Life Listed - Chronologically

I have trying to rationally write why I'm in a bad mood today a few times. But stupid .jpg forwards my officemate is sending me to try to cheer me up keep on interupting my "add entry" page, therefore deleting what I deligently and eloquently wanted to rant about. So please excuse all decorum as I proceed with just being raw.

You know I am sick of? Being called SIR. I would like to know why people call me sir. I would like to know what, specifically throws them off into not seeing I am female. Because I am tall and big? Because I have short hair? I wear hats that cover this short hair on cold winter mornings? I wear a black wool coat? I am not wearing a skirt when it is 33 degrees out? I am not wearing make-up while my skin is busy with prolonged pre-period acne thanks to the actual event being late? I walk around wrapped up in a cozy scarf and hat and my boobs are not poping out? I wear funny glasses?

I don't think I look manly, in any way. I don't think, when I look in the mirror: in addition to all your insecurties, you also look manly. I do not have any unslightly facial hair. I do not have a enlarged Adam's apple. I do not have a jutting chin bone.

Should I only wear pink scarves, make sure my hair is noticable at all times, get a powder-blue wool coat even though it will get flithy? Should I wear make-up, including I guess dark-raspberry lipstick or something regardless of whether my face needs a break so that it becomes worn-out looking skin by the time I'm 30? Should I wear my pearl earrings every day? Should I make sure my boobs are noticale at all times?

Seriously, I don't care if I lost $1 in change this morning after buying a banana and oj because I refused to walk back into a store where the counter-girl was calling out, loudly in a crowded store: Sir! Sir! Sir!

I have been called this several times, exclusively in the winter, since I've cut my hair short. And the way it hurts is so particularly sucky that it almost made me get on the subway and hide under my covers all day.

Tonight, I'm crocheting myself a baby-yellow scarf and hat and all the ignorant counter people, door men and ticket takers of the world can go fuck themselves with their Sir!
Friday, February 15, 2002

I have to completely re-do what I spent the entire morning doing because lines and lines of what, in the long run, is completely unneeded data was missing earlier. (In the long run here means my life past this job. In the greater scheme of things is also acceptable). This has led me to want to seek out diversions on the internet. Such as say Meg Ryan. How cute is she? The main page lets you search for any type of animal anywhere in no-kill shelters. I'm happy that this cite was not up about a year ago when I found Roxy because someone else surely would have adopted here before we did.

As it was, however, my mom didn't give any one half a chance to adopt Roxy. For Christmas last year, she wanted a puppy, with a tongue. On December 23, I went to St. Hubert's were we'd adopted Norman & Sam. In dog area, I looked from mangy mutt to raggedy beast. There were a few puppies but none was as cute as the little sable colored dog who immediately began to lick me trough the mesh-gate and stand on her back paws which only came to my knees as I was squatting. When I inquired about her, the shelter-lady said she was not available for adoption and they had to wait a week to allow any owner to claim her before putting her up for adoption.

I told my mom about this puppy, how she reminded me of the dog we had when I was younger, how she licked me right away and how she was just too cute. I'd seen other dogs there, went to other shelters that day, but knew this puppy was the one. And the day after Christmas, at 10:30, my mom woke me to ask what time St. Hubert's reopened after the holiday. At 11:30 we were on our way to be the first people in the door. Even though Roxy was not yet officaly available for adoption, they let us pay for her and then wait a week until we could take her home. My mom went to visit her nearly every day in the shelter until she was finally ours. My dad and grandmother had no idea what we were up to when we'd vanish for a hour to go visit our new puppy.

She's now just a blood-thristy beast and I've threatened to take her back to the pound nearly everytime I'm at my parent's house. She tears up these $10 stuffed toys my parents buy her; except for the baseball which she aggressively places on my lap until I throw it. She likes to take a pull toy and drag my father around the basement as he sits on his wheeled desk chair.

I would love a dog, a little beast of my own to greet me at the door each evening. I would love its drool and hair on the furniture and insistent nudges for walks early in the morning. I feel too bad to own one, knowing it would be alone a lot with no other pet to keep it company (other than Conrad). Angel wanted a pet-lamb for a while (I think he kept mentioning because it made me crack up). The lamb would help keep the grass in the yard from growing too much and give me wool to crochet with. I guess I'll just stick to Conrad and treating him better, finally building him that perch and forget about Meg Ryan.
Thursday, February 14, 2002

Yesterday, inspired by the scorning of adult responsibility demonstrated earlier this week by Bess, I opted not to come in to work. I was not necessarily hungover either. I actually got out of bed before 8 am, walked around, fed the bird and then promptly returned to my warm bed with the sunlight coming through the windows and the blankets so very cozy. I had the energy and ability to get to work, but I would have been at least a half hour late so I figured I might as well take the whole day off.

I met up with Angel Tuesday night, Fat Tuesday, at our favorite Park Slope bar. The restaurant sits on the corner while the bar is hidden on the side street in a completely separate part of the building which requires staff to walk plates of food out the front door of the restaurant to the bar if you choose to order food (including the world's best tuna sandwich). After a few rum punches made by the adorable bartender Ryan (female) wearing a teeny t-shirt which had "Jane Says . . " written across it in whimsical silvery script, I then drank a bit of wine. And had every male there alone join us (and buy me drinks). This guy who had chatted with me before that is all Wall Street and bragged about the $45,000 he pays in NYC taxes alone was purposely hiding his eyes from me (like with his hand) while he talked on his hands-free cell phone and returned about 2 hours later with an Asian girl who had very large bags. Angel said "Did you see him with the Asian he bought off the internet while he was gone from the bar?"

Angel puked on his shoes when we got out of the taxi. He puked up and down the sidewalk. He had not eaten dinner. I made him eat saltines, honey and tahini. He puked again in the morning. I did not puke, have a headache or have any of the after-effects other than dehydration. I was too dehydrated to go to work where the water cooler has chunky brown things in it and bottled water is $2 in that neighborhood.

I slept, watched television sitting on the wooden floor intensely so that when the phone rang it startled me and basically hung around without brushing my hair all day, leaving it sticking out so I looked like a porcupine. I finished the scarf I made for myself which is ultra-warm so I could walk to the deli and get a soda. I cleaned my room. I went to bed early and got to work on time today.

Even though I was strinken with the guilt of being lazy most of yesterday, I was better off for doing so. I'm pretty sick of my job these days, don't want to do what is ahead of me for the next two weeks or so and needed to avoid work for an entire day so I didn't continue to avoid doing work while in the office as I had been. (Of course, here I am posting rather than making pretty spread-sheets.)
Thursday, February 14, 2002

While I was getting on the subway, the Port Authority was being shut down in what is one of the largest shut-downs in a while in New York. People slowly are trickling in from the Jersey burbs here at work, frustrated, tired and actually happy to not be sitting on the Turnpike any more after terminal was closed for over an hour. Yesterday, I was having my ass kicked my New York's wind, my eyes tearing as the cold air instantly stripped my eyeballs of all moisture, and it was kind of nice. I remember me and Angel in downtown Brooklyn when we were looking for an apartment and wandered in that direction while trying to find a subway. And New York kicked our asses, froze us for a second with a wind so cold your body cannot move, your chin instantly tucks to your chest and no matter what your lips feel gross.

And after New York was done kicking my ass, showing off how strong it is, I thought about this: New York was where I've drawn my strength from for many years. New York is where I feel myself grown and develop. The terrorists attacks told me that New York, like me, is also weak.

Last night I was watching the Dog Show. I was busy working on something so I hadn't the patience to search for a program and the Dog Show was good enough. That and they were honoring the service dogs who were cuter that these terriers with hair perfectly cut to flop this way and that as they ran. Hero dogs! The Dog Show is on again tonight on USA and should be tuned it to for at least a moment just to hear the commentators. How, exactly, do you get a job as a Dog Show commentator? Were they not good enough for the Luge at Salt Lake? Is there a special broadcasting class for Dog Show commentators?

Tuesday, February 12, 2002

I can be a down-right cocky-snot sometimes. This tendency occasionally allows me to maintain my position as an opinionated intelligent human which gains me respect among my peers. This tendency also gets in my way just as frequently. For example: I decided that, really, I don't need to study this one section, logic games, of the LSATs all that much since I did pretty well the first few times I gave it a try. Instead, I focused on these reading and argument sections in my entirely half-hearted studies. When the test date arrived this sunny past Saturday morning, and I was at NYU at 8 am showered, hair dried, breakfast in belly (banana, oatmeal, juice, tea), with gum, pencil sharpener, 3 #2 pencils with "Tara" on them, I thought I basically was ready to take on the Harvard admissions board (not that I would actually ever go to Harvard).

My first section was reading. I read carefully, did not stress too much on my answers and believed that my first pick was the best. I transfered my answered to the bubble sheet at the end of each page and worked in this great methodical way. Arguments: same theory. I finished both before 5 minutes was called. My third section was these logic games I thought I had tied securely under my belt ages ago (I score like 85th percentile in the similar section of the GRE; I was being a down-right cocky-snot). And I went through 20 minutes of the 35 minute time-limit flipping back and forth, looking at the different set-ups, answering one or two but getting nowhere near grapsing any one section. Basically, I guessed at about 1/2 of the questions to succeed only in filling in all the bubbles.

If it wasn't for the fact that the fifth section was also logic games (more successfully managed), which means one of the two I took are not the ones that will be scored but sections the LSAT people were testing, I would have cancelled my score. I sort of wonder why I didn't. I beat myself up pretty throughly over this, why I would let this happen, analyzed it from all angles and finally decided I studied how I wanted, did the best I could, I'm not sure if law school is what I want anyhow, and what I get is what I get.

Part of me always wonders why I chickened out last minute and did not go to grad school. By now I would be finishing up my Master's this semester, hanging out in Central Jersey with intellectuals rather than in the desert of complex thought that is my job, teaching 18 year-old Jersey kids (including my sister's friends) the basics on Durkeim and Marx, and working towards a future in academia. My 18 year-old ambition was mostly based on getting into the adult world. When I finally reached the entrance to that world, I ran away to Ireland. Is amibition something you have or is it something you cultivate?
Monday, February 11, 2002

A few, em, ironies have been irking me lately and I just wanted to share.
1) A group of young people were standing on 34th and 5th earlier this week selling M&Ms to "raise money for basketball uniforms." I refused to buy even though I am a huge sucker because (a) basketball season began weeks ago (b) why the heck were these kids selling candy in the middle of the day, why weren't they in school (c) one of the kids was smoking a cigarette while selling candy.

2) Why are people always asking me to donate money for the cure to cancer? Why aren't there equally economically strong organizations out there preventing the use of cancer-causing agents in our broccoli, car emissions, housing materials and so forth? Why are we trying to "cure" it rather than stop the use of things we know "cause it"?

3) Why is George Bush telling us that doing drug supports terrorism, we need to bump the denfense budget up billions of dollars but the comparatively small millions in the summer urban youth employment program can be cut? I'm sorry but some kids are going to be "supporting terrorism" this summer because the lack of an employment opportunity when they believe girl X will like them if only they had new boots will lead them to sell pot.

4) People who say "never say never" just said never twice. (Crocheted prize from whomever can cite source - without using like google or something)
Friday, February 8, 2002

On the elevated part of my morning commute, when I look out of the scratched plexi-windows to look at downtown Brooklyn, Manhattan and to study the color of the Gowanus Canal (pale olive today, fog low enough that it would have covered the tops of the twin towers), I stop reading my book. Usually, it's because reading in the underground tunnels does not bother me but with buildings passing by I feel a bit ill. Also, it gives me a chance to think about whatever I'm reading. This morning I laughed to myself at this:

He understood that the knowledge of tools was the difference between those people who saw life as a series of surmoutable challanges and those who felt that control of their lives was always just beyond their reach.
-Noah Hawley A Conspiracy of Tall Men

My father did not take me seriously when I told him I wanted either an electric sander or one of these little sander-types which have attachments to do everything from filing off the nails that are sticking out of the wood floors to slicing the chains I used on my last art-project.

I wonder how much my landlord would charge if I asked to rent out the garage as a workshop? When I walk around my neighborhood on trash day, I see at least one thing that is just begging to be brough back to life. That would be great way to supplement my meager income. Also, spray-on adhesive would best be used in an area with a concrete floor, not a piece of fabric used as a drop cloth. And spray painting in the bathtub, even with the windows open, makes the house stink.

In addition to Angel being inspired to ask for help in picking out supplies for making home-made Valentines, he also wanted to know if there was a place he could take a wood class. I wonder if they have these, much like knitting classes, in all the warehouses along the Gowanus where you can toss your cigarette into the canal during class break, pull your goggles back down over your head and hang out with Brooklyn-kids who want to make things from wood. Or was your only opportunity in High School? Or enrolling at Apex?
Thursday, February 7, 2002

Last night I took the step I've been avoiding for a long time. Last night, I finally mustered up the courage, the desire and acted on what I've planned on doing time and time again but never actually did. With this done, with me finally breaking that barrier down, I can move forward. I have felt frustrated because I knew this needed to be done but never did it. I've opened the flood gates, unlocked the secret garden, wrote the Evolution of Species, analogy, analogy, metaphor.

I suppose I could shrink back, pretend as if I never took the first step. But now I am ready to look forward in the world. I am sick of avoiding the things that would help me do this. Like, say, not doing my best job on studying for the LSATs, therefore avoiding a possibly bright future at a shiny law program. Instead of being narcissitically self-defeating, I'm going to be selfishly planning my life.

(Funny how this happened over night as Marie had pretty much the same thing to say in the same 24 hour period - do you evolve the same with people that you've know forever? do you both hit reload/refresh button in your lives at the same time? sometimes, I believe so.)
Thursday, February 7, 2002

I am beating myself up a lot lately. I don't feel as if I am as good as I used to be. I used to have profound things in my head. Now it's just full of negative narcissistic thoughts about how I don't impress myself they way I once did. I used to be super organized. I wrote lists. Not tons of lists, but lists of things I'd like to accomplish that week. Like 1) pick up dry cleaning 2) write letter 3) look for neat yarn @ store on Rte 10 . . and so on. Now I just think about things I'd like to be doing, forget half of them and never complete those I remember.

I should write a letter this week to my friend in Seattle. She's getting her PhD in physics; after being an English major for the first 3 years of her college career. I want to visit her in the Spring. I've been avoiding this letter since I haven't written one since this summer, since the terrorist attacks. And I'm not sure what to tell her other than the fact that it messed everyone up in the head as if they weren't far enough along on their own.

That in New York, people wear fur without PETA-types attacking them on the subway; hold conferences involving companies and money without protesters getting out of hand as they did in Seattle; how suddenly we forgot that cops had shot a man 41 times because 37 of them lost their lives in a terrorist attack; how everything is exactly the same as it's always been; everything has changed so deeply that that it appears unchanged.

Mostly, I just want to find out when a good time would be to go see her and talk about Physics, and meet this new boy she's madly in love with, look at the huge mountains and be some place that is not here.

Writing this letter makes me anxious. Because I feel as if I was probably very interesting at one point in the 5 or 6 pages I'd write but now I'll have nothing to say.

Dear Sam:
I crochet a lot. Sometimes I watch more tv that I'd like to. I like cooking in my new pans. I'm happy football is over. New York has changed since you left. I miss you. When can I visit?
Love, Tara

I have no grand theories, master plans or plots. I have no lists. My writing is simplistic, but not grandly simplistic like Chekov. I need a vacation.
Wednesday, February 6, 2002

While standing outside last night, in bitter cold and near-perfect silence, I listened to the wind. It seemed as if no cars were speeding up Fort Hamilton; not even those late night trucks which roll by so loudly. It seemed as if I was the only person alive at that time. Most of the lights in the windows across the street were out as were most of the entrance lamps. It was completely quiet except for this vicious wind which was blowing around dried old leaves, makng a scraping sound against the ground. The American flags sounded like people briskly walking as they flapped against the brick homes. I enjoyed the sounds the wind made that sounded as if it could be something else.

That is, until I went to bed. My father lent me this book, with a main character that teaches conspiracy theory, is ultra paranoid about the world-out-there, wife dies in mysterious plane crash and so forth. I have the tendency to get paranoid, reading books about the sneaky subplots of the world helps bring this on. When I heard leaves moving outside, the wind banging against the metal door, banches thumping and then to top it off, my door opening (as it will do now and again), I was pretty certain someone was outside trying to get it. Then someone cleverly took the door off its hinges, was creeping through my apartment and then was opening my door. I quickly shut off my light, knowing I was just creeped out.

There's a reason why I hate these conspiracy books my father is always trying to push on me. I'm too much of a sissy to handle them alone in the house on a windy night.
Tuesday, February 5, 2002

So what am I doing on February 24? Um, going to see the latern festival at Prospect Park (anyone who wants to join me, of course, may). Very neat indeed.
Tuesday, February 5, 2002

I'm happy I did not watch the Super Bowl but worked on the LSATs, ate sushi and watched the Wonderful World of Disney. As I have nothing to do at work today other than play with the internet and wait for someone to let me know when they are ready to "learn" how to FTP, I keep on encountering all this Super Bowl related information. And it sounds really nauseating. Bono is annoyingly self-absorbed and believes he knows what he's talking about just because he's from Ireland (and not the war-torn North by the way), I'm pretty sure every commerical included one "patriotic" reference and apparently they rolled the names of the dead across the screne.

I would have puked. It's bad enough to have to watch the occasional SUV running up the side of the Statue of Liberty, but I can't imagine 4 whole hours of this stuff. I would have watched it if I was guaranteed Bud commericals with talking animals and no American flags, something involving alcohol and girls in bikinis, annoying pop stars that don't even try to be deep because we and they know they are just surface entertainment and maybe another sport that isn't mind-numbing being played.
Monday, February 4, 2002

As I must take the LSATs this coming Saturday, I am currently practicing what I feel is the most important factor in doing a good job: restful sleep. Surely, this week I will also actually take entire tests rather than amusing myself with word games. But more importantly, a fresh mind will help me a great deal. I haven't taken a test in over 2 years and while being cracked out on coffee, cigarettes and very little sleep for 4 years produced a degree with honors, I am not sure this will help in a standardized test.

When I left Bess, et al. on Saturday night after a lovely birthday for her, I wanted to go home and sleep. After reading the book she gave me on the train ride home (and loving it), I crawled into bed at 4:30 am, made sure the alarm was off and hoped I wouldn't wake until after noon.

11 am, I stirred, looked at the clock and was pretty happy I slept that long. I rolled over, pulled a stuffed animal from the deep stacks of pillows and feel back asleep. 1 pm, I woke again and looked around my room. I closed my eyes for a brief moment and did not open them again until Angel came in with people at 3 pm.

He assumed I was severely hung over and treated me accordingly with soft voices and supposedly caring "How are you"s. But I was proud of myself. I never sleep until 3 pm. I might wake at 10 am and then take a nap at 3. Angel had no idea I could sleep that late without drinking enough to kill me the night before.

At 11 pm, I was ready for bed after being awake for 8 entire hours. I managed to stay awake until just before 1. I feel asleep deeply again until I heard this huge racket outside. I first heard it in my dream, meshed with whatever was going on inside by big sleepy Irish head. People were shouting outside my window, all of this noise was going on. p>

I woke, looked at the time of 4:15 am, and the music began. U2's Beautiful Day, other songs off the album, Sarah McLaughlin, Bruce, and so forth. Played at a deafening volume. My landlord has played music very loudly before. But on say a Friday night at 8 pm. Between songs, the sounds of her and her friends screaming practically. At 4:15 to 6 in the morning. At one point, the girl upstairs knocked on my door thinking it must be me playing music that loudly. I told her she's lucky she doesn't live right above it. When Angel came in at about 5, he went and rang the doorbell, 3 times. The music went down 1/4 of a decible for all of 5 minutes. She did not open the door for Angel.

For an hour and a half in the middle of the morning when I'm trying to develop good sleeping habits, I had to listen to my landlord's post-post-Stupor Bowl party. This is reason enough to hate the stupid game.

Next time I see her, I'll make sure to thank her for the lovely concert. I might also remind her of how the ceiling is turning soft near the bathroom due to some leak from upstairs. And then knock some of the softened plaster off the ceiling onto the ground and tell her that her music the other night caused that to happen. And then tell her I bought a $25 smoke detector I should be compensated for. Both her father and boyfriend are fire-fighters and our apartment did not have one. And tell her I'm putting in new sticky kitchen tiles she can pay for since the current ones are coming looser with each washing. And I plan on growing tomatoes in the sand pitch out back this summer. And while I'm at it, get someone to fix the rusted-through back steps.

I didn't bother her too much with apartment issues because she never woke me in the middle of the morning. She pissed me off and now she's accountable.
Monday, February 4, 2002

Go melt back into the night, babe,
Everything inside is made of stone.
There's nothing in here moving
An' anyway I'm not alone.
You say you're looking for someone
Who'll pick you up each time you fall,
To gather flowers constantly
An' to come each time you call,
A lover for your life an' nothing more,
But it ain't me, babe,
No, no, no, it ain't me, babe,
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe.
Bob Dylan's It Ain't Me

I need more Bob Dylan in my life right now. I used to walk up and down Broadway from 72 to 116 listening to him on my walkman which had automatic tape reverse. Heh, antiquated walkman that played tapes. Almost like a victrola or a horse-less carriage. Something about this weather, these days, this current mental outlook or whatever it is makes me want to sing along to Bob Dylan songs. Preferably driving really fast and practicalyl screaming them because it doesn't matter how you sound because he is not know for being this super-star hanging out with Celine Dion and Bono type.

Speaking of Celine Dion, I saw some advertisement for a up-coming program where Barbara Walters is interviewing her. And one question you hear BW ask CD is if she's afraid that people have forgotten who she is in the past few years while she was taking time off to start a family. Can Canada send some good people down here? Are there any up there? No one forgot you Celine, it's hard to forget someone who such a source of so many jokes. We haven't forgotten Alan Thicke either.

Tonight I have a date with my little sister. I am pretty excited because we haven't had any sisterly moments in a while now. We've always had special sister-things which makes the older sister sort of jealous.

More and more I think about what I want to do next in my life. More and more I think about leaving or staying. However, I have no plans, I make no plans. I get to the end of whatever I'm doing and then decide what is next. But now that my life is not makred by Septembers and Mays, I have to decide what I am going to make the end.
Friday, February 1, 2002

We have a water cooler here at work. I think it's a requirement to have one of these in any office environment that employs more than 15 people. It might even be a labor law. Our cooler is not the type with the 10 gallons or whatever bottle on top. It is just a filter from the NYC water lines and a cooler in one.

Everyone here buys bottled water and then proceeds to refill their bottles at the cooler. This morning, someone had their bottle of Aquafina (why is Coca-cola selling water?) on top of the cooler with a note attached. The note said "When was the last time the filter was changed? There are brown chunks in the water." I did not inspect the bottle for these chunks. Anything with water and chucks, unless it's ice, and regardless of brown, tells me to buy another bottle today. But it's $2 downstairs. For the big liter bottles I like.

While I was heading down to get water, I took a cigarette. I stopped smoking during work, except if I really get pissed and then I have one during lunch. Lately, as my report goes out tomorrow, I have two during lunch. I feel guilty about this. I stood outside smoking, in the pissing rain. I did not bring a jacket because being rained on and cold is my punishment for smoking.

While I was out in the pissing rain, I remembered that this is so much like Ireland was in the late fall. I didn't mind leaving because I was looking forward to finally being dry and getting rid of my hacking cough (instead my return gave me a shaky fever). We never had to stand out in the rain at work to smoke. There was a smoking room in the basement. The building had only been opened for about 8 months and the room was already yellowed, practically sepia. You really didn't need to bring your own cigarette, the air there was like a Camel unfiltered.

During morning tea break, at 10 am, the room would be packed with rarely a seat to be found. Every was using their 15 minutes to suck down a cigarette while gulping their dishwater tea with milk (which I admittedly learned to enjoy). Lunch wasn't as bad unless it was raining hard because those days would fill the room with people chain smoking to kill time before going back to their desks. The funny part is though, you never went outside for a cigarette during morning or afternoon tea. Always into the basement.

I might not have felt dry for 5 weeks, but at least I didn't have to stand out in the pissing rain for a friggin cigarette I was sneaking because I needed water since the cooler water was "chunky."
Thursday, January 31, 2002

My labels say "Bink by Tara." They aren't super fancy and anyone can get similar types at any Singer story. However, there is apparently a Tink by Cathy. Kind of like how my sister said one of her sorority sisters was wearing a scarf in the exact same color/yarn scheme as the one I had made her the year before. The sorority sister's scarf was by Kenneth Cole.

I guess it's the price you pay. If you come up with a good idea, don't incorporate it, trademark it, copyright it in less than 5 seconds, you'll see it or a similar version of it elsewhere.
Wednesday, January 30, 2002

It is January, in case you have forgotten. Last night I forgot what month it was. It's hard to think January when you are in Coney Island in summer pants you put on to scrub your feet earlier that night, a t-shirt and a hooded sweatshirt. The only indication that is was not May or early September was the empty parking lots, barren boardwalk and not a person around except for the men fishing and crabbing off the pier.

The moon was huge and high in the sky and as I got further onto the pier, the world became brighter even though there were less lamps. Because the moon was reflecting off the ocean and turning everything bluish. The lamps on the pier almost seemed redundant, like the way street lights are on a half hour or so before the sun becomes a useless source of light. Nothing opened near the beach, no people sitting out even though it was beautiful with the lights of the Far Rockaways and New Jersey twinkling far off on the Atlantic.

There were two young Hassidim walking around as well. The male of the two Hassidim was young enough to have a very patchy beard. He and the girl he was with looked very happy. Hassidim of the opposite sex aren't supposed to be alone together unless they are married. These two looked too young, too happy to be married. Further down the boardwalk was an older pair of Hassidim; their chaperones who'd let them walk up and down the pier alone. They knew it was the type of night where these two young people will remember when they get married. The beautiful January evening that they were allowed to walk the Coney Island pier alone will be the love story they tell their children.

I expected to hear sounds when I walked past the aquarium. I expected to hear the dolphins, otters and other fish to be moving around and making their marine sounds. It was quiet, as if another shop closed for the winter. Maybe the ocean breaking into the beach 100 yards away over powered whatever night-time sounds marine creatures in captivity make.

The boats moving far out into the ocean were blowing their deep horns, flahing lights and twinkling on the water. I thought about Castaway which I watched some of the other night. I felt as if it wouldn't be that bad to be that alone for a while. There is a peacefulness that comes along that is so loud you can't even think. You just breathe salty air into your lungs so deeply you give yourself the hiccups.
Wednesday, January 30, 2002

Yeasterday at work I received part one of my supplies that I ordered for "very special surprise." 1) Getting boxes at work is wonderful 2) Going home with part one made my night. I watched the ocean special about deep sea creatures and began plotting out my surprise. I love the fact that more people have been in outer space than have been deep under the ocean.

Why, exactly, are we sending more people up rather than down? If there was a nuclear holocust and we suffered a nuclear winter the only thing to survive would be the deep ocean creatures that don't live off of photosynthesis but chemosynthesis of the energy of sulfur vents. They don't even need the sun. Why is Mars more interesting than 3 miles down?

With Bess constantly putting up lyrics, talking about the Tori-step program, recently falling back in love with the discman, and a general need to have music in my life, I think I'm going to buy some cds tonight. I've been spending a lot of money lately. I need to decide if it is more important to save for a vacation or to get cds, shoes and other material goods.

Everything I own is not yet 2 years old with the exception of 1 black wool cardigan with a hole in it and 1 pair of leopard print underwear. I know all of these things mean nothing, but I keep accumulating and wanting. Nothing extravagant, but still it's there. I mean, I even put up a chandelier!
Tuesday, January 29, 2002

To be a good worker or a bad worker? To leave at 5 pm even though I forgot to turn on my alarm after bothering to change the cd from Jane's Addiction's Jane Says to Paul Simon's Late in the Evening and therefore woke up late and got into work even later (without even getting to hear the song). Or to stay and work on other tasks that will need to get done to avoid them piling up to manic-frantic stage by Friday. It's so lovely outside, a loveliness that needs to be taken advantage of because there is a good chance that this will end and won't return for months. But there are all those bits and ends that need to be squared away.

I slept with the window opened last night. Seriously, slept with fresh air blowing on my face rather than in the dry death-heat and cool humidifier winter blend. It was so lovely. To wake up and walk around in a house where windows are cracked to let fresh air in. Honestly, since I stopped smoking in the house it a whole lot more stuffy because at least I'd open a window when I was puffing away my lungs.

This wonderful sleep was after I'd spent the evening making a huge mess with spray-on adhesive which will not only makes paper stick to wood but the pulp stick to your fingers, feet, your pants sick to your heel and so on. Spray-on adhesive is a great deal of fun.

Of course, the only reason I was in the mood to this particular messy project was because of an earlier successful shopping trip which resulted in comfortable yet office-appropriate brown shoes and a pair of lace-up black leather weekend shoes which will surely appear in this office with other young kids in jeans. My new brown shoes are these Israeli Birkenstock-style shoes that just say "wear me to the office and walk me home." They are generally very expensive. I luckily found a store carrying my discontinued style with only my size remaining. These shoes are why I want to leave early.

I was in such a happy shopping mood because I had a delicious turkey club sandwich with cranberry chutney at this diner which is generally too busy to bother to wait for a table but I now understand what the fuss was about. Such a yummy breakfast of calm with Angel after such high drama. And knowing that I'm in control of a lot that goes on in my life. And I can walk away whenever I've had enough. Because I have some good walking shoes now.
Monday, January 28, 2002

I was entirely too freaked out at the end of last week to post anything. I couldn't imagine what would come out or how I would feel about it 5 minutes or 2 days later. So I said nothing I worked my way through spreadsheets and question-answering, staying late on a Friday and deciding, given how I felt, I needed to go to New Jersey.

I had what can only be described as a ghetto-assed fight with Angel after we went to see the too-close-to-home In the Bedroom (which is worth seeing despite the Sissy Spacek hysterical-factor). I hated Friday, feeling that shook up about the world, until I finally arrived in New Jersey at about 8:30, ate a baked potato and headed over to see the Jersey kids. And listening and telling stories, drinking quick beers at the bar, sitting in my parents' basement and spending many hours was exactly what I needed. When I saw Angel again, he was ready to get back into it and I just didn't care.

Friends, I was reminded this weekend, should refresh you not exhaust you. After knowing them forever, they still manage to have a new story you never heard; sometimes the same story for the tenth time is just as good too (or being shown the same picture 200 times). Explaining to Alex why he's a biscuit is worth repeating many times over in life. Teasing and sharing and discussing nothing that matters beyond those minutes in which it is intensely discussed make people worth cherishing.

It became apparent why I love those people across the Hudson; why I'm basically in love with all of them. And then I realized I get into such explosive fights with Angel because I can't recall the last time I felt that way about him. I'm too busy reminding him to pay his half of the utilities, how this or that is wrong and so on that I can't recall the last time he made me feel as Marie, et al. had.

I did not talk to Marie my entire senior year of High School. I kept our conversations to the barest essentials and would drive her brother home while leaving her without a ride. I had enough of Marie, and for 9 months I did not think I loved her any more. At the end of the school year, I realized I missed her thanks to her being a sneaky snot and had no choice but to love her as much as I did before.

I asked Alex if I could go to the Latino Friendship Exchange and trade Angel in for him. He said okay. I really wouldn't mind, if only I knew where this Exchange is located.
Monday, January 28, 2002