Life Listed - Chronologically

Yesterday, I was pretty excited that Angel & I were giong to meet in the city, do something city like, catch the Nets game on television and then go back to Brooklyn. I got all cute in my suede mary janes, skirt, freshly shaven legs. But then he got sick at work and went home. He wouldn't be the only one getting sick.

Instead, after he'd munched on crackers and took a snooze, we went to Coney Island/Brighton Beach. We walked along the hard-packed sand along the waves reaching the shore. We breathed lovely air, we were quiet. There are a few Russian restuarants along the boardwalk and we had supper there. The only problem is Russian food has no flavor. And the peas & corn they served with my chicken were clearly frozen. Angel's mashed potatoes were of the boxed variety. But the meat was good and that's what counts/was eaten. And yummy beer.

It took about 20 minutes to find a bathroom in Coney Island. The combination of waves crashing and beer in my belly made for a desparate situation. Astroland, the rides and so forth aren't open yet although I went there hoping to go on the tilt-a-whirl. Everything was closed but we luckily found a place.

The next stop was past our house, into Carroll Gardens to watch the basketball game. Thanks to long walk, relaxed meal and bathroom search, the basketball game was over. Nets won. Lakers game was on. I wasn't too excited to watch that. We split pitchers of Summer Ale, chatted, enjoyed ourselves. But then it became too much.

After leaving the bar, walking to the train station, I decided we should stop for a beer before getting on the subway. Or two beers. At Boat with the worlds best juke box that included a Bjork cover of Leaving On a Jet Plane that I must find for Jesse.

And then this morning, it was my turn to be sick. Viciously. Note: when taking massive doses of sudafed at random intervals to get through a cold/allergies, your liver might be weakened and you puke, a lot. You might blow your nose at 11 am and have a chuck of Russian food fly out.

I only have one pressing project to finish at work. And then I think I'm taking tomorrow off. I need some quality crochet time in the park. Everyone around here is obsessed with vacation and time off as we get almost as much as teachers. I should use it. Tomorrow, and Friday, and the weekend upstate. Mother's Day present already in Mother's house. I'm ready for it. Bring it on once I get rehydrated.
Wednesday, May 8, 2002

Most of the time, I do not think about the inherently creepy aspects of being an office mole. If I think about it too much I'd quit my job and work in landscaping, construction, retail, the food services. Unfortunately, I believe I am too old to be taught how to use a cash register. Maybe I started working in offices too young, ever since the summar I graduated high school. Maybe office life is forever creepy no matter what and I'm just speaking about what we all ignore. Are there people out there that love the office life?

In a 8 by 8 foot room without windows on the 20th floor of a building, I spend 8 hours every day, 5 days a week. I am suspended high above where you can move about freely. I can walk abound the rectangle-like corridor, past the executives with big windowed offices, library, lunch room, "work room" / printer area (which has windows), in about 2 minutes. We have stairs so I can go up and down the range of 3 floors. That is my terrain. 3 floors, 100 yards by 20 yards. That's it. Creepy, yes?

I spend 8 hours in my 8 by 8 foot room that has two people, two computers, two 7 foot tall book shelves, two desks, and two chairs with blood-pressure style pumps to adjust our lower lumbar support. I do not use wrist rests and have the standard rectangle-shaped flat keyboard. My mouse has a whirry-gig scroll button and a laser. I get pissed that the scroll bar function only works in micro-soft applications. I requested this mouse specially. I have a pencil cup, stapler, calculator and roll of tape. My phone has a cord that is forever tangled and I prefer it this way because the cord takes up less room when it's coiled upon itself. In the 4 and 1/2 foot length of my desk, I spend most of my day.

My job does not require the range of motion of having my hands over my head. My job requires a very small range of motion. I stretch frequently for this reason. My job requires that I type, write and move my mouse. I hate the photocopier, fax machine and the attitude of the supply room people when I ask for a box of pens, or post-it notes, or 2" 3-ring binders.

When I go outside for a cigarette/fresh air, I am in the middle of the biggest city in the USA. There is a constant stream of buses, taxis, electrian vans from Woodside, Queens and dry-wallers from some place off Interstate 280 in NJ. There are people walking to and from some place, but I have no idea where these places are. No one is actually "there" but on their way elsewhere. I smoke my cigarette, pop gum or a mint in my mouth and go back upstairs. Because there's nothing out there for me to see or do.

My office life pisses me off sometimes. It makes me want to become an iron worker, elementary school teacher, subway conductor and plenty of other jobs that do not involve being suspended 200 feet in the air by steel, in a small room, and struggling to get through my office-mate's eating & drinking without a nasty comment. I miss cubicles with their fabric-covered walls that do not reach the ceiling. I miss fresh air and deep summer tans. I wonder how long can I really be an office worker. I wonder what has made most people accept this life so apparently easily.

Mondays seriously suck.
Monday, May 6, 2002

Nothing is better than walking with dogs in the woods. Nothing can top listening to wood peckers hammer their beaks against trees in the distance, the rustling leaves of small birds, chipmunks & squirrels, the crunch of the stone path under your feet and two dogs running ahead of you, lagging behind you sniffing piles of leaves, coming to your side when you call their names. Seriously, I should ideally go on a camping trip with my parents' dogs. Because they are great company. No complaints, no nagging, no wondering what to do next, idle conversation or any of that. Just walking, running, a few sticks, treats, Iams and water.

I bought a new pair of New Balance, put my hair in clips, threw a towel and sheet in the front seat and took my dogs to the Reservation (not an Indian, just a wildlife). We took our walk, going up the steep way. Bailey knows where to go, he knows how to follow the path. Roxy learned how to walk without a leash in about 5 minutes. They ran and romped. Bailey swam and swam at the little lake, natural black lab swimmer with that whip-like rudder tail. Roxy decided she didn't swimming, paddling like a small child, lifting her legs too far out of the water.

And I saw Spiderman. Which is simply awesome. Tobey Maguire is wonderful, rent Wonder Boys if you haven't seen it to further understand. I felt about 6 1/2, get giggly, scared, excited. Maybe there's something about an 11:50 am showing in Park Slope / "baby slope" with so many children in the theater that rubs off. I can't remember the last time I adored a movie, left wondering when they'd make another and if they'd do something stupid like casting Ben Affleck instead of Tobey Maquire like they put Val Kilmer in the Batman movies. I might even go see it again I liked it that much. I haven't seen a movie in the theaters twice since Top Gun, no joke.
Monday, May 6, 2002

The strangest darn thing just happened to me. I ran downstairs (well, I'm on the 20th floor so I took the elevator) for a cigarette. A little late in the day, but I've been making data cd's all day so I'm a bit bored/pent up. I put exactly one cigarette in my pocket. I usually don't have pants with pockets but it's Friday so I'm slumming in some olive pants that were freshly washed this week. When I took the cigarette out of my pocket, about 1/2 of the tabacco fell out.

Now I clearly saw it come out of the cigarette, in one graceful woosh. But the tobacco was no place to be found on the ground or the immediate area. And my pocket was empty except for a bit of pocket-lint. It just went poof. And I was stuck there with a cigarette that was 1/2 empty.

I tore off some of the paper and smoked it. It felt strange coming back in from a cigarette break about 2 minutes after I had left. And a 2 minute cigarette is wholly unsatisfying. Fuck you too work week.

I can't have a party on May 18. It's my sister's engagement party. I suggested my parents throw one for her and all since they've been wanting to have a party since we moved back into the house after the fire, over a year ago. But I didn't think they'd pick the day I wanted to have my very own party. I mean, wouldn't Memorial Day Weekend be more appropriate? But noo, we can't do things like that on that weekend since that's the weekend the house burned. Geez. Angel thinks we should have a Sunday afternoon party on the 19th which I suppose is better than nothing.

I'm starting to regret my decision to not move and stay there. I'm regretting my decision to not leave NYC/Brooklyn. I'm regretting a lot mostly because whining when you are all stuffy just sounds better. I swing between a bratty stuffed nose and a 1950s screen star low voiced sexpot.
Friday, May 3, 2002

For reasons Mr. Levy could not explain yesterday, the study found that Hispanic students were disproportionately affected by psychological problems after the attack. That finding mirrored results of a study published in March in The New England Journal of Medicine, which found that among the city's adult population, more Hispanics suffered mental health problems after Sept. 11 than did any other ethnic group.

Umm, hmm, I figured this problem out around September 15 when I noticed people such as Angel's dad, my old roommate from Haiti, Paletinian immigrants I know who were even closer hit. They seemed in a state of shock that was distinctively different from other people who were native born. When you are a immigrant, you come to this country to avoid the crap facist dicators, general lack order and other such factors which led you to believe that life in the US would be better if only for the fact that it would be mildly predictable and stable. The terrorist attacks effected hispanic children more because there is a large population of immigrants, or first generation children in the hispanic community.

Now, if my office worked on this, I hope that someone would figure it out. Elsewise, I'd actually speak up in a meeeting to state the very obvious. I guess that's what happens when your researchers don't know the population they're studying too well. I can just picture the hoardes of grad students from NYU & Columbia by the way of some prestegious college and originally from some cushy suburb in Connecticut or maybe even Ohio, in their wrinkly button-downs descending upon public schools.
Thursday, May 2, 2002

I am sick, not deathly ill but sufficiently sick enough to make breathing difficult and to dampen my mood much like my dampened hair, pants, shoes, etc. in trying to walk the 2 blocks from the subway station into work and to be caught in a huge down pour. I don't believe in umbrellas, I think they are annoying, especially in mid-town. I am also under the theory that the mixture of allergies and not using an umbrella these past rainy weeks is why I am sick.

I stopped half-way to work at the 2 story Duane Reade on 34th and 5th to get tissues and lozenges. I dripped my way through the store and then picked out what I wanted. When I went to pay, I realized I forgot my wallet. So I had to leave, without tissues or lozenges. Grateful that I drank some juice before I left for work and I brought lunch. But no aloed tissues and sucky things for my throat. I didn't even go to work yesterday.

I continue my love affair with sudafed. Unhappy with my limited water supply, desparate for orange juice and something by Ricola. I do have a tin full of change and I just might be that person buying $5 worth of stuff in quarters at the Duane Reade on 34th and Lex this afternoon. (Since it'd be too embarrasing to show up at the same store - first time without money, the second with quarters as if I was pan-handling for lozenges all morning.)

While waiting on line at the Foodtown, the woman with huge gold rings, gold earrings was buying 3 cases of Infamil with Food Stamps. When we left the store, she was getting into her farily new Nissan Ultima. It irked me, that she is exactly what people complain about but there are possible explainations such as a) she bought the car 2 years ago, had a kid and the babe has special-needs so she can't work, b) she is borrowing the car or c) she is taking time off to care for her infant because she feel uncomfortable leaving a 4-month-old in day care. But still, gold and cars don't go well with Food Stamps. It's fairly easy to get Food Stamps, though. If I had a kid, my income would make me eligible.

Secondly: Why is a sentence like "Chapman himself was almost too perfect a hero" correct? My instincts tell me it should be "too perfect of a hero," but I always see sentence like this. How annoying.
Thursday, May 2, 2002

The article about this lady and her experience being pregnant and looking for a seat was published in the paper. I don't know which end of the car she gets on, but I'm usually in the first three cars, sitting down, willing to give up my seat. I also get into work late, so there are generally seats then. And I let the crowded train pass so I can get the uncrowded train that has seats. The rudest people on the train are white males in their 20s who work office jobs to which they attribute too much of their self-worth.

How lame. The co-op board at one of the Lincoln Towers, which look very much like high-rise housing projects to the point that the only thingthat separates them from the projects in the South Brown is their neighborhood, is actually giong to ban smoking for new tenants. You can never decide, hmm, I'd like a cigarette, or a cigar or my visiting chain smoking elderly aunt would like to smoke in my apartment and since it looks liek she may kick the bucket any day now. . . Geez. I'll follow this story, see what happens. Just so you know kids, co-ops are scary places. Condos are too bland, boring and impersonal. But co-ops are scary. They are esentially rich communes.

That said, I must also add that every afternoon should conclude with a trip to Tiffany's. As mine did yesterday. While I hate capitalism in it's overwhleming, walking up 5th Avenue surrounded by 8 guys in suits on cell phones making up lies to their wives about why they are going to be fucking their mistresses rather than eating asparagus and salmon at the co-op which now bans smoking or fucking too loudly past 4 am, I also love high quality, high class and those blue boxes with white satin ribbons.
Tuesday, April 30, 2002

My older sister, the one who is engaged, also called me this weekend to firstly ask if I wanted to join the family's impromptu celebration (which I declined because I was having the kick-ass weekend described below, and it's sure to be one of many celebrations to her induction into breeder-dom) and if I'd be in her wedding. And as a congratulations/our family can now force your boyfriend to deal with your insane ass instead of us type of gift, I'm going to get them a tulip vase from Tiffany's. Tulips are her favorite flower, Tiffany's is her favorite store.

Christmas 2000 I bought my mother this blue and white plate, in the Dutch design-style she loves. It was like $18, but it was from Tiffany's, and it came in a big square Tiffany's box. Since we weren't living at home, my mother kept the box around until we were finally able to move back into our house. When I was wrapping presents for Christmas 2001, and looking for boxes, my mother pulled out this Tiffany's box. There was this lollipop that one of my sister's students had given her for the holidays lying around. So you know I had no choice but to put the lollipop in the box, tiet he white satin ribbon around it and put it under the tree.

The entire morning, my sister eyed the box. When we were opening presents, she kept it for last. I have given her necklaces and earrings from Tiffany's before. I am very nice to my sister that way. So she was expecting something to be in that box. Well, there was something n the box, but when she opened it to find the lollipop she'd left around my parents' house inside, she put on her pissed-off Cullen-girl face and let herself be our little joke.

And since she has a Tiffany setting to her ring, I'll give her a little vase ("But not from Tiffany's, much nicer than Tiffany's diamonds," said mom about the ring. "His jewler went to Belgium and picked out a few stones, and custom made the ring," baby sister said.) And to be fair, when I get hitched, I think she should buy me this vase since lillies are my favorite flowers.
Monday, April 29, 2002

How to Make a Good Weekend
Friday:
Take 2 friends, about 6 beers, 15 cigarettes, and 3 different drinking establishments. Mix well for about 5 hours.
Meet 1 roommate. Add 2 cab rides, 2 stools at favorite Brooklyn bar and let sit until 3:30 while slowly milking 1 pint of Stella.

Saturday afternoon:
Let rest until 1:30. Add 1 fight with roommate over who should shower first. Win fight, take nap while roommate is in shower. Take 1 bus ride to get 1 delicious sandwhich. Follow with small shopping excursion.
Purchase: 1 very cute 1940s yellow flowered bracelet, Burt's Bees Milk & Honey lotion, leaf shaped pin as Mother's Day present for mother, and 1 multi-colored neon kite that small children loved.
Stand in open field with kite. Share kite flying with roommate. Realize the two of you look lame with not enough string in comparasion to some hard-core Carribean kite flyers who have kites up high enough to pose a threat to air traffic. Share cigarettes with roommate. Enjoy non-smoker smoking.

Saturday evening:
2 red snapper, 3 scotch bonnet peppers, 3 avocado, 2 lbs red stem tomatoes, 2 bells peppers, 3 bananas (for breakfast this week). Add 1 roommate who likes to cook and help until guacamole is made. Eat guacamole while he cooks the rest of dinner.
Eat meal with 1 bottle of yummy red wine. Wash dishes, get complusive about cleaning and clean stove & counters. Call car service and go to new bar in Park Slope. Add 3 drinks. Find rare yellow cab in Brooklyn. Go home, sleep.

Sunday AM:
Yell at roommate for his alarm going off for too long. Wake him for work, return to bed.

Sunday PM:
Let rest until 2 PM. Finally fill sleep debt of 2 weeks. Add 1 bucket of orange cleaner, 2 mops, 1 sponge and 3 hours of cleaning. Eat 1 hotdog with left over guacamole. Clean house, watch bad Sunday television.
Talk to 1 boy on the day before birthday.
Simmer in front of television until bed-time.

This is a kick ass recipe for a good weekend. The big decision was whether the weekend was so good that going to work would mess it all up or it was so good that going to work would be pretty easy. And I also purchased a pale yellow 1940s style bracelet which I must have asked Angel 24 times about how cute it is. I think I'll take a 2 day in-city vacation this month.

Warning: Party heading this way on May 18, details to follow.
Monday, April 29, 2002

The last 1/2 hour of a fairly boring, excessively lazy, and generally tardy work week is nearly impossible. It makes me entirely too antsy. I honestly don't understand anything that is being said to me. And I'm in charge or wrapping up a 6 year project by Tuesday, on my own, with only a small amount of supervision involving "take a look at this." Take a look at this means, you let your eyes see it so you share in the responsibility if I mess up since I don't even know what I'm doing to begin with.

Cushy corporation, with your flexible hours, generous vacation of which I take knon (alt. none). Spend the day slowly working through a simple task. Spend the day drinking beverages and wondering why they don't have a good water filter so you don't feel dehydrated.

I'm obsessed with hydration. I must drink 4 or 5 glasses of water as soon as I walk in the door at home. I have a glass on my bed side table. If I don't pee clear I become concerned. I also love watering my plants. I like making sure they are sufficiently happy. Plants are not like girls - they do not get on the same watering cycle.

After being cooped up indoors, my potted herbs begged and begged to be allowed to sit on the steps today. I put them out there but then saw a frigging frost warning this afternoon on the weather sticker we have on our cushy corporate intranet. I will not rush home just to make sure they will be okay tonight. They asked to be put outside and if they didn't bring a coat it's not my fault. They will be let in when I get home. Of course, if they die as a result of this, I'll cry.

I'm being taken to the Star Wars exhibit on Sunday at the Brooklyn Museum of Art, rather I decided this is what I want to do instead of giong to a baseball game with Angel. I feel like he's my divorced father, scheduling outings that I will find fun, to impress me. "It's was the one at the Smith-so-knee-an" he said as if it being there impresses me more than it just being a Star Wars exhibit (which it does, I'm easily brought by things of high-standing and pretention).
Friday, April 26, 2002

Damn! Left-Eye's dead! I cannot believe it. I might have to go buy a TLC album on tape to in loving memory.
Friday, April 26, 2002

I'm goin back to a place that's far away
How 'bout you,have you got a place to stay
Why should I care,I'm just trying to get along
We were friends,now it's the end of our love song.
So let's leave it alone
Cos we don't see eye to eye
There ain't no good guy
There ain't no bad guy
There's only you and me and we just disagree.

This is the second place song in my friendship with Angel. No kidding. First place is Tiny Dancer by Elton John. They are both great songs and over whelmingly overtly signifigant. If you could extract our combined corny-ness, distill it, pastuerize, homogenize, etc., it could be leathal. What other two people would blast Air Supply in the parking lot of a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert? I mean, seriously, we blasted it. We were cheered when we finally shut it off.

Apparently, there's a live version of Bob Dylan doing this song on Audiogalaxy. I basically want to run to New Jersey and download it immediately before doing anything else with my life. Bob Dylan is something else. I think tonight I'll work on sewing some stuff and play some of his albums.
Thursday, April 25, 2002

My sister is now officially engaged! We all knew it was going to happen eventually, we knew that these two people were going to spend the rest of their lives together. They are possibly the most perfect couple I know. In second place, based on the half dozen or so times I've seen them together which is more than enough to come to this conclusion, would be Elisha and Amy.

He proposed to her as the sun was setting over the Grand Canyon. Not joking. I mean, that's just out of this world. I imagine getting proposed to on like the 6 train or walking over the drawbridge to the Gowanus Canal. My soon to be brother-in-law does it some place she's never seen before, full of great beauty and the offer of what is sure to be a sweet rock (diamond).

Besides the fact that he treats her like a princess, deals with her snotty-ness or snobbery, he also teases her. Little comments to put her back down to earth. To let her know she's real, he's real, and to make her laugh at herself. She's become my friend since they've been dated, has become a nicer person. She appreciates things more loving some one so right. And Marie's grandpa Veto thinks he's the greatest guy. The Veto test is pretty ultimate/definitive.

We knew about this before they went on vacation. Because he pulled my father aside last week and asked him permission to ask Jenny. Seriously. He even sent the ring along with his parents because he didn't want Jenny to see the ring in case airport security searched his bags. This boy is top notch.

I sent him an Arbor Day card because he wondered why no one celebrates Arbor Day, how it managed to go untouched by Hallmark. (The reason is that Arbor Day is not national but more regional based on when the weather is best for planting trees - it's this Friday by the way.)

My sister is getting married. Apparently it's already decided that the baby sister & I are in the wedding. I think I'll get some fabulously lush thread and shiny beads and make us some fancy-assed purses. Or at least finish the granny square blanket I'm working on for the new finances. (I should write fiances' since the blanket will eventually belong to them).
Wednesday, April 24, 2002

What does it mean when you believe waking up and saying "fucking rain" is somewhat indicative, predicative, and informative of the type of day you will have but it turns out to be anything but? What happens when you search for correlations, predestinies and future outcomes but wind up being surprised?

A miserable day at work, a horrendous commute and a generally crappy forecast where it only rained from the time I got out of the subway until I hit my front stoop. And then I ironed, sewed and worked on the 3 purses that just need to be constructed, put together and turned from pieces until wholes. Then I went out. To meet Katie Two as she has become known in our circle of kids who go out & dance together.

My favorite bar is 2 blocks from her house. I don't think she fully understands how advantageous this is. We drank beers, talked of boys and careers and the artistic urge. She gave a bag full of silk strips I will cut smaller and crochet into silk purses. We went back and had another beer. And returned home by midnight, to cuddle deep into my comfy bed, read not even one page in my book and fall asleep.

Today so far is worse that yesterday. I got to work very late because I was thinking about not coming for a long time. After a hot shower, a bowl of Cheerios, and watching morning television, my head felt cleared. Until I hit the subway, and went back to feeling like crap. Thank you pollen and heating. The two should never overlap.

Excuse while I finish my handful of tedious and degrading tasks so I can return to my comfy bed, maybe watch Oprah Winfrey and drink herbal teas out of my "Tara" brand china tea cups I bought in Ireland.

Maybe if I'm lucky today will turn out as good as yesterday.
Tuesday, April 23, 2002

What does it mean, what is the pre-forecasted outcome, how will the day unfold when the first thing you mutter in the morning is "Fucking rain"?

Although the herbs I bought seem to love the weather and have grown all crazy-like in just a week to the point where I have to clip back some dill since it's intruding on my rosemary, I am getting sick of it. That storm on Friday was interesting and everything. I really apprecaited it giving a new spin on the day-to-day world after a week of August weather. I was in the car with my mother and we did not get out of hometown-proper before we had to turn around, drive down streets that have never flooded before but were temporarily covered in enough water to reach the hood.

The weekend re-confirmed the fact that I hate cars. The day-to-day existence/reliance on fossil-fuel sucking motorized bastard children of the Model-T really make me uncomfortable.

My mother's god-father was a interior designer who lived in NYC. He only took his car out to visit family in Long Island in the summer, maybe once a month. He would not accept jobs unless he could walk to them from his East Side apartment. He would only take the subway to visit family in Brooklyn & Queens. He liked walking, could manage the subway and only used a car out of necessity and utility. This man is my hero.

I've been woozy-drunk on pollen for days now. Not yet allergies but generally woozy. The dark trunks of trees, fresh Spring green translucent buds and fresh blossmed fleshy flowers are beautiful and all but I'm seriously woozy on their plant gentials that are flying around. Too much time in the lush 'burbs this past weekend didn't help but the huge cemetery with 10,000 trees across the street offers me no relief.

I'm becoming a neurotic cranky old lady. While crocheting like mad women with Marie and Katie this weekend, I swear, the 3 of us could bitch and whine like old ladies in nursing homes with granny squared lap blankets better than the actual incarnation of any said old bird. I complain that I think girls are just too caddy for me, but in reality, some girls are just the right type of caddy to handle, to make you laugh, and pass an evening with in the nicely appointed map-filled burgundy & cream sun porch you had designed.
Monday, April 22, 2002

I'd like to clarify to Richie that this new particular hair style I was seeing was not a la Michael Douglas (and therefore automatically cool for about 200 years) but actually parted and combed downward, like some type of spit hair-do that mothers do to their 4 year old sons before church. Like Bart Simpson when he goes to church. Combed and parted and slicked, eeek!
Saturday, April 20, 2002

I am the VSP for today at work. (Very Special Person.) because I got a new computer. The powerful people known as IT decided that I finally needed something with a processor beyond two turtles, a stone tablet and some pins. Really. So I got the new computer. Oh how it flies. I'll never be able to stand a dail-up modem now.

What's up with boys wearing their hair super-slicked today? I saw several separate boys in this fashion. As if they got out of the shower, put about 10,000 pounds of gel, combed it ultra-geeky and left. Seriously. I also have to remember that there are a lot of modeling agencies in this area so maybe I got the tail end of a Ralph Lauren shoot. But if this is going to be a trend, I'm not sure how I'll handle it. Not as if he'd ever do something like that, but if super-urban-cool guy Richie every did that, he would make me cry. Sobbing crying. World ending crying.
Friday, April 19, 2002

When wearing the super sexy high heels that you purchased as a post-terrorist attack indulgence in foot wear that probably would not have been made otherwise, remember that shoes fit dramatically different with and without pantihose. It's the first time I've worn them barefooted and thank myself for the forethought of bringing alternative sandals in case I was up for a walk after work. Because now I have a blister on the top of my foot.

And I look good in these shoes, 6 foot tall, whole body thrown into the high heel thing. I will remember to wear pantihose from now on but did not want to in 90 degree weather.

By the way, if you are one of the people complaining about the heat, don't let me hear it. I think it's nice. I think it's wonderful. I think I worked until 7 plus Monday and Tuesday and now that it's 4:30, I'm going home!
Wednesday, April 17, 2002

I'm such a spaz. I have trouble with some of the more basic human tasks. I guess everyone does terribly dumb things sometimes. At least what I did is completely laughable (so, yes, laugh at me).

Last night, after realizing I did not get to bed early as planned, I walked around the apartment getting ready to read some chapters in Lemony Snicket. I washed my face, put on my pajamas, forgot to cover the bird, covered the bird, forgot to shut off the bathroom light, shut it off, forgot a glass of water, got a glass, realized I did not brush my teeth, and then went back again to the bathroom. I'd been up and down 3 times before. I walked into the bathroom, took my toothbrush out, picked a tube up from the sink, squeezed the white liquid onto my toothbrush and stopped right before it went into my mouth.

I was seconds away from a mouth full of Neutrogena face wash. The tube is much bigger than toothpaste, stands up right while the toothpaste lies across the unused cupholder. I almost got my teeth really clean in that gross way with soap. Pore refining soap to close up all the pores in my mouth. Yuk! I'm happy I caught what I almost did. I'm happy I own two toothbrushes.

This isn't nearly as bad as the time that my father, half asleeep and withouth glasses went to the linen closet where we kept overstocked products to get a new thing of mouthwash. He opened the blue bottle, assuming my mother bought a new brand and completely hated whatever it was. Mostly because it was face astringent. I know who I get my absent mindedness from.
Tuesday, April 16, 2002

First, was the thong pantiliner, then the plus sized maxi-pads, and now black pantiliners? I really really don't get it. I understand marketing through increasing specification, but why black? I would like pantiliners like they make diapers with cute cartoon characters along with waist. Like bleeding on daisies. Or with the option of George Bush's face. Or, well, I'll stop because I'm an excessively nasty individual and I don't want to make anyone piss in their pants laughing or puking up their lunch.
Monday, April 15, 2002

My jade plant is no longer sitting on the windowsill over my kitchen sink. My jade plant now has the spot formerly used by the cannabis plants that never did anything other than look sickly. I feel bad about them dying, but really, I did not want to be a cultivator. My jade plant got a new pot this weekend. After weeks and weeks of sickly looking leaves that were slowly tuning a blackish color, of the soil in the pot being completely root bound and no room for it to grow further, I replanted.

It now sits on the edge of the bath tub, tranformed into a lush green, plump leaved plant in a matter of hours after replanting. The leaves plumped so that the 4 sections are now leaning away from each other because it's too crowded with such fat leaves to stand up right. My jade plant looks grateful, and happy. If only everything could be fixed by getting a bigger terra cotta pot, some lush potting soil, and a good big drink.

I also casually walked over the the gardening center and bought about 8 different herbs to plant in the pots that were the former homes of "the boys" (that Angel's cousin called them when every he inquired about them as he was their previously owner). I planted mixed herb pots and set them on the metal steps to the dingy garden. As a way to say, hey, imagine if I wasn't moving upstairs, what I would do with this weed infested ugly yard. I can't wait to use sheers to clip oregano or rosemary sprigs while cooking.

I went and bought herbs while Marie slept on my couch. We walked around Park Slope later and bought books. I did not plan on buying books but I desparately wanted a new Lemony Snicket book and when shelling out money for one book, you might as well buy 3.

I under-estimated how much I would enjoy having the house all to myself for a week. I love the balls of yarn I've left all over the place. I love sleeping with my door open to let the Spring breezes travel through the apartment without having to worry about your alcoholic roommate coming in at 5 am on a Wednesday night and waking you up as he turns the hallway light on. I threw away anything perishable he owned in the refrigerator because he never makes sure he does that himself. Milk should not be kept for over 2 weeks. I liked getting dirt all over the kitchen while repotting, taking a tuna sandwich break and then cleaning it up. Part of me should wants to put those kind of creepy ads in the paper that people who don't really want to live with someone else, but must for financial reasons:

Roommate wanted for large 2 BR in Kensignton. Must be clean and quiet, work nights and be out of house on weekends. 9 to 5er who requires a quiet house when home. Need a empty home that I am also willing to give you. I'd rather not know you live there and will allow you that same dilusion.

But not really.
Monday, April 15, 2002

Two weeks, sufficient.
I was busier than normal. Rarely did I get to spend an evening crocheting, watching dorky television shows on cable channels like TLC, Discovery or History. I went from place to place, event to event. Cleaning my apartment got put off nearly two weeks straight. I now have more contemplative time.

Thank you, Spring, for deciding to show up. Thank you for turning bushes lush fresh dewy Spring rain green in what seemed like over-night. Thank you Daylight Savings Time for making it light out until nearly 8 pm.

Yesterday, out of tasks at 5 pm, I walked down the east side of Manhattan, through Chinatown realizing I was the tallest person, back-tracking to get onto the pedestrian walkway to the Brooklyn Bridge, smelling the Fulton Fish Market at South Street as the exhaust from traffic was making me woozy. When I hit Brooklyn, I did not swing left to get a bus or subway home, but kept walking. I walked through Cobble Hill and Carrol Gardens until closed factories and abandoned warehouses along the Gowan Canal with it chameleon colors separated me from Park Slope. I hopped on the F an hour and 45 minutes after leaving work.

Long walks after so many hours sitting on my ass feel so nice. They feel like the day, as if the sloth-like 9 to 5 is shed. My feet throb in my over-used slip-on loafers in desparate need of a shine. My body feels generally happy. I love the sunlight hours past 5 pm.

I bought groceries when I got home. Multi-grain Cheerios, red peppers, solid white tuna in water, assorted yogurt, golden delicious apples, new sponges to go along with the "natural" orange cleansers I'd picked up at the Whole Foods in Manhattan the night before. I made dinner of spinach and rice and fish. I ate in front of the television watching mindless programming about American pairs on some race in Asia, with my feet soaking. I stole cotton socks from Angel and looked through yarn catalogs while my feet absorbed peppermint lotion.

By 10:30 I had taken a bath, washed all my dishes and did not care that I left an ash tray on the edge of the bath tub, my many balls of hand-dyed twine for an evening sky hand bag on the table in the living room, clothes carelessly thrown throughout my bedroom, and most of the widnows wide open. I crawled into bed, read a chapter or two and slept soundly.

I need to finish cleaning and preparing. I need to get rid of things frequently now. I have bags of clothing and yarn. I have papers waiting to be thrown out. I have books to give my grandmother. I need to find my sun glasses and sun screen. And more than anything, I want to lie on green soft grass, under a budding tree and look up at the sky.
Thursday, April 11, 2002