Life Listed - Chronologically

In addition to everything else, on top of everything else and because I cannot decide why or how this was done. The old bell from the Bell Atlantic-turned-Verizon building that faces the East River downtown was taken down and replaces with the sleek red check of the new Verizon logo. Walking across the Brooklyn Bridge, you are basically looking right at the Bell Atlantic/Verizon building. That old bell was always there, the classic shape and look of it mounted high on this huge building. And out of no where, with no notice to say a final farewell, it has been replaced.

The metal piece was probably 4 or 5 stories high, and just as wide. It was thick and huge. But they somehow managed to take it down, leaving stains on the limestone of the building behind. You can barely see the shadowly remains of the old logo behind the new sleek skinny check, the letters spelling out what it means "verizon". The bell symbol, we all knew, was for the telephone company. It was wonderful and beautiful. I wonder how long they hold the copyright for this symbol before I can start printing up shirts with it.

My mother has worked for the Bell companies since she dropped out of college, got hitched and started popping out babies. When I was younger, one of her weekend and afterwork t-shirts was this dusty heather blue with the navy collar and arm-bands that had the bell logo. Underneath it was written "Ma Bell" for the huge companies that made up the Bell industries back in the early 80s. I loved this shirt. The way she looked in it, the way it said Ma Bell, as if that was my mother's name. I secretly called her that under my breath.

I remember the t-shirt smelling of barbecue as she'd make us hot dogs on summer evenings. We'd wawter the gardens while they cooked, shared ripe strawberries, stretch the bottom of our shirts out to hold massive zuchinni and tons of string beans. I loved that bell with a circle around it. I loved that logo.

When my mother's company changed it's name, they had literally 2 months to get rid of anything with "Bell" in it. We had tons of pads, business cards and so forth floating around our house as a result.

And now Verizon changes the downtown building. Manages to take down this huge metal bell and put up a red check. I don't like it. I liked the bell.
Tuesday, March 12, 2002

Not knowing what you want to do kind of stinks. I mostly would like to move to Carroll Gardens. I think it's lovely there and only 4 stops rather than 10,000 stops away from the city. I'm also getting some pretty interesting replies to roommate wanted posts including a wine auctioneer for Sotheby's. I looked through job postings out side of NY and none of them, really, caught my eye. I don't know if I really want to move out of NY. Moving to a different place within the city (basically only meaning Brooklyn or Manhattan) is pretty much like moving.

Deciding on the way to the train, across the street from the deli I usually walk into every morning for my 60 cent coffee, that I am giving up caffiene is pretty rough. I can't drink coffee past noon any more, I found it was severely upsetting my sleep. If I can make it to noon everyday, avoid Dr. Pepper and certain yummy almond teas, I can do this. The logic is caffiene dehydrates. I spend 60 cents on coffee which requires a dollars worth of water. In one week, that would be $8 or the equivalent of not having to worry about packing a lunch twice. It would be $32 a month of the equivalent of getting drunk (which then requires additional water).

Whomever decided that we should pay for water should be shot. I'm going to pretend I'm Tom Hanks in Castaway and hang coconuts out of the lunch room window and chug from those.
Monday, March 11, 2002

You are being unduly influenced by the situation that is all around you. You do not like the feeling of loneliness and whatever it is that seems to separate you from others. You know that life can be wonderful and you are anxious to experience life in all its aspects, to live it to the full. You therefore resent any restriction or limitations that are being imposed on you and you insist on going it alone.
You are anxious about all the limitations to which you are subjected to at this time.... You feel that you are not valued for what or who you are. You need OUT. So why procrastinate any longer .... MOVE!

That's what my Colorgenics test had to say to me. I've wanted to take this test but my office computer refuses to allow me to download Flash (which makes me hate every single page which uses Flash)

Where should I go? I'm thinking DC. I'm thinking Seattle. I'm thinking I just might find a roommate. I'll see.
Sunday, March 10, 2002

1) This purple is starting to aggrivate me.
2) Um, I need to figure out a new housing situation. I propose Jesse moves back down into civilization. Angel has decided to take his dad's place which is dirt-cheap ($under 400). He will be living with his dad again until his dad & girlfriend find a place. Tonight I will ask him skeptical questions about how a bachelor for 23 years is really going to handle this. Or how he's going to handle over-nights with his girlfriend on the futon.
I have a couple of options including finding a new roommate but running the risk of having someone move out at moments notice and be stuck with too big rent. I already have to move to the upstairs apartment. Or I could move entirely, into my own place or into a share situation. Or back to fucking New Jersey. Or pack up and get the heck out of this dirty city. Maybe really move to St. Thomas.
I wished I was thinking about these things in early January when the option of grad school still existed.
I have until May to decide. I wonder if this means I can't go on vacation now.
Friday, March 8, 2002

Please excuse the ego grandstanding but I must share. Last night, with Marie et al. + my sister and her girl, all at the bar together while I sipped water as big sister designated driver, they were going off on the bag I made for my sister's birthday. I'd actually made it almost year and indefinitely put off sewing in the lining forever. It's a lovely bar of purples, blues and greens in the granny square crochet fashion. Very Spring.

As everyone will do now and again, I was being encouraged to do something with my bags. Like set up shop. However, even working 40 hours weeks, I'd never be able to make enough to supoprt me. I'd have to get a bunch of illegals and sweat-shop it to make it profitable. Regardless, my take on the entire situation and something I think to myself is as follows:
Sometimes I want to take pictures of what I do, send them to Martha so she can weep jealously bitter tears and either a) offer me a position where the terms of employment include a percentage cut of profit or b) have me whacked.

What I need now is some March 8 resolutions. January 1 is a really inconvient time for me to decide to change things with my birthday being right down the road. So I'm setting some things out this weekend, writing a game-plan and thinking about what I want. Actually, I must be suffering from something along the lines of what Richie has in terms of a quarter-life crisis. I'm ready to change it all. Even a job opening in the company's Oakland office would be sufficient.
Required reading: Motherless Brooklyn, Jonathan Lethem. Mafia type boys narrated by a person with Tourette's. Watch yourself begin to read signs out loud.
Friday, March 8, 2002

Yesterday Pitas was knocked out. Any amusing observations were kept to myself. I don't any one missed much since I was mostly going insane and trying to finish this relatively simple task I just don't get.

Last night I had a dream about high school. I thought I was finally free of these dreams when I graduated college much like I no longer suffered from long traumatic dreams involving loosing my teeth. I used to have dreams about finding out that I really didn't graduate high school, they realized I didn't fulfill some requirement while taking too many art classes and have to go back for a semester. A 22 year old in a class with 15 year olds.

Last night's dream was a bit more triumphant. I took some huge test that was basically going to decide a lot in regards to my future. I was like the SATs, but with more subjects. It was pretty much like the Regents that they have in NY state or the leaving certs they have in the UK. However, in a bright shiny room with glittery edges, my scores were being posted. Completely Olympics like, as I even turned to my sister (who is 21 today) and said this is like the Olympics. They were 4.0 pause 4.0 pause 4.0, all 4.0s, meaning I got straight As. I was pretty excited.

The thing is, even though I got a sum total of 3 flat Bs (not B+) in college, would pass/fail any non-major class I wasn't goin to get an A in, I did not excel this way in high school. I did not get a single A on a report card until I was a sophmore. The quarter I did best was actually the Spring of my senior year when I got all As including a few A+. I just didn't care until the threat of going to Rutgers was becoing a reality.

My dreams last night were vivid, fresh and exciting. I think it had a lto to do with sleeping in freshly washed cotton pjs and sheets with the window cracked open that let in the beautiful smells of Spring that are beginning to float on the breezes. Even if, at 5 am, I became excessively cold and burrowed myself deep into my blankets, I am such a fresh air addict that it was worth it.

I finally wrote my friend in Seattle. Mostly because I got an email from my friend who went to India. It was easier to reply to Seattle and put off Cape Cod. What do you say to someone who practically drops out of the world for a year? A least when I did something similar it was for 4 months and I wrote letters.

I remember in college, when the weather turned lovely and if you were in a small enough class, it would be held on the lawn. Why can't we do this here? May I sign out a lap-top and draw my figures in Central Park, looking at the Boat House? Of course, now I must go because the other part of Spring just kicked in: a bloody nose.
Thursday, March 7, 2002

Pigeons like the subway too!
Tuesday, March 5, 2002

Why don't we keep babies in cages? Like the dog cages people put their puppies in. I mean, we put them in cribs which are all full of bars but plenty of babies hit 18 months or so and just begin climbing out of them. If they were in a cage, however, there is no way out. You can make them all cosy with fluffy pillows and hang mobiles right from the top. Plus, when you need to take the baby to day care in the morning, you don't have to wake it up. Just grab the cage, throw it in the back of the car and go. Really, when I have a baby I'm getting a cage for it.
Tuesday, March 5, 2002

My discman is all messed up, the volume can only be adjusted once a day. It just won't change any other time, but I supposed this is better than the two days when it did not work at all. The sound is really very horrible now, not loud enough, not clear enough but good enough for me to enjoy the lovely cd I made this weekend. The reason why it is dying might be because it's warranty expired 2 months ago and if something is going to die, it happens right after the warranty expires.

However, this is not the real reason why my discman is ready to go to Sony-heaven. When I mentioned the volume problem to my sister, without a beat she replied, "Been listening to the New Deal too loudly, huh?" Yeah, my need to blast the New Deal and be that annoying girl with music everyone can hear hhas diseased my discman. Maintaining my $150 electronic or rocking out on the subway? Obviously, I chose the second.
Tuesday, March 5, 2002

Last week, I was asked if I'd be able to help out on a proposal this week. I was excited by this since honestly my tasks these days have been things I've been avoiding. If I put my mind to it, I probably could have finished them all by last Monday but I'm still dragging around. However, they decided they didn't need my help so now I'm back to the work I've been avoiding. I have the option of searching the network for files to make an archive or printing out 125 pages of text and 150 tables. Basically, my choices are stab sharp pencils in my eyes or drag my skin across a summer-hot piece of asphalt.

Our new neighbor, the guy that moved up from 19 to the avaible desk in the window office across the hall, baked a pie last night. A strawberry rhubarb pie, to share with the people on the floor. Generally, people just leave baked goods in the kitchen area. He, however, went office to office with plates, forks and napkins serving his pie to everyone in the mood for a mid-morning indulgence. He is either from North Carolina or some where in the mid-West. (The mid-West meaning every state that does not have a coast line or borders Mexico).

I kind of wish I was pissed off about something so I could go off on a tirade. But no, everything manages to just keep a low-level of annoyance. I just get to sit here and drink coffee, eat pie, pretend as if my headache isn't the result of drinking and try my best to avoid actually accomplishing anything.
Tuesday, March 5, 2002

Last night I got a very bad headache. It's my fault, entirely. Because I'd given Angel a headache earlier in the day. Because he said, essentially, because I'm a girl we cannot go any where further than say 150 miles or however far that prevents us from returning for the evening. Because he has a girlfriend. However, if I was a boy, this would be allowed. We were walking to brunch and I began shouting about how I don't have a penis and him being sexist. Then, every so often, I would ask him senarios and see if those would be acceptable situations.
a) Going to Washington or the Chesapeake Bay for an overnight trip, just me and Angel: no way
b) Going on above trip along with his girlfriend so that I become the third wheel: okay.
c) Another male friend, myself and Angel on an overnight trip: okay
d) Above trip with a female friend instead of a male: no way
d) A concert in Philadelphia that gets out past the time public transportation is running to NYC, just him & I: okay
e) The two of us in a cozy inn in Vermont: obviously, not okay.
f) The two of us driving up to Vermont for maple syrup: okay
g) The two of us going to Hershey Park and staying with Ben: no way
h) Going with him on a boring shooting in a far away city because he wants company and his girlfriend can't get the time off: okay
i) Taking him with me to Maui because I won a trip for two on a scratch off ticket and all of my other friends are busy: no way
I understand why he would think twice about cosy Vermont inns, but basically we are not allowed to go to Washington this Spring as has been our 3-time Springtime ritual until he had a girlfriend. If I had a penis, we could go. I'm not sure why we can get maple syrup but not go to Washington but Angel likes to be quirky.

He feels it's suspect for us to go away. Because if we were away that must mean we are fooling around, but while we are living together we are safe. Like it is somehow more probable you'd fuck somone in a hotel than in your bedroom. It basically boils down to if it is any place his girlfriend might want to go and we don't have another male with us, it's not okay. I really enjoy my friendship being based on his relationship to his girlfriend and the fact that I don't have a penis.

So for giving Angel a headache and throwing so many senarios at him (above is just the highlights) to the point that he could not think straight, I got this huge headache around 11 pm. Maybe an hour watching Monica Lewinsky is what really did it to me. But I admire her, I think she is the best slut ever.

Since I had taken a nap earlier and was no where near tired with this huge headache, I took 2 Tylenol PMs. I have not had a Tylenol since I discovered Aleve about 3 years ago. I got cozy in bed, tossed and turned, read a book, shut off the light, tossed and turned and finally passed out. For all of 1 hour.

I woke with a terrible burning sensation in my stomach. I felt sweaty since the heat was on too high as it always is when the landlord is home. Angel & his girlfriend were getting ready for bed so all I could hear was his door opening, closing, bathroom door opening, closing and then in reverse too many times. I was so wide awake. I turned on my humidifier to drown out the sound of the girl upstairs that then began pacing. I opened my shades to look outside. I re-arranged my pillows. I wondered exactly what the PM in the Tylenol was supposed to be doing other than making me squeamish.

Could it be the PM part of the Tylenol died after a few years since my headache was gone but I was anything but PM? I think I'll stick to nice strong shots to knock me out from now on.
Monday, March 4, 2002

Marie says: I'm a rapid cycling sociopath.

Tara types: When you spend too much time thinking about your mental illness, you wind up diagnosing yourself with some wacked disease.

Marie says: I just operate faster than the average sociopath.
Marie says: We were blatant stalkers.

Tara types: I think stalking would be classified as some sociopathic tendencies.

Marie says: Correcting someones grammar with the fury of someone who is going to rip ones head off.
Marie: Naming reasons on your own sociopathic list.
M:Thinking of sociopathic behaviors faster than you can type them.

Tara types: Being such a rapid cycling sociopath that I have to yell at Marie to shut up so I can finish typing about my entry about Marie being a rapid cycling sociopath.

A while later:
Marie shouts: You're a controlling demanding retard!

Tara screams: At least I'm not a dilletante dictator bitch!
Marie & I have eloquent fights in which we just tear each other apart because we both love our ability to do so.
Friday, March 1, 2002

Tonight I am making a surprise for a friend. I want to talk about it but, much like nearly all of my surprised in the past few months, I cannot as I risk spoiling it as my friend is also a reader of my page. I am pretty excited about this surprise because a) it will only take me one day to make b) it's not crocheted, but a brand new type of surprise. I am, however, working on a crocheted pencil case for my baby sister who will be 21 next week. It's made from hemp, with a zipper, and fancy edging which required I bust out my hot glue gun, upholstery needles and iron-on seams.

She suggested that the next "date" I have with old college roommate include her, since she will be 21. Since the three of us went out one night while I was in college. I got her stoned for the first time, sitting in my sunny room and listening to the Dead. She asked for something to eat, I gave her a package of cookies, and went to get the phone. When I returned, she had eaten all of the cookies, and looked completely lost when I teased her about eating all of them. "I dunno, I couldn't stop eating them, I guess I was really hungry." We went out to a bar, drank beer while watching the Yankees game and then moved onto the favorite spot in my college years. When she disappeared for 15 minutes, I assumed she passed out dead.

The part that make me feel really old, because this event feels like a while ago but not far into the past, is that she was only 17. Now she's going to be 21. Honestly, I think her aging makes me feel older than my passing birthdays. Am I supposed to accept the fact that she can go out to a bar, buy a six-pack and gamble? How can I be so simply discarded as the fetcher of rum and tequila for when she and her friends get puking-drunk in my parents' basement?

Maybe my older sister was reluctant to ever go out drinking with me, participate in any over-21 activites with me because it reminds you of your own aging? Maybe I'll return her birthday gift and just get her monthly shipments of Sweet Pickles.
Friday, March 1, 2002

I have been reading the diary of this pregnany girl for a while and lately she frequently complains about not getting a seat on the subway. I thought, you know, maybe she's a complainer. I thought maybe she just got hardcore breeder like the people with baby carriages that will run you over; the breeder way of thinking basically the whole world should be aware of their needs and desires because they have babies. Plus, you know, it was a situation she chose knowing very well she'd have to take the train each day. I thought, people can be pretty bad in New York, but they can't be neglecting you a seat all of the time.

Maybe it's because I give up my seat in a flash. To old people, to pregnant women, to small children when the train is packed and they are getting smushed because no one sees them, to people on crutches, to people with knee braces and just about anyone who looks as if they need the seat more than I do. Maybe it's always been me on the train that gives up my seat so I never realized how rude people really are.

Last night, a lady with a cane, about 45 years old, got on the train at 23 Street. The train was not packed, there was plenty of standing space, but there were no more seats. She had on a cute chennile hat. The 20 people sitting down in our immediate vicinity were not pregnant, with knee braces or appeared to be in any way incapable of standing. There was only 1 child of all of these 20. That means 19 people ranging from 20 to 50, reading books or listening to head phones, thought they needed the seat more.

I wanted to say to her, "You know, I wish I had a seat to give you." I glared at people hoping to catch their eye and make them take a good look at the lady with a cane standing next to me. I wanted to say to the 40 year old with a bad dye job and her gray roots poking through who was reading a friggin romance novel, "Would you mind standing so this lady with a cane can sit?" But I didn't want to make anyone too uncomfortable.

As we were pulling into West 4, when the tracks slope further underground and the train has the tendency to sway and jolt the most, the lady with a cane was having a pretty hard time standing. She just looked pained, gingerly stepping to try to keep her balance. I became angrier.

At Second Avenue, a young man sitting next to the lady reading the romance novel got up. I moved to block all other standees from taking the seat, reaching my arm out to the lady with the cane and ask her if she'd like a seat. She turned her head, bottom lip tucked between her teeth, and practically whispered, "I'd really like one." I motioned to the open seat, she gave a pained smile and the lady with the romance novel was nice enough to slide toward the window so that the lady with a cane did not have to climb over her. The lady with a romance novel made a big deal of sliding her ass over as if it's this great act of kindness. I wanted to slap her. I wish I'd said what was on the tip of my tongue, "I wish I could have given you a seat earlier," in a loud voice, but I didn't.

When the lady with a cane got off at Seventh Avnue in Park Slope, she stood in front of her seat and asked me if I wanted it. When someone offers you their seat, no one, not even the young girl carrying large card board tubes that she kept poking into my back as the train moved, can take that seat. I took it, even though I was pratically home.

How rude the people of New York can be amazes me sometimes. When outsiders complain about our attitudes, I always manage to talk it up, explain how we show it differently. We don't bullshit no one, when we finally say something, we are being 100% genuine. We hold open more doors than have ever been held open for me in the supposedly hospitable southern US. We are just different, not rude. But sometimes, the people of New York are simply rude. Apparently reading a romance novel sitting down so the whole world can see your roots is more important than giving your seat to someone in pain, with a cane.
Friday, March 1, 2002

Deep breath. Several of them. They would feel a lot nicer if I was outside in fresh air than the dank recirculated morning breath in the afternoon of an office building. I could write something fairly beautiful, almost sappy. I would talk about little things, that become what matters. I want to save these thoughts for me, because I am not allowed to be so mindlessly sappy (publicly).

My friend Anne is back from India. She went on a 3 week vacation, in January of 2001 and returned only recently. I only know she is back because my old roommate told me at brunch. They were much closer. But I haven't heard a word from her. She's decided to join up with this group, dress in their yellow robes, make food for the ashram and so forth. She's not here to move back to the US, she's just here to get a visa back to India.

A lot of me feels that she is simply escaping as so many white folks do; throwing herself into someting so very different and powerfully spiritual in order to escape any anxieties, trauma, guilt that comes with being a white American girl. It's easier to renounce all you know, forget the different people you've been in your life than to try to reconcile them into a cohesive adult. Plus, you know, they need someone to teach the little boys English.

Yesterday I received a card from Angel, a token of friendship. It was very border-line sappy, but straight forward and honest and told me that he does understand, even just a little. Just a little enough to make me cry in that corny, touching-my-heart way that I'd previously thought only cards from my older sister could do (which she sends frequently, to make up for our teen years of anamosity). I was actually going to put up what he wrote, but decided to respect the fact that he probably doesn't want the whole world to know, word for word, what he said. But it began "all you want is to see wonder and beauty in the world."

Yesterday, I saw crocus poking it's head through the soil around a large tree, planted when my neighborhood was developed for veterans returning from WWII. It looked so vulnerable and green. New, hopeful but too soon for plants to kick in the photosynthesis. I wonder if we get slightly deprived of oxygen in the winter, with less surface oxygen as no plants are creating it through photosynthesis. I wonder how much oxygen plants really produce. If seasonal affected disorder (SAD) is not caused by just the decrease in sun but also a slight dip in oxygen. I wonder if I am pondering this just to throw around the word photosynthesis.
Wednesday, February 27, 2002

Last night I had a bottle of red wine for dinner. I don't feel bad about this and should consider doing it more often. I did not want food, I wanted my face flushed and warm, teeth discolored and tongue purpled. It was really rather yummy.

Today I bought $2 in Lotto tickets. I took a walk, thought of plausible excuses to not returning to work since the outside was seducing me to behave badly and spend the remainder of the day in the sunshine, and then passed a little newstand with a sign out front saying that the Lotto is $27 million dollars. Seeing as pay-day is not until Friday and the Lotto drawing is tomorrow night, decided to take the little money I had in my pocket and buy Lotto tickets.
If you don't hear from me past tomorrow, assume I'm in the Carribean getting sunburned. I'm not sure if I would work or not if I win (who am I kidding?)

I wonder if I am too old to go back to school. I mean to get a brand new BA. In design. My job is not sufficiently tactily stimulating. I want to work with wood and paint and manipulate objects, not column widths and font size.

There are these ads in the subway about the New York teaching fellowships where you risk your life teaching chemistry in the Bronx for a few years and the city helps pay your way through grad school. The one that makes me think they had some good advertisers working on this campaign is "Your spreadsheets will never grow up to be doctors or lawyers." Yeah, but my spreadsheets don't carry guns and get psychotic on people either.
Tuesday, February 26, 2002

I was disappointed with Friday night's New Deal show. Before ecstasy was a big drug fad, water was like $1.50 a bottle. Ecstasy inflated it to $3. Actually, people didn't drink water at clubs in 1995; they drank alcohol or soda or cranberry. Now kids eat too many drugs, pay $3 for each bottle of water they drink and infringe on my enjoyment of the New Deal. The first set wasn't too bad, but by the time their drugs kicked it in the second set, it was strobe lights and not caring how hard you were constantly bumping into the people around you since the drugs just felt soo good! I got sick of these kids up front so I made my way to the balcony, thinking I could bounce to the music, relax, and enjoy. Within 2 minutes, a kid passed out and had to be escorted out, his head hanging limply like a loose button on a cardigan.

Had more fun with Katie and TR in my apartment. Giggled about everything and anything. TR offered to fix anything that might have needed to be since his tools were in his car. I informed him I had my own tools.

When I entered the front hall, I immediately noticed my blue metal "old-lady" shopping car was missing. Around 4 am, the main apartment door opened and our conversation in the livingroom stopped as we listened to the guy upstairs move around the front vestible for about 2 minutes. The distinct squeek of a metal shopping cart being unloaded was the only sound as we tried to surpress out laughter. Apparently he does sleuth missions at 4 am on Friday nights to the 24 hour laundry mat thinking he can get away with borrowing our shopping cart (rather than, you know, asking). Angel suggested we put heavy metal chain on it just to fuck around with them, as if we are ultra-offended he used our cart.

Had a good brunch on Saturday with old-college roommate (not the one that didn't thank me for her Valentine). Got tipsy before 5pm. Walked around the empty mid-town streets of a weekend night until I felt a bit more sober. Bought Paul Newman's microwave popcorn. Talked to Jesse and intentionally lazed on couch watching 3 hours straight of Trading Spaces. Spent Sunday crossing things off the to-do list (by accomplishing them, not just giving up on them ever being done).

My landlord is getting married. She wants my apartment, after it's been painted, cleaned, spiffied up for the backyard access. Her apartment is just a small studio. Her boyfriend is a very big man. But she'd rather kick out the people who "borrow" my shopping cart upstairs and have us move up there than kick us out and let them stay. Finding this out meant I could cross off "put of shelves with mason-anchors" since I won't be in that particular room past August. I might be in the room above; I guess so I can spiffy that apartment up too. I have a lot of housing considerations to think about now.
Monday, February 25, 2002

take the which one of the trading spaces cast are you? quiz!
This is one of the more profound tests I've ever taken. I can't even explain how important this is. She was the show in my eyes. It's not half as enjoyable without her, and I always thought she was the best thing ever. Where do ex-cable home-improvement hosts go?
Friday, February 22, 2002

I am shameless.
I cannot focus.
I don't understand why they have either thong or "plus-sized" maxi pads. Because a) why you wearing a thong if you need a maxi and b) being larger than a size 6 (as they say the average maxi is mean to fit) does not make your bits and pieces larger.
Today's tasks involves transcribing a very boring audio conference featuring various governmental-types. Trying to write down what they are saying in understandable sentences is nearly impossible. "Yes, I agree that, from the point of view, it's a possibility. ." What part of the sentence am I to start with?
Yesterday I was supposed to leave early for an "appointment" that was last-minute re-scheduled for Monday. I thought about leaving but stayed past 5. I would like to leave now instead; I need a vacation.
I'm thinking of the Chesapeake Bay, a long drive, shell fish, sun-burn and salt air. Or Jamestown, NY to see Jesse for a few days at the insanely low-price of about $100 depending on whether I want to risk my life and fly out of JFK. I also want to check out this yarn store near Poughkeepsie and make a day or so out of that.
I want it to be 10 pm now and I want the New Deal to be rocking my world. I want a thank you from one of my old college roommates who I sent a Valentine to. I want straight-forward answers rather than my technique of asking the same question 5 times eventually unveiling the truth.
At least it's Friday.
Friday, February 22, 2002

Today, I used my brain for the first time at work since May. The other work I do is fairly straight-forward "detail oriented" work requiring you just remember to email 10 people today and so on. I mean actually had to think, compile, reference text books and internet resources and figure out what to do. Very rarely do we need to create a certain statistic, which is very annoying to get the computer to do automatically. So this morning my instructions were here's a crap load of data, figure it out. I like using my brain. It makes me feel useful.

Working in an office requires a persona. They don't want a person in a position, they want a persona, a type, the complete embodiment of your job title and all that comes under it. My job therefore requires someone who is intelligent but not actually needed to think. Except when people are lazy and make me do the calculations. Then I get to use my brain, think about numbers and order and come up with something that is, in the end, very meaningless.

I spent most of today figuring out whether some information should have ***, **, * or nothing at all after it. Does this actually matter? Does it matter if it is one or two "stars" as we call them over the correct term of asterisks? What will happen in the grand scheme of the world if I did not correctly calculate, and there is * when there should be ***?

I went through 4 years of college, am in debt for thousands so that the first time I actually have to think at a job that, if I had one child, I could work and collect welfare, I'm in charge of the number of asterisks.
Thursday, February 21, 2002

Although I have not watched a prom video recently, I'm still having strangely vivid dreams. They are just vibrant and completely full of non-sense. I wake up thinking, "what the heck." This morning, while I allowed an entire cd to play before I got out of bed, dozing on and off, I had a dream about my bird. Only, he didn't look like my bird. He looked like this:

Literally, he was this hoppy cartoon like bird that was being coy and shy and making deep sounds versus my obnoxious, screeching actual bird that does not hop but walks. The feet were really big like that. He moved like those wind-up toys you get in dime stores (as if there are any of those left, I believe they are called 99-cent stores these days). When I woke from this dream, I realized the deep sounds he was making were from whatever birds were flying over the cemetery this morning.

I supposed I alway have vivid dreams, strange dreams. I guess more recently I am more prone to recall them. None are profound, revealing or insightful. They are wacky like the dream I once had featuring a camping trip with Brian Austin Green of 90201 and Ricky Schroder (most recently of NYPD Blue).
Wednesday, February 20, 2002

Somethings have been really nice, almost charming. Like Saturday's brunch at the counter of the Cuban eatery with Angel. Or spending too much money on lovely yarn for what is possibly my best purse to date and then having my mom buy me a stuffed lion which is ultra soft. Or this morning, on 34th and 5th. There were 3 guys, one dressed in a huge Chinese food carton, another in a big deli-style coffee cup and the third (that I didn't see but a suit chatted with me about) dressed in a milk container.

They were handing out pocket-sized subway maps, with the chance to win $5,000 vacation from Citibank. I did not win. But now I have a fold-up subway map to fit into my pocket, with all of the Citibank locations on the reverse. Knowing Citibank locations is very important to me; I hate paying $1.50 just to take out money at Chase. A man in a Chinese food container gave me a pocket-sized subway map. A distinguished man in a suit laughed with me about how great it is to see people dressed up in food containers.
Wednesday, February 20, 2002

I would like to thank Presidents Lincoln and Washington for being born close enough to one another that in warrants a Monday off. Elsewise, I would not have wrestled my soul from the bed, dragged it into the subway and pretended to actually care about being here. I would like to know when I'm going to be out of this funk. "Self-improvement" involves a lot of unnecessary down-time. It's like the mess you make doing any type of home-improvement: the drop cloths and work clothes, saw dust, strong eye-burning chemicals. All of this followed by a massive clean up and the result is that looks (hopefully) better than before.

I need to write a list. At the very least I need to write down all of the pending projects I have going on and stop doing anything until they are all completed. I planned on being goal-oriented, efficient and productive this weekend. Instead, I slept and watched television.

I did buy 2 painting for $9 in Hoboken. They are corny but I like them. I bought 4 tickets for the New Deal. I started a new project instead of wrapping up any of the old (well, I was in NJ, so it's hard to patch up my bedroom ceiling from there).

I also finished my taxes, and found out that the feds owe me money which allows some things I thought were financially impossible thanks to an unexpected expense to be still very possible. I am very excited about this. I'm going on vacation now. And buying myself something nice.

I only crocheted 1/2 of a yellow scarf. PMS can set me off to no end. I need to live with a female, they know when to back off, when to not taking your bitching seriously. They just know and when they say, "Do you have PMS?" it is not an insult, aggrivating and allowed. Men just aren't allowed to ask you if you have PMS.
Tuesday, February 19, 2002