|
More of me November 1 October 23 October 7 September 17 August 22 July 25 June 21 May 25 |
I've come to realize that relevance is relative. Today's song: Got my Mind Set on you by George Harrison. Catchy tune in remembrance of the Beatle who you always forget: "John, Paul, Ringo and what was that other guy's name?" And then you recall him sitting in a chair in the video for Todays Song and remember this name. Plus, he also wrote "Here comes the sun" one of my favorite Beatles song. Saying "one of my favorite Beatles" song is a bit silly as about 15 songs hold the number one spot depending on my mood. The weather feels like balmy's cooler sister. It's completely warm, and the day before December. I enjoy it, knowing that once the winter settles in, it is going to be cold until the end of March where the winds make my eyes tear to the point that concerned shop owners ask me if I am okay. Last night the fog made it impossible to see even the first row of headstones in the cemetery, it was jsut a dark whole past the fence. The city from the elevated tracks was soft and mystical. The beauty that a cover of fog creates makes you look around at everything brand new. In one of those stupid "surveys" your friends send you as if they don't already know all your ins and outs, one of the questions was favorite word or phrase. My reply was "This train is going express." One Monday, I got to hear it as the train ran super-express through Brooklyn, stopping only 3 times including my stop, getting me home in a record half hour. Yesterday, after sitting for ages as there was a sick passenger on our train, there were practically no stops at all, depositing me at Church Ave in a time that was only slightly longer than the ride without a long pause to get EMS to take the sick passenger away. "This train is going express" is one of the mostly lovely things to hear. Like a sweet "good morning" and a kind "thank you", "this train is going express" just brightens up my day. Friday, November 30, 2001 My baby sister is the best. Last night I was in a mood to top all moods which peaked at me bursting into tears while putting away my milk and yogurt. It seems as if everytime I'm in a mood, no one is around. So I called my sister. I chatted with her about her school project she was working on. I pruned my plant which is inexplicably dying. I pruned my other plant which is inexplicably turning yellow. She asked me what I did after work other than bust out in tears at putting dairy products in the refrigerator. I told her I'd been at the gyno. She simply replied, "of course you'd be all upset after having that thing shoved in you. You were just violated, how else are you to feel?" And in part, she's right. It does freak me out. It does cause the doctor to have to take my blood pressure twice because it's really high at the beginning and I have normal blood pressue. And it is uncomfortable, and strange, and scary to have someone on your boobies, between your legs and then to give them $10 for doing that. It's simply unsettling. However, I'd rather bust out in tears over diary than to avoid precautionary check-ups in order to catch cancers and diseases in their treatable early stages. My baby sister's gyno is named Dr. Dix, now that is hilarious. I hated my old doctor since she thought the reason I did not want to take birth control was religious rather than being an informed female who decided that it was not a right choice for me. The new doctor is super young, like 28. I had a feeling, however, that she did not respect me, underestimated who I was. I miss my old general practitioner who thought I was this super-smart and savy girl since he once dated a Barnard girl. My dentists still thinks I'm this crazy city-gal since having neon-green toes nail polish in 1997. But this lady thought I was some average working stiff who knew nothing about contraceptives, their pluses and minuses and side-effects. Doctors do that though. They think they are super special for being a doctor, super smart and all and we as patients are pretty unimpressive with our lowly office lives. When I returned from Ireland two years ago, a month away from being cut off my parent's insurance, I went to just about every doctor I could, including the gyno. She was talking to me while getting the instrument ready, and asked me how I liked Ireland. I gave her an answer as she opened my legs and prepared for the insertion. She then said "It's beautiful." I said, "uh?" because she just opened my legs and got a view of my girlie bits. "Ireland, I hear it's beautiful." I was happy that she wasn't commenting on my stuff but at the same time I would supposed it would be an honor for a gyno who sees them all day long to tell you that yours is beautiful. Thursday, November 29, 2001 I received a box at work today. I was expecting it. Inside it had 3 copies of the Amazing Spiderman featuring the terrorists attacks and the World Trade Center collapse. I received comics at work. It kind of makes the day brighter. Wednesday, November 28, 2001 Two complaints: My office mate's chewing drives me up the wall. I understand that I too eat at my desk along with most of the slaves here. But I have a feeling that my chewing is not that aggrivating. He also sips very loudly, not exactly a slurp, but this hissing sip. I don't think he understands how much it annoys me and how I generally leave the for a walk when he is eating. Unfortunately, I just returned from my sky-a-la-nic-fit. And on the elevator down for this break, after dying for some sun, I see the girl who spent the last week in Florida, and although she's sick you can totally tell she got a bit of that healthy tan on her. Wednesday, November 28, 2001 I'm a liar. I can't even convince myself to do certain things. I'm absurd. I go about luring myself away from my desk with the thoughts of home just to stay here past 6. Because someone always has to email a confusing and complicated question to you at 4:55, which pulled, yanked, threw me back into my work. Never, ever take one last look at the inbox before closing email. No new inquiries will be addressed after 4:45. But I still made it home on time for 15 minutes of Roseanne. It doesn't matter, though, because currently the last season is playing which was horrible. Angel made me dinner, for the second time this week: guacamole, catfish po' boys, home made torilla chips. I hinted that I generally don't eat fried food, he asked me questions about broiling. In return for dinner, I had to tolerate the Lakers game as I sat on my couch, feet tucked under me, crocheting this wonderful thing I'm making. I have more scarves than I have people to give them to. I make and make and have no intended recipient. The dresser I refinished has two drawers for sweaters, one for tools and the fourth for completed crochet projects. I should sell them to make extra money instead of selling the bit of sanity my time out of the office gives me by volunteering to work many extra hours in the coming weeks. Money I won't get until the holidays are over. Money that I won't appreciate as much as I'd appreciate someone else owning my creations. I doubt anyone appreciates the editing, formatting and otherwise ass-covering I do. I'm still in a bad fucking mood. I need a few days off where I help only myself. I need some sunshine in my life, like say, today's unseasonably warm and bright weather. I'm stuck in my windowless office. I'll settle for a slice of sky a-la-mode: the bit of blue through mid-towns building topped with a cigarette. Wednesday, November 28, 2001 I'd rather be crocheting. I'd rather be in my house, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, yarn slipping through my fingers, Angel in the kitchen making dinner including delicious guacamole specially requested. His guacamole is perfectly crunchy, perfectly spicy and perfectly smooth. It has just enough of a spicy bite to compliment the velvety scrumptiousness of the avocado. I want to smell whatever he's making for dinner as I sit watching Roseanne. I'm trying to decide whether to stay late today or Thursday since I have to go to the doctor's tomorrow. I think Thursday. I'd so rather be crocheting. I'm marvelled by the complicated stiches I've learned in a matter of days. I found a book that has drawings of patterns instead of the plain written instructions. It's a whole new dimension. Crochet is also my meditation. Crochet has gotten me through tough times. It is pulling yarn through fingers, over and over, counting stiches, holding the piece up to give it a good look and then going back in. It's the emptying of worries, the reflective calm of repetition, creation. It sparks me and soothes me. And I need something relaxing now, I need Roseanne and guacamole, whatever aroma is for dinner filling the house, Conrad talking as I walk from living room to kitchen, being Angel's sous-chef-du-jour as I always am. Chopping an onion, crocheting a row, laughing at Roseanne. I am so not staying late today. I am going home to crochet. Tuesday, November 27, 2001 I now have a sofa bed in my bedroom, in addition to my bed. I now have two sofa beds in my apartment. I now have an excessive amount of sleeping room in my apartment. My sister is now living with the boyfriend, cohabitating and as she blurted out to my father "living in sin, ok." She said that to be dramatic, because I doubt she feels negatively judged by moving in unmarried when the baby sister's girlfriend lived in my parents house for many many months. As long as she keeps her "New Jersey Bride" "Modern Wedding" and other such magazines out of site, I should be able to cope. Plus, I get a pretty cushy sofa out of this deal. (until they should either buy or rent a house with enough room for the sofa) I got long-rest, generally reserved to Monday night sleep yesterday. Because I was working on a deficit from this week and the week before due to a rude awakening last Monday. So I just slept, endlessly. I fell asleep on the cushy sofa, watched Angel go to out, covered myself with a blanket and slept some more, watched Angel come back in two hours later, made room on the cushy sofa and pretended to watch tv while I slept some more and then moved into a bed and slept. I finally dressed myself at 4:30 to get groceries and try to arrange my furniture to accomodate the sofa. I already had a to-scale drawing of my room with the important features such as door-swing and outlet location with cut-out furniture pieces made-up. I sat and thought of different ways, moving paper pieces of furniture around a paper room. I decided I needed to see the 5 or so set-ups I'd come up with. After moving and pushing and scratching the wood floors which are sratched anyway, I decided my room loked best the exact way it had been when the sofa had been moved in there. Without being specific and rather matter-of-factly so, everything else is pretty shitty. But I'm alive, seeing Marie and giving Jesse his big soft blanket I'd made was wonderful, people are not wholly bad and my apartment now has sleeping room for 8. Monday, November 26, 2001 This is my favorite day, my favorite afternoon. The afternoon before Thanksgiving is so wonderful. It was always a half day in grade school, afternoon classes cancelled in college and today I am leaving early. Because the afternoon of day before Thanksgiving should always be free. It is afternoon-only, rare daytime in the autumn's shortened days that otherwise only exsist on the weekends, it is the relaxing pause before the holiday begins, the beginning to 4 entire long days off which seem to stretch to the horizon. I remember these afternoons of my childhood, when you could have hours to play before dark in the leaves that are so crisp and brittle this time of year. Not just the weekend play that is interrrupted by getting dragged along to the supermarket and other household errands. I remember the slow walks home since it didn't matter. It's an afternoon to set your mind to the days off, to simply relax, to wait for the holiday to begin. It is my favorite afternoon of the year. And I need to remember this because it's been a taxing week, so many thoughts on my mind, so many fears and desires to avoid a certain reality. I won't have my exasperation with roommate's girlfriend to distract me from reality. I will not be able to divert my attention to lesser problems, to make big deals out of other situations in effort to forget. I do indeed have some sick Pollyanna disease wherein I manage to pull myself out of my own sadness through looking at all the good. At the wonderful afternoon that the day before Thanksgiving always is. At the possiblites of days at home, but specifically days around Marie and Jesse and my baby sister. My older sister is so not ready to move out this weekend but I've already decided I'm doing no more than to show up and bring her couch to my house. Because I'm not involving myself with anything but good, in effort to avoid unrelated emotional reactions. I'm enjoying my afternoon, seeing my beloved friends, making pies, talking to my sister, and watching myself to get through it. Wednesday, November 21, 2001 I didn't go out last night. I wasn't able to function. I felt snail like, moving slowly about the apartment, trying to take a nap, waking frequently, smoking cigarettes in the living room even though I'm only supposed to smoke in the kitchen. I was too lazy to get off the couch. Then I was mean and dirty and told Angel it was rude not to call me because he said he would and that's why I didn't go out. But really, he needn't call me when it comes to seeing the certain girl I was supposed to. She and Angel were sort-of, kind-of involved when the current girlfriend came to NY and they decided to "date." I've told this certain girl over and over I'd so rather she be his girlfriend. She's a native New Yorker, she is tough enough but sweet enough and won't bullshit you when you piss her off. I get along with her. I've told Angel many times that his girlfriend ought to be a girl-Ben, a girl equivalent to Marie's old boyfriend Ben. I go visit Ben, I take trips and allocate one to two hours of cell-phone minutes to talking to him each month. Ben was a gift from Marie. Even her current boy and I have a pretty good relationship and mutual admiration. I stalked down Jesse's ex-girl at her job, got covered with kisses when I saw my college roommate's ex-boy on the street and generally believe that lovers of my friends should be people I want to be friends with. When Angel's current girl was about to come to NY, I told Angel he can't have 2 girls at once, because I didn't want him to be unfair to this certain girl. And told him that it's better to have an actual live girlfriend than one that lives in California. I was trying to get him to want to date this certain girl over his current girl. My plan didn't work out. But this certain girl is exactly the type of girlfriend he should have. Someone who I know I am always welcome around, someone who calls just to talk to me, who sees me as a partner in crime, and generally is a pretty good girl-Ben. Wednesday, November 21, 2001 I'm cranky, in a bad mood and generally anti-world. I'm Oscar the Grouch-esque. There is good reason, or obvious cause for this situation, besides the fact that my nose is whistling today. Monday nights Angel spends with his girlfriend as she lives closer to his acting class which he, generally, goes to on Tuesday afternoons. Monday nights I generally need to make-up for the lack of sleep the previous week and the failed attempts to make-up this sleep over the weekend. I resisted temptation to watch some movie I got caugh up in, crawled into bed, only read 10 pages and shut off my light by 11:30. I was proud of myself (even though, in theory, I set 11 pm as bedtime for Monday nights). I keep the ringer on the phone in my bedroom off to avoid late night callers waking me. I did it orginally as I thought Angel's friends and family in California would occasionally forget the time difference and call. They have never called past 11, on a Friday, and even then they ask if they've disturbed me. I don't like being woken at night unless I give someone permission to do so. Around 1:15 am, the phone rang. I can hear the other phone ring, especially since I keep my door open when I'm home alone. It woke me. I counted 4 rings, waited for the answering machine to pick up, and was releaved when it didn't. I remember falling back to sleep very easily. I do that all the time, wake up, take stock and then go right asleep. I remember the warm fuzzy feeling coming back over me, thinking something about moss closing in on me and just nodding right off. The phone ringing again, at about 1:20 am, woke me. I let it ring, thinking whoever it could be this time would leave a message. I turned over, grumbled and allowed that mossy feeling to creep back over me, snuggling deep into my cushy comforter and excessive pillows. 10 minutes later, the phone rings yet again. At this point, I snap awake. Calling repeatedly without leaving a message is surely a way to wake someone; to wake me if someone needed me. A way to get me up if someone was ill, injured or dead. Someone in my family must've needed me to wake up at 1:35 am because someone I love is ill, injured or dead. I picked up the phone, ready for the news on the other end. "Oh hiii, is Angel hooome?" (It was Angel's girlfriend, who should be called something clever but I can't conjure up creativity and her simultaneously). No, he's supposed to stay at your place tonight anyhow, I'm sure if you left a message on his cell phone he'd call you back. He always does.I was annoyed. I was tired. I was ready to hang up the phone. "He's on his way home. He's mad at me. Would you mind if I called again in 15 minutes. Would it wake you?" I had to have this conversation with a sniffling girl when I woke bracing myself for tragic news. Yes, it would. I think it woke me already. If I hear him come in I'll tell him. Then she said this or that and I really couldn't conjure up sympathy for someone who knows I wake at 7 and would most probably be asleep at 1:30 am. My stomach had turned to acid when the phone rang the third time, thinking someone needed my help. When I hung up the phone, I was on edge and unable to fall back asleep. I was afraid that Angel's entry would wake me again and ruin any chance of rest. I was freaking out and pissed off. I was anything but tired. I called Angel's phone to ask him if he was indeed coming home so I'd know it was him entering the house and not a robber. I felt entirely too jumpy. I got out of bed to have a cigarette. She hadn't called him to say she'd be with his cousin. He hadn't heard from her all day and decided it was better to just go home. When she finally got his message, she flipped out, thinking he wouldn't be over. This is apparently a desparate situation in her eyes which warrants multiple phone calls. I wanted to know why I needed to be a part of this at 1:35 am when I desparately needed to sleep. This is just an illustration about how girlfriend pretty much disregards me and thinks she is the ultimate in Angel's life. Even if we weren't friends, we still live together and why in the hell would you call 3 times when you think he's on his way home? Multiple phone calls and waking me up is worth it over him not coming over? I mean, maybe, if she's just found out the TRUTH to the big dirty lie, I'd understand. I had to smoke many cigarettes, resign to falling asleep on the couch and be up until nearly 3:30. So, yeah, don't ask me any questions today. Don't ask me to do you any favors or to pretend to be nice. Because I'm tired and cranky. But, after a long nap as soon as I get home, I'm still going out tonight. Tuesday, November 20, 2001 I wrote a rant for you to read, it's about why humans are pissing me off this week. I read Shel Silverstein before going to bed last night. Specifically, me and Angel took turn reading "Where the Sidewalk Ends" until his sore voice gave out. It adjusted my mindset into someting based on reality. I can't explain it more than that. I went out with the people from work on Friday. I'm still trying to figure out who smokes pot, because I know that there is no way that you can have so many young people of liberal mindsets in one situation and not one of them does. It it too "Real World" like as if we are to think that after 10 years of different kids, the only thing these kids have done is drink. Several from work, however, made references to not smoking it and questioning each other negatively for doing so. Not because I want someone to do this with but because I know that anyone who does it more or less tend to be fairly down to earth and someone I can get along with. Because I honestly can't get along with the kids that hang out based on ILAS (Ivy League Alumni Status) Monday, November 19, 2001 It's become obvious to me, despite believing I'm a level-heading, intelligent female above ever being a ditzy stupid chick, I really am one (this conviction is not being taken very seriously, however). Last night I needed to wear a red shirt and black skirt and have no pockets and no desire to carry a bag. I gave my money, i.d. and bank card (just in case) to Angel to hold in his pockets. I spent the pennies I had down to a dollar left and Angel offered a loan so I could get breakfast; I forgot to take the money. At 2:30 today, my belly began to rumble. I looked in my wallet, which was empty since I bought previously mentioned cups of coffee. And it did not contain my bank card or i.d. Because I'm a stupid ditz of a female and forgot to get these thing back from Angel. Fortunately, it was almost too easy to get money from the bank, other than the 20 minute line. I.d. is apparently optional these days. I got out of paying some $5 fee because, when informed, I said I'd rather not have money then. I got out of it because I was acting like a stupid ditz of a female and had complimented him on his tie (because it honestly was a shimmery beauty) and realized leaning on the counter was giving him a boob-view down my shirt right as he said, for me, no fee. Stupid idiot ditz of a female. This situation didn't entirely make me feel this way but then I remembered I'd left a train ticket in the little pocket of a library book along with some papers in the books I returned. I forgot to ask my boss a relatively important question yesterday. Thousands of little things prevent me from feeling like super-together hard ass bitch and just a stupid ditz of a chick. Friday, November 16, 2001 Job description: In charge of berating people to complete their jobs, Checking to see if jobs are correctly completed, Fixing the 75% of jobs that are not correct, Generally covering-up the incompetence of others. I'm cranky today. I'm also chipper. I feel this way not from second to second but simultaneously. This may or may not be realted to the little sleep and coffee in excess of my daily requirement and limit. Only a few people can actually smell arsenic. I think if you have the ability to smell it, you should know what it smells like before a "don't eat that!" situation. There should be a test, given in kindergarten, to find this out. Angel wanted to know what was up wtih all the dogs at the bar in Park Slope last night. I told them the reason why people bring their dogs to the bar is because they can't bring their babies. That's the type of people who live in Park Slope. It's convient that oil prices are back to what they were when I was still in college. Oil prices, which are tied into gasoline prices, conviently went up during the two years I lived the suburban car driving life. Having Air Supply on first thing in the morning is dangerous to your mind. All morning long, I've just been thinking "And I know just where to touch you/ And I know just what to prove/ I know when to pull you closer/ And I know when to let you loose." I thought about Tupac yesterday. He allowed himself to act how he felt, not trying to easily transistion from mode or point of view to another. He taught me something important: it's not your job to resolve the inconsistencies in your life. I don't need to wipe them away, become easily compartmentalized and understandable to the outside world. It'll dull the luster of my being. Friday, November 16, 2001 There is a fairly long escalator at the 34th Street subway station. It's not super long and when the escalator is not moving, walking up these steps in not a huge physical challange just merely a long, unbroken set of stairs. Generally, when you have two escalators, side-by-side, one up and one down, the one on your right is in the direction you want to go (if you're on the bottom, the right goes up. If you are on the top, and therefore facing the other way, the right goes down) The morning, the escalators were running the other way, left going down, right going up. As I'm wearing these super high heels that easily make me six-foot one-inch, I wanted the escalator as each step in these heels makes me think "just waiting to loose it, just waiting to fall" (They are simply gorgeous though and as I normally don't wear such shoes, they must be special.) While walking towards the escalators, and realizing that they were running the opposite way as normal, I also noticed what was and is the most amusing thing. On the down escalator, someone was running up. I'm not sure why. But it took her a good while to get up there and also required that she block off the down escalator as there is only enough width for one. She appeared to be what we call normal with trendy-cut short hair, well-cut light tan coat, flair pants in olive and funky urban hipster shoes. She was your average 20s urban trend-follower (of the type that think of themselves as trend-setters). But she was running up the down escalator. Was she running up the down escalator in the busy 34th street station because she thought it was faster than waiting for human traffic on the stairs or the up escalator? Was she running up the down escalator because she did not have time for aero-hydro-spin-kickboxing weight training class this morning but really needs to have her blood pumping in the morning since she kicked the coke habit? Was she running up the down escalator because it changed from up to down after she got on and she felt odd going back down and rationalized it to be more what we call normal to run up? Was she running up the down escalator because a particular childish glee got under her skin when cute boy on subway smiled? Was she conducting those annoying sociological "break the rules and see what happens" experiments I always resented but truly enjoyed? Was she just seeking some attention? Did she assume the right side was the way up regardless of which direction the stairs were moving in? I have no idea what she was thinking, but it amused the hell out of me to watch her run up the down escalator. I looked for her in the crowd because I really wanted to know, but she was gone. Did she exist? Thursday, November 15, 2001 The building maintance union in NYC bypassed their normal contract problems which has lead to garbarge piling up and sidewalks unshoveled in the past. The article in the NY Times states that the terrorists attacks (or euphamistically referred to as Sept 11) are a contributing factor as safety is a bigger concern than contract bargaining. "Handymen and elevator operators will receive a 9.5 percent wage increase over three years. Wages for janitors, already the highest in the nation, will rise to $763.92 a week at the end of the contract, which calls for annual raises of $21, $22 and $23 per week in consecutive years."I think the reason is that the representatives of the union recalled the thousands waiting outside Madison Square Garden for the job fair and realized there are plenty of people right now that will "settle" for scabbing janitor positions that pay nearly $40,000/year. I know I'd be better off as a janitor! Wednesday, November 14, 2001 Lately, I've been thinking too many bad and nasty thoughts. Too many rejecting and negative thoughts run through my mind. I don't really like thinking these things, in theory. In actuality, I think them all through until I'm convinced the bad nasties are either completely valid views on the world or too distructive to give any more time to. Last night, after sleeping 3 sound hours, I spent most of my remaining 4 hours awake and thinking the bad nasties. I'll need time to decide which category to file most of these thoughts under. So far, I'm leaning towards the valid side and ready to basically up-end my world. The pipe immediately below the kitchen sink rusted out. I was cleaning, intensely, running loads of water to scrub and wipe down, when I heard a lingering trickle. The entire cabinet under the sink was covered in water, mucky water. I have too many cleaning products under the sink, I noticed. Because I had to take them all out, soak up all this water with just about every tea towel we have and be thankful that my mother insisted on stock-piling me with more tea towels than I thought necessary. The hole is literally big enough to put your fingertip in. The plumber better come by today because it's really inconvient to wash your knife in the bathroom. My work is running a scam. There is a raffle for 15 used computers. This raffle is scheduled for noon, the day before Thanksgiving. Although it does not explicitly state that you must be present to get a computer, it's obviously implied. Implied that if you work at least a half day instead of seeing your family, you have a chance to get a computer. At a certain point, feeling obligated to help your mother prepare for the feast fades with the lure of a computer. Wednesday, November 14, 2001 My sister is moving in with her boyfiend. My older sister, who is but two years older than me, is preparing for a wrap-around porch, safe and reliable Volvo, picture holiday greeting cards featuring pets and kids, in-laws, joint-tax filing, happy meals and kid's specials and parent-teacher meetings where she'll be the parent. I don't like this. It won't all happen immediately, but it's all out there now. I was at her apartment helping her pack. Or I was supposed to be there helping her pack but she's excessively disorganized and non-logical so she didn't know what to make me do. I'd know if anyone ever helped me pack. What specific tasks, where bubble wrap and packing tape was. Mostly, I went through her stuff with her. She has a large collection of these sorority t-shirts accumulated during her college days. They are, for whatever reason, sentimental to her. They have holes on the collars and are in a general sorry state of a sorority girl that mostly wore these t-shirt and jeans to class, reserving all other, nicer clothing for puking on during parties with neighboring fraternities. She knew I'd just made a keep-sake of Marie's girl scout life in a handbag. "I think you shoudl take up quilting then and make me a quilt of my t-shirts." So I've spent the past two days reading up on this. It looks like fun other than words like "cut on the bias" and "interfacing" which seem pretty essential. But, graciously, she said I don't have to have it done for at least a year. She knows that if you give me a craft challenge, I'll completely step up to it. If you want me to stone-sculpt, hook me up with the materials and some instructions and I'll give it a go. Anything. For now though, I'm working on complex patterns for crochet and wondering who will teach me to knit. Tuesday, November 13, 2001 They evacuated the Empire State Building today. This is probably the fifteenth time since the terrorists attacks. You see all these people just hanging out on corners around here. Hundreds of them. Just waiting until the management says they can go back to work. I have one troubling question though: If they think it's a necessary security measure to empty the Empire State, why is it okay to keep me in my office when my building is 21 storeys and a half block away? I guess it's back to me refusing to leave out of JFK. I'd always felt this way, because every plane out of the NY area, out of the northeast, that crashes leaves from there. So JetBlue cannot attract me with their leather seats and personal cable t.v. Also, Ken Kesey died this weekend. Monday, November 12, 2001 Here we go again. A plane crashed into the Rockaways (where a thick NYer accent is mandatory) this morning. It appears to be your run-of-the-mill plane crash, less than 5 miles from JFK, parts were seen falling off, experts say it looks like the type of unexpected crash you just can't predict, JFK has problems keeping birds away which can get sucked into engines and crash planes and it migration season, etc. But still, all NY airports closed, all tunnels closed, fighter jets back in our skies. The funny thing is the annoying weather guy on "Good Day NY" was just this monring talking about how people should not be afraid to travel because he really enjoyed his weekend vacation. I half turned my nose and half wished I could afford to go any place. And when I was coming up the elevator this morning, shortly before this plane crashed, I took note that is was 9:10 am and thought about how I saw the southern sky of Manhattan filled with smoke on the day of the terrorists attacks as I crossed Fifth Avenue and then looked at my watch on my the elevator ride to see what time I was making it in. 9:10 am. I don't know. But I have my mother covering the television for me because the Rockaways are about 8 miles from my house. Large fires and nothern-moving winds could easily make my area smoky just as the winds can bring in the smell of salt off the ocean some days. Yesterday I had a stomach bug. At first I thought it was excessively cruel punishment for having only 4 drinks the night before. But I was too sick for just that, I got sick until I was emptied and my stomach had the audacity to grumble. I actually went to the very near-by Burger King for French Fries. I got Angel to bring me home delicious food as several times in the past year this food has fixed various digestive issues. I saw Marie age another year. And laugh and enjoy herself. And love what I nearly lost my eyesight, completely lost my patience and lovingly crafted. It's a handbag with all of her old Girl Scout badges on it. Topic Secret project #1 is completed, delivered and lovingly accepted. Her Diego sid I never get too drunk, loose control, and so forth. He apparently forgot Marie's last birthday where I was drinking entire pints of rum and coke while shaking my booty at the now-gone Wetland's. But I did give him permission to slip me a roiphe next time we hung out. Monday, November 12, 2001 Happy berf-day Marie! I love the fact that we are the same age for two months. That we make a deal out of the 10 months, 3 days difference in birth. That I've known here forever-long that basically we are non-competitive sister with non-family based drama. There were many times when I preferred Marie as a sister to those I had because my sisters were being monsters. I always prefer Marie to most of the human population. I got a crap load of work to do, still learning this software at the same time while trying to resist all urges to just go to sleep. Prediction: Marie will LOVE what I've made her. Friday, November 9, 2001 What follows is a brief work complaint: We have this "on-call" system where if a project needs more help, they can ask for it based on who's "on-call" that week. We submit our weeks available quarterly. I clearly said "please, please do not put me on in November as I shall be biz-zee." But, you know, they did anyhow. And then you keep your fingers crossed. Boss said feel free to take over time in the coming weeks. Feel free to take as much over-time as you feel like. Feel free to keep up the large amount you elect to give the credit card in hopes of paying it off in 2 months and provide your loved ones with holiday presents. And then it happened: someone needed my help. On what might be an on-going, beyond this week project. The stink is this: when you are doing "on-call" work you can't work over-time under the theory that you wouldn't have to if you weren't doing this extra work. Meaning although I planned on working overtime, and began staying late this week, I can't. I can't buy everyone lavish gifts and pay off the credit card. But I do want to do this "on-call" project because I learned a software called NUDIST this morning and I want to impress and prove myself to about everyone here. The Canadians crack me up, I love the way they indulge eveything with wonderful adjuectives, nouns and so forth while Americans tend to keep everything bare-bones, understandable to our average mullet-wearing nim-rod. A Canadian wrote: "I am always overjoyed to find yet another potential source of gratuitous error." The average person here would say: "Good catch." Pop Quiz: Degrassi High plus extensive use of vocabulary (less than) or (greater than) Alan Thicke and Bryan Adams Thursday, November 8, 2001 I'm happy my boy Mike Bloomberg won. Because if he lost the NYC Board of Elections would have some hell to pay about deciding to register me a NJ voter instead of a NYC voter after sending in a NYC registration with a NYC address. Because I can be an ultra-bitch when it comes to people messing things up. Examples (bare-bones, resisting all detailed indulgences): 1- Ticketmaster cancelled my tickets to Billy Joel because they improperly took down my credit card number. I wrote a long letter about how all information should be repeated when you place an order. I forwarded this letter to all major NYC papers. Funnily, next time I used ticketmaster, they carefully repeated all of my info.I don't even want to know what would happen if Bloomberg lost. I could have probably had Green kicked out of office. Also, avoter-proposal was passed to create gun-free zones within 1,000 feet of schools, ban the sale of guns to those younger than 21, and require Board of Education employees to notify police of suspected crimes that take place in schools, including violent crimes and sex offenses. But, honestly, who wouldn't vote for this? I'm happy Bloomberg won. I like him. One day I might hate him, but he doesn't have this waxed-looking face of Green or kids named Jenya and Jonah Green. Bloomberg promised first thing in the morning he was going to New Utretch Avenue in Brooklyn (in my general area) to thank people over anywhere in Manhattan. According to a graphic in the NY Times, a good majority of people in my general area did vote for him. And while Giuliani thought he was mayor of Manhattan as if it did not have boroughs, I'm happy to see Mike gives a damn. As a side note, I consistently call my sister's future husband, -father to my nieces and nephews, Dave instead of Mike. Dave happens to also be the name of her mullet-wearing dorky ex. It's not because I think she's still dating the ex, but when you're name is something as boring as Mike, it may as well be Dave. (Her name is, of course, Jennifer, which may as well be Mary.) I hope they bother to get outrageous in naming the children, but I know they won't. If anything, they'll think Jenya and Jonah are pretty cute. Wednesday, November 7, 2001 I am so mad I am not a Canadian right now because they have a new version of Degrassi on now. Of course, if I was actually able to watch this program it would prbably be very boring without the suped-up 80s Canadians the orginally show had on including Lucy who was in some horrible movie with Nieve Campbell and that guy with a pill problem from Friends. Her role was small, hanging-out-with-the-girls scene, but it got me pretty excited to see a Degrassi kid. Now I really need to take a grown-up like business trip to Canada, sit in the hotel room, order room service and watch Degrassi. Tuesday, November 6, 2001 On this page there are tons of pictures of injured children and families in Afghanistan. I found this page as a link from someone saying "are you happy now New York?" as if what we wanted was injured children. I don't know how I feel about war, endless bombing and the general violence that has come of the terrorists attacks. I'm having trouble formulating an opinion, avoiding all information related to this war and more focusing on what it means to have your city destroyed. This is possibly just a selfish middle class move. But one thing I know is that I should not feel guilty that these children are injured. I think it's horrible and disgusting that humans do these things. But if the game is war, we are being pretty nice sending the people we're fighting food. Osama bin Laden obviously thinks he's more important than these kids, he's the one at fault, by not just turning himself over. Tuesday, November 6, 2001 While unsure of exactly how this could happen, I know why I did not get registered in NY. Because, when I'd sent in a NYC voter registration to the NYC Board of Elections, I've managed to become a registered voter in NJ. Thank god I gripe to my Mom about things like this so she can say, "oh ballot information for voting came for you here." I did use my Brooklyn address for my registration, by the way. Why did they do this remains unanswered. I tried to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge 2 times this weekend. Both times I got too darn dark to think about walking a 1/2 hour across as I'd wind up to the pitch-black empty streets of downtown Brooklyn. Both trips down the city I got too caught up looking in stores, wandering into Soho galleries, interesting little shops, longingly staring at puppies in windows. On Saturday, I was practically at the foot of the Bridge, looked up into the near-navy sky and then realized walking across would be unwise. I knew there are at least 2 A/C stops and went looking for them since I know very little about Manhattan below Canal, less now without a skyline marker. The way the Woolworth building fills the sky is so strange as it had been dwarfed by the WTC my whole life. And trying to find Chambers, I wound up on Church, about 2 blocks from where the WTC once stood, lights blaring in my eyes, peeping toms rushing by and all I wanted was the friggin subway. Because, although I obviously don't avoid going to the WTC, I hate finding myself there. Because it's too strange, too surreal with all these people trying to look, at something, but I don't see anything to look at. Anything you need to see you can see from the South Orange Res, from Hoboken, 34th and 7th, Canal Street, even standing on Chambers and Church, a few block away, so happy to see the green globes of a subway stop. When Angel & I took a fall walk in the cemetery across the street, we came to one place that looked over what seemed like the whole world. As we were getting our bearings, he wanted to know what was the cluster of buildings to our right. We were so disorientated because we simply could not recognize what we were seeing a few miles northwest of us was southern Manhattan. Because we had no idea what those buildings were. Monday, November 5, 2001 I realized, that due to the $500 I have to pay towards the "scratch" on my sister's car, my three pairs of shoes for $100 that I bought right before the accident are really $200/pair shoes if you add it all up. I really need to find something to wear with one of them in that case. To jump on thebandwagon WALLET: standard black leather trifold with coin area that tends to drop coins while paying cashiers, sending change all over the floor which causes others in line to bend over and pick up my pennies and dimes as gestures of kindness although I could live without the 15 cents. Use cigarettes case to go out. TOOTHBRUSH: I use two, one for sink, one for shower: a pink, small soft one and a large, stiffer white and another color I've never paid attention to. JEWELRY WORN DAILY: Watch set to US Naval Obsevatory Time, 1 ring questionably obtained in Ireland and another ring with a cloudy yellow stone that I love just to always have on yellow and a necklace with either a little Celtic charm or a St. Christopher's medal to confuse people. SOCKS: I do not wear white socks. I do not wear socks in solid navy or gray. I wear socks with flowers, multi-colored stripes, diamonds, fuzzy monkeys and just about any sock that is not plain. PILLOW COVER: Monkeys, mountians, ocean thing (the pattern of these pjs BLANKET: 100% cotton knit blanket and a ultra-heavy comforter. COFFEE CUP: Thanks to the inability to sleep if I drink coffee, none, other than the occasional paper cup I get from the deli. SUNGLASSES: Some prescription pair which, while not unattractive, have been around for 3 years while non-vision disabled and contact lens wearers seem to change their glasses yearly so I don't bother unless driving. UNDERWEAR: Same rule as applied to socks. SHOES: lately, a pair of black slip-ons made of that meshy fabric. Work acceptable, not aesthetically repulsive, and comfortable to walk in. NAILPOLISH: Compulsively will peel off any polish on my nails. Toe nails painted either some red or lavender generally. KEYCHAIN: 2 keys, green beer bottle opener given my sister when I got the keys to her apartment since it's very "sorority" to have one, a belt hook and a little charm that has a girl and my name. COMPUTER: Whatever hack-job thing they gave me at work along and there's an iMac at home but I hate it too much to ever touch it. FAVORITE TOP: either very pale yellow Ralph Lauren t-shirt with onesie-style shoulder and Lauren embroidered on the back along with the amazing ability to resist stains or this red-patterned one that I wear just too often. FAVORITE BOTTOM: I rarely even tolerate my pants. I'd say the tan ones my older sister picked out for me but because they aren't too saggy in the crotch, too short or generally ill-fitting but they don't have pockets. SHAMPOO/CONDITIONER: Calendula shampoo from Boots which I make people pick-up for me while they are in the UK. COLOGNE: Il Bacio or Ultraviolet CD IN RIGHT NOW: The New Deal's new album. CAR: Huge metal deal that seats 100, 250 standees, orange and yellow plastic seats, graffiti scratched windows. GOOD LUCK OBJECT: Lady-bug stone Monday, November 5, 2001 Umphf! I called the Board of Elections for the thousandth time and I my registration has not gone through, making me a non-registered voter as I've always been. I mean, I only sent it in at the end of August (go check my archives!) and over two months later, I'm still not a voter. One more reason to leave the city. Friday, November 2, 2001 The boss is in DC, most of the executives I deal with are in DC, the programmer is out. It is 70-odd degrees out. I have this suspicious feeling that I might not "feel well" come 3:30 or so and have to "call it a day early" so I can "rest up" by walking home over the Brooklyn Bridge. Really, am I supposed to honestly resist all temptation and stay like a good worker? My sister is surprised I go to work every day. Because when I was a temp, living at home, I frequently did not go to my jobs. Most of the time, it was because I had a job interview, was looking for an apartment and so forth. Other times it was because I knew going into some big creepy corporate farm full of people that seemed friendly but were obviously mentally disturbed to esstentially do nothing at excessive hourly wages would make me want to crash my car on my way home. So I'd call in "sick". The only times I've missed work here is when I had a fever, and still went back a day later even though family and friends said I should stay home and then after the terrorists attacks. Because they said they'd pay us if we weren't here. And I wasn't "here" in any sense. I decided from now on I will only use "terrorists attacks" rather than all of the other terminology floating around. Mostly, September 11th is used, as if was because of the day that everything is screwy rather than the terrorists attacks that made them this way. I'm hoping, in doing so, I might stop bursting into tears whenever there is anything on the news about the New York City I've always loved since the terrorists attacks. Friday, November 2, 2001 Yesterday, I was annoyed that I didn't have 1,000s of goblins and vampires knocking down my door. Because I was all set for tons of kids. I even left work early. I mean, not just for them, because I'd been here forever the day before, but kind of, yeah. I had little boxes of temporary tattoos, ring pops and that mixed Hershey chocolate bag (I tried not to give out any of the Special Dark because kids tend not to like it). But I only got a handful of kids and now have ring pops, tattoos, chocolates. If anyone wants any of these things, feel free to come and get them. I tried a ring pop, they are rather gross. Today is Mexican Day of the Dead. I love this holiday. I love the little skeleton sculptures they have everywhere. I love the idea that I could've made sugar skulls last night if it wasn't for top secret project #1 that I've been working on. I bought flowers one morning, little wild-daisy types when I was returning from an early morning excursion. I bought them from the people who sell them at the corner, near the cemetery gates. Angel asid they are dead people flowers. He bought me flags (an American and Irish) one day from the florist around the corner. I've seen these flags stuck next to head stones. I let him know they are dead people flags. I think next year I'll make it a point to be in Mexico for this holiday. I love any culture that celebrates dead people rather than talks about dead people flags and flowers as way to down-grade things. Thursday, November 1, 2001 I wrote 6 pages of references, style edited 6 chapters and adjusted endless tables for those Authors who do not fully understand "Please have your tables and text up to (company) standards" mostly because they are Canadian and apparently that translates to "Do it however you feel" (which, may I add, we make fun of them frequently), and I still put a new design on my page and archived. And it's only 4 pm. Thursday, November 1, 2001 |
|
Love these Marie Bess Ratbastard Savecraig Explodingdog Sadgirlseven Miz_a |
|
|
Obligatory Props Pretty Colors pitas / |