in with the Brooklyn accent, not only appologized, but told me to call back tomorrow, to her line directly and that right after lunch would be a good time to call. Because she cares that I am concerned about my registration status. Because she understands her job as a city goverment worker isn't just to have great security and excellent benefits but to help people.
And that's just the way Brookln is. People look out for one another.
Monday, October 15, 2001
What I like best about spending the evening in New Jersey is getting ready in the morning while Mom is reading the paper, moving around the house and the dogs lazing around on beds, following me around. What I like the least, more lately than before, is the NJ Transit train into the city at 7:43. It runs express from my wee hometown to Penn Station. At Penn Station, inevitably, it starts getting sticky. Because all these people are walking down the platform to a handful of stairwells and escalators. And there is this push and squeeze. Subway people are a bit more rational and aggresive. I hate the NJ stupid non-aggresive annoying stairwell behavior.
I did, however, see a girl from high school on the train. She said hi to me. I looked around to see who the hell she was talking to. Because she was one of those girls with nothing really special about her face, just round face, cute nose upturned, long shiny brown hair and light eyes, about 5'5. There are so many of those people walking around. That just could be anyone because they have nothing really distinctive about them.
It took me a second to realize who she was, and then I said "oh, hello!" real nice and all. But I did say oh, like, oh it's you. I think she was diappointed that I haven't been thinking about her everyday since high school. I actually completely forgot she existed. And then she just walked away. We were in the stupid non-aggresive annoying stairwell crowd.
Although weekends can sometimes be more exciting than normal, espcially when featuring people I actually find interesting rather than pretending that I do, references to my elementary school, a crazy photo store full of "oompa-loompas", I still look forward to weekday nights when I can go back to my craft of the week/month/etc. Because I finally have my glass and a borrowed pair of extra strong cutters.
Marie finally saw my home. I like showing my friends where I live, to let them know I am some place nice and safe. I like waking my friends up out of my bed. I like having them on my sofa, around my world, seeing my fruit stands and delis and the like. I loved meeting Bess's roommates, seeing Bess, hearing Richie tell me, oh, 5 times "Come by whenever you want. I'll be out drinking, Bess will be hung over and Amy will be with her boyfriend" But like, 5 times, each time exactly the same.
And now, when I leave early because I was here at 8:35, I will go back to my little craft, egged by a pretty great weekend. (Let's not talk about those LSATs which I am clearly not studying for)
Monday, October 15, 2001
Ha! As we can see I found an image that needed to be hosted. As we can see I'm busy learning things at work both related and unrelated to why I am here.
It was so frigging nice out this morning. Not that I'm complaining now, but this morning put me in a good mood even though my first though of the morning wasn't nice and involved me muttering the work "fuck" upon looking up from my bed at the entirely too large mirror mounted on the wall for the full length of my bed and seeing my head. I showered at 3 am since I'm not much of a waker. My hair was still wet when I feel asleep with a towel wrapped around it. This morning it was sticking out in 50 different directions.
Other than getting next to no sleep, I managed to happily go about getting dressed, almost got out of the door the earliest time this week when I couldn't find my keys. It took me ten minutes to realize I left them in the door. And the air was damp with the promise of warm today and my little sweater allowed the sun to warm me but the damp don't to get me. The kids today looked so happy walking to school. When the crossing guard shouted go ahead, I thought she was talking to me and even though she wasn't, I liked getting help crossing the street.
I already have temporary tattoos in little boxes, orange lights-on-a-string and Halloween ready for these lovely kids that kind of make my morning.
Friday, October 12, 2001
Time-warp I can't believe it's after 2 already. As I predicted yesterday, I'm not all that busy. I spent the entire morning learning html, and changing this page, and I hate it so far. And finding free image hosting which really doesn't matter since I don't have any images to be hosted. But I have a place to store them. Like the empty hangers in my closet, just in case.
I changed my background blue, it's more dusty, trust me. I actually did learned exactly what all the tables and the like I've been messing with mean. Rather than change and see.
As this article in the Voice, titled "When Crazy is Normal", today is when Post-Trauma Stress Syndrome is offically clinical as they must continue for at least a month from the event.
Thursday, October 11, 2001
Eureka! Sometimes, everything falls right into place. Or rather, sometimes, things manage not to be to fucked up. I actually found my previously mentioned MIA cell phone. I have a terrible disease; I can't find anything, ever. Thankfully, I've constatnly lived with someone who has the ability to find things I've misplaced for me. Except, last week, I was pretty sure my phone wasn't in the house so I didn't bother to ask Angel to find it.
After scrubbing the floor, wiping all kitchen surfaces, unloading the dishwasher and dish rack, cleaning the sink in both kitchen and bathroom, cleaning the tub, sweeping the livingroom, bedroom and hall, I went to get something to eat. I did not want to put on socks (as I clean in flip flops) so I rummaged through my little shoe bin for a pair of sandals. Something rattled in the loafers I haven't touched since unpacking earlier in the week when the phone went MIA. In the toe of my loafers was my cell phone, sitting in my closet all week.
Saturday, I got my plexi-glass, my hair cut and tickets to 2 basketball games. I also picked up the reminaing supplies from my project minus Elmer's glue and rubber cement. I bought about 1000 pounds of yarn for various projects which always causes Marie and Kasey to lament over unfinished handbags. Of course, Marie never really mentions that scarf she began making Kasey over a year ago nor the scarf she promised to make me over 18 month ago when my first Marie-scarf burned in the fire. And Kasey, well, she can be a down right snotty 20 year old to me some times so I don't mind not getting around to it.
And I also went cookie crazy. I wanted to make yellow duck cookies for my sister to match the yellow duck tin I picked up at the 99-cent store. Because she has this thing with the little yellow duck, just loves anything in that shape. And I messed up her car. And gave her my credit card to pay for it. Just handed over my credit card, which rarely is removed from the wallet except for major household purchases like irons and vaccums and mattresses. And she got yellow duck cookies. And pink pigs made with Hannah in mind because she is adorable enough to love pink pig cookies and I wanted to hear her wonderful accent talking about pink pig cookies.
I hung with my girl Marie and ate some other baked goods I made at home. And vented seasonal-change most horrible and frightening of the year PMS rants. And listened to her. And wondererd why she never comes to see me but forces me to New Jersey to get a dose of Marie.
Waiting for the F at Jay Street, a youngish small dark haired woman approached me. People always ask me for directions. I "look kind and helful" or so I've been told. And she wanted to know if I know how to get to Bensonhurst on the F train, all Brooklyn-accented and all. Which, of course, I did. Because, I look like the type of Mick who knows where Bensonhurst is.
And finally, when I returned home Monday, to a long day off, heavy with bags of hardware and yarn, I got what I've wanted for a while: to be understood. To be understood. To have a full understanding of exactly has happened and is happening grasped. At the movies last night, or drinking beers at boat, it was understood that I can act okay because all else is well except for what happened. And for that, I still don't know if I can forgive or will ever.
Wednesday, October 10, 2001
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