Sunday evening, my mother asked me to run into town to pick up some groceries for dinner, especially since I insisted we have a salad and there was nothing in the house to make a salad out of. i was happy to get to go some place on my own as I generally have the boyfriend shuttling me around or my mom "volunteering" to "tag along" on every errand I make. Thankfully, she was preparing the rest of dinner when I left. I drove into town and parked a few spots away from the store. I got the needed groceries and walked back to the car, hitting the little electronic device that allows you to unlock the car doors from several feet away.

I opened the door of the silver car and sat down, placing the bag of groceries on the floor of the passenger's side. I shut to door and thought "hmmm, the dash looks funny. I don't recall the odometer looking this way." I assumed it was because I rarely ever get to actually drive the car as I saw a pair of sunglasses on the center consol where my mother keeps hers. I had the key clutched in my hand when I looked at the door, it didn't have a little side arm rest or a panel of window and lock controls. I looked in the back seat where there was papers and a prep-school sticker on the back window. I was in the wrong car.

I looked around the street to make sure no one saw me exiting the car. I walked around the back of the silver Mercedes I had sat in and walked to the door of my mothers' car. I checked the street for people again and slid into the car, trying to back-out as fast as possible as I feared someone had seen me walk into a car, look aroudn and then get out only to get into the silver car right next to it.

When I buy my own car it is going to be a color unlike most others. I will buy the least popular color available so that I prevent this from occuring multiple times when I am down in the land of cheap cars that is a university campus.

I spend a good part of the weekend on the bridal duties. I finished all of them that I could at the expense of rarely seeing the boy, rarely sleeping and generally working in near sweat-shop-like conditions. My reward: a sweetish sorority-girl "thanks, you're awesome" from the bride and a declaration that I've done enough and may indeed do other things with my life this week. Or at least maybe one or two nights this week.
Monday, July 7, 2003

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More so than usual and especially so since I moved to New Jersey, life seems like the movie Groundhog Day. Bill Murray is trapped in February 2, over and over, each day the same as the past with only his actions altering the course of the day. And when I stand at the train station and the people waiting cluster where the train is going to stop and doors will open right before them, I feel as if that day is no different than the days before and will be the same as the days to follow. The fact that when I stay with the boy, I still get on the exact same train in Newark as I would have caught from home, and see the exact same people on the train and conductors taking my tickets doesn't help my argument that nothing ever changes and there is pretty much only one train to Manhattan.

My grandmother is a bit senile. She's a bit wacky and all and all out of it. She does things compulsively and her little habits also don't help the feeling that the same things happen over and over. For example, every time I open the door to go into the house, it's the same thing. She has seen me coming by foot or car and it opening the door since she sits in front of the bow window "reading" 87% of her waking life. She opens the door and tries to hold back the dogs, generally Roxy. With her twisted arthritic frail fingers, she grabs hold of the dog's collar and says I should be careful as the dog is clearly trying to run out of the house and not trying to jump on me, lick me and generally greet me. The dog is clearly more interested in busting out than saying hello and if her liver-spotted hands weren't holding her back, we'd be short a dog. Because she is standing there holding onto the dog's collar, she is in the way of me entering the house so I have to tell her that the dogs won't run out and it will be okay. I say hello and excuse me and have to enter the house with 2 dogs and my grandmother standing in the narrow hallway that leads from the inner to outer door.

This requires 30 more seconds of my life more than is needed. When she is not on the look-out, say still sleeping or out walking to the library in a coat and gloves in 75 degree weather, I can open the outer door and get to the inner door in about 1 second because there is not a tiny grandmother and 2 50+ pound dogs in a 2.5' by 2.5' area.

And all of these little things add up like my mother calling me around 6 pm to see if I want a ride home from the train and my boyfriend telling me I need to get up since it's 7:40 am and the cup of black coffee that sits on my desk cooling until it reaches the right temperature for me to drain it first thing in the morning. Day after day, the repeats make me think I am stuck in a loop but each day things change just enough to know it’s just a looping spiral that will end soon enough. And re-curl itself to driving on highways, attending classes, and reading until late into the night.

Wednesday, July 2, 2003

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Friday, I met the boy at Newark Penn Station after a week away from each other. Both of us were exhausted, sweaty and happy that the week was over. We drank endless drinks of Kettle One, laughing at the world louder with each sucessive sip.

Saturday, I over-exercised the fat dog. I take her on 1/2 hour walks with hopes of getting her in shape. The fat dog then comes in the house and collapses, forcing me to all but shove her head in the water dish to get her to drink the water she so clearly needs. My sister days it cruel to make her walk outside because she may have been hot since she is covered in fur but that argument doesn't hold with me as our other dog can walk for days on end and he has black fur that gets so warm walking in the sun.

Later that night, I had a barbecue for the boy and my grandmother and spent several hours sitting outside, watching lightening bugs and slapping other bugs that were sucking our blood. After we retreated inside, I managed to fall asleep in a quick second. I only recalled the boy saying things like "look, Slater in spandex," as he watched an I Love the 80s show. I woke around 2:30, thinking my head was nestled in his lap but realized once my senses were together the cuddly thing I was lying upon wasn't a boyfriend but a fat dog.

I found out this weekend that:
(1) my parents won't show up on time to go buy a car if they are in Atlantic City. They show up so late that you have essentially wasted your day.
(2) I have to stay with either the boy or my sister during the week of the wedding due to the number of family members that will be sleeping in my bed. For a week
(3) I am not helping make jewlery for the bridal party. It is my job and only my job, no helping involved.
(4) Even the nicest, seemingly longest weekend with relatively little time dedicated to other people still is not quite restorative enough to make Monday anything but its usual horror.
This picture of a kid with a forked tongue completely made me vomit. This kid purposely had his tongue split half way. I so shouldn't look at the news on the internet while eating lunch.
Monday, June 30, 2003

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I have the dress. Or rather it's tailored correctly and it getting its last steaming so I can pick it up next week. I have the shoes. Or rather I need to make sure the bottoms are sufficiently worn / roughed up so I don't slip. I got a new haircut. Or rather "Now your hair has a style. Before, it was just hair," as my sister put it and will still need to have it "done" on the day of the wedding. I have 175 placecards to stamp. 175 glassine envelops to stuff and sticker. 5 tanning sessions to complete. I thought my responsibilites were to put to put on a dress, walk in front of my sister and stand still for 20 minutes. I didn't know it would require the majority of my time.

Tuesday I had a double-scoop of sorts. I met Bess and we sat in Madison Square Park watching people embarass their selves, making note of a squirrel obessed Eric Stoltz look-alike and girls who could not walk in heals. Important pieces of information were exchanged. I then went home and Marie came over to my parents' icy-cold house. Living with a menopausal woman is a trip. Alway frigging cold in the house so her hot-flashes don't bother her while the rest of our lips are turning blue. This was the only night that I was not consumed with a wedding that isn't mine. I probably talked about it for 50% of the time regardless.

I haven't smoked in 3 weeks. I live with my parents and my mother calls me every day around 6 pm to see if I want a ride home from the train station. I have to answer questions like "what is that in your salad?" "um, sprouts." I have to do strange female rituals like shopping for the emergency bridal kit. I went tanning. I spend all my time with an ungrateful sister who honestly asked me "so what are you getting me for my wedding" as if my time and energy, two shower gifts and the money I'm spending to be in her wedding aren't enough. I wanted to choke her.

I miss living on my own, my own space, my own time and my own schedule. I miss walking through the city for hours on end without having to consider what time I should catch a train before they begin to run hourly or stop completely. I miss a bedroom that no one ever disturbed me in. Closed door meant I wanted to be alone, not knock lightly before barging in on me half naked while I'm getting dressed to see if I'll be at the train station before 6 so I can go for a dress fitting and then to the supermarket to pick up groceries and then discuss tanning schedules and when to pick up the In Style bride magazine with the hair style I might look cute in. I miss having thoughts and considerations and plans that don't involve a wedding.
Friday, June 27, 2003

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On Saturday night, there was a boxing match that I shrugged an agreement to watch. After a long day driving to and from Hickville, PA for big sister's second wedding shower, having a headache for the entire day and happy just to sit and relax, watching a short boxing fight before putting on a movie seemed just fine. Boxing, however, is barbaric, more than I ever imagined when this happened: Lenox Lewis tore open the face of his opponent with the sheer force of his fists, making blood gush from this man's face. I had to hide my face and beg that the channel be changed, not wanting to look but not able to keep my eyes away from the horror for as long as it was on. And the images continued to flash through my head and were in my dreams as easily it was the most disgusting and horrific thing I've ever seen.

I am trying my best to resist it and trying to push back all tendencies toward it, but I am beginning to acquire the ex-smoker's sydrome which is primarily characterized by insisting others quit, comment on how bad smoking is when others are enjoying their cigarettes and acting superior to smokers. I am all but going around gathering a petition to ban smoking in NJ bars. Of course, when one of the cheif targets that I am badgering is my mother who has a mixture of bronchitis / pneumonia and is on a steriodal inhaler so that she can breathe, I don't find myself to be absolutely that horrible. The other favorite to badger is my father who is pretty sick, but not as severely as my mother, and I have sucessfully convinced him to only smoke 1/2 of his cigarettes when he finds it so necessary. However, the health concerns of my family slowly pours over to badgering otherwise healthy smokers and the ex-smoker evil person emerges, viciously jealous of smokers as I try my best to recall precisely what it is that is compelling me to quit.
Monday, June 23, 2003

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Frequently, when right-wingers infuse statistics into their arguments, everything falls apart. I don't know where these people are taught to do mathematics, but the manner in which they abuse and interpret numbers astonishes me. For example, earlier this week while getting dressed, Fox News channel was on. Two dolts were discussing the abortion rates, how they steadily increased the first 15 years of legal abortion and have decreased since. The conversation on what these numbers me was, roughly, as follows:

Newscaster: What would you attribute this turn around in numbers to? Does it have anything to do with the changing views of Americans?
Bill Bob Bubblehead: Of course. Americans find abortion to be wrong and the increasing numbers adhering to this belief is reflected in the abortion rates.
Newscaster: That's all the time we have. Remember, at Fox News we give you the whole story (or something to the effect that they don't give you a one-sided, narrow minded opinion)

That pretty much made me puke in my purse. The falling abortion rates have nothing to do with increased sexual education awareness which would prevent pregnancy in the first part, the "morning after pill" which can be causing unknown thousands of 2 cell organisms from ever attaching to uteruses (uteri?) and untold other factors such as environmental pollution making people less fertile.

Bess then sent me a link to Roevwade, an anti-abortion web site. The information on it is similarly ignorant and misused but one finally iced my cake:

Legalizing abortion was supposed to help reduce child abuse, since it was assumed most abused children were unwanted at birth. But this theory has been disproved by scientific studies as well as by the evidence that child abuse has sharply increased since abortion became legal.
In 1973, when abortion became legal in the United States, there were 167,000 cases of child abuse and neglect reported. Yet in 1980 there were 785,100 cases - an increase of 370% from 1973. Furthermore, in 1987, there were 2,025,200 cases reported, which represents an increase of 1112%. (Source: U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. National Center of Child Abuse and Neglect; National Analysis of Official Child Abuse and Neglect Reporting).
Rather than helping stop child abuse, legal abortion has actually contributed to its sharp rise due to the effects abortion has had on women's self-esteem and the ability to deal with stress.

They give us absolute numbers of children abused. Every person who graduated high school math should be able to see this problem unless they were uneducated at some fundamentalist private school that purposely doesn't teach mathematical reasoning and proper use of statistics.

While the number of children abused increased from 1973 to 1987, so did the absolute number of children! What one needs in order to show an increase in child abuse is not the number of children abused but something called a rate, which is like a percentage, but, depending on the rate, it's is out of 1,000 children or 10,00 children and so on. The rate of child abuse did not change much throughout the 1990s.

Secondly, the laws regarding child abuse changes from 1973 to 1987. Teachers used to hit kids. Parents used punch kids. What is acceptable has changed so the definition of child abuse is not the same in 1987 as it was in 1973. Thirdly, reporting child abuse dramatically changed as over the time period, teachers were increasingly pressured to report suspected cases. Cases that would have gone un-reported were now being counted, thus changing the number of cases as well.

How the finally logical jump from numbers to blaming child abuse on abortion, as if every mother who abused had a previous abortion, is something I can't decipher.
Will an actual right-winger statistician please step forward to make their case?
Thursday, June 19, 2003

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Monday, my physicist friend and boyfriend were supposed to meet in the early afternoon and I was to spend the afternoon not at work but wandering the city with them. She got caught up talking to someone she wants to give her a research job and I got caught up with printing and reprinting pages of a proposal. At 5 pm, we finally were all ready to leave and enjoy what was left of the atypically sunny day.

We walked over the Brooklyn Bridge and were able to remember that she and I had walked from Brooklyn to Manhattan last summer as we have no memories and brain storming is required to recall what we did last time she was in the city. We stopped at various stores and points of interest along the way, including The Strand where I picked up Rules for Wives for big sister's second shower this weekend. It's horribly stereotypical and therefore perfect.

They wanted to go to Little Italy for dinner but I am under the impression that Little Italy is a tourist trap as I never hear of people raving about the restuarants down there. Maybe there are legitamtely nice restuarants but New Yorkers just don't want to be exposed to that many fanny packs and sunburnt necks for fear of losing their appetites. Instead, I convinced them that the far West Village near Bleeker Street would be a better place to pick out a restuarant.

Once we selected a place, I was left in charge of picking out the wine, and was instructed to chose something cheap as if a $30 bottle was too much and I should only select from the handful of uninspired, around $20 bottles. Her boyfriend suggested this. In the end, a friendly neighborhood guy dining in the restaurant who suggested the place to us, bought us our wine after realizing we were "from out of town." My friend tried to pipe in that I was from Jersey but luckily he didn't hear it or I doubt he would have bought our wine as people in the far West Village are probably exhausted by the massive amounts of Jerseyians who are spewed forth from the PATH stations. We could have gotten a much nicer bottle of wine for free if her boyfriend wasn't so cheap.

The next day, one of the rare sunny days this millenium, I took off to join them in an urban exploration. It was a beautiful day. It was a good deal of fun. However, spending all of the time with a friend and her boyfriend that I just met is exhausting. It's nice to meet the boy she's been in love with for a good while now but I didn't find him all that enrapturing. If going to visit an old friend with a boy, spouse or other person previously unknown to the old friend, said boy, spouse or other person should flake off for a few hours. Elsewise, only meet up with your old friend for a few hours. I didn't insist that we spend massive amounts of time with my boy; actually he was no palce to be found at all in the 2 days I spend with them.

Not getting the chance to talk to the boy for two days, not seeing him for one of the longest lengths of time in the past five months makes everything new and sparkly-like.

Thursday, June 19, 2003

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Time is going by so quickly and it seems as if rarely get the chance to stop and consider myself, my life and the general existential points of being. Weekends fly by to the point that this morning, dozing on the commuter train in, I thought I was going home for the weekend, not coming ni to begin the work week.

I saw Cirque du Soleil on Thursday night, a wonderful combination of acrobats, costumes and emotions. It brought that child-like excitement that rarely happens in day-to-day adult life in balancing bank books and selecting cheap merlots. Geeting drenched and seeing an old friend, for however short, was wonderful. I get to have her around for a next few days but regretably with her boyfriend which always interfers with that particular bonding when there is a third, new to me, party in the mix. You take what you can when you can.

Friday, I made pizza with the boy and we discussed how they no longer sell those pizza kits at housewares stores with the circular pizza plate, cutter, roller and spatula. We aren't sure why this is but I suspect that Atkins may be involved, regardless of the fact that he is deceased. Making pizza is a very nice thing to do in a way that makes me throw up in my mouth.

Saturday I got more accomplished in one time frame than I have in several years of my life. Time spent driving in car in city streets, stopping and going, using us most of the gas I put in, dodging pot holes and feeling my ass widen: about 4 to 5 hours I'd suspect. By 1 am, I felt like I hadn't slept in days. And I went to bed, to only wake at 6 am since I forgot to shut off my alarm. I woke, drank juice, let the dog into my bedroom and feel back asleep until the afternoon.

Okay, this is the funny part:
After shopping for dinner, for Father's Day presents, a Carvel cake and freaking out on assorted occasions since I went patchless, my family settled in for a barbecue dinner. Jenny and our "new sister" Alison were talking about sororities and their sorority girl existence, including secret handshakes. My younger sister and I, who think that sororities are generally evil, decided to make fun of their handshakes and show them our secret sisterly handshake, which we made up on the spot. After grabbing one hand, crossing the opposite arm to grab the other hand, we both looked at each other and pretended to fake head-butt.

But the thing is, we didn't fake head-butt. Our big, hard Irish heads collided in a huge thunk. We spent the next half hour with ice on our heads, a visible egg on my forehead and a similar one buried in my sister's head. I was not allowed to go to bed because my family feared I had a concussion and I'd slip into a coma. I insisted it would be fine if I was in a coma as Marie and I have coma-care agreements. Jokes about how stupid the non-sorority types are, how stupid the Ivy Leaguer can be and so forth continued while the red welt throbbed and I had an severe desire to fall asleep. The Cullen head is notoriously hard and today there is little evidence of this ultimate act of stupidity.

Monday, June 16, 2003

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Dear Mr. President,
Israeli Missiles Kill 7 in Gaza City
Thanks for doing that whole peace tour thing. Your diplomatic skills are top notch and really seemed to change things in this world. I am happy that while a significant percent of the population is unemployed and our economy is in the toilet, you spent our tax dollars on what ultimately amounted to no more than a media campaign. I’ll remember you standing there with Ariel Sharon come voting time in November 2004.

U.S. Military Targets Hussein Loyalists in Western Iraq
I’m sorry, but I am a bit confused here. Is the war, like, over? Why are we “targeting” things?

Gregory Peck died. I totally had the hots for him when I say him in One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest. He was one of those completely perfect black and white film stars. A male Marilyn Monroe if you will.

In good news- My quit stats currently stand at:
6 days, 20 hours, 8 minutes and 7 seconds smoke free. 103 cigarettes not smoked. $34.12 and 18 hours of my life saved.
I think I’ll go spend $34 on dinner tonight.
Thursday, June 12, 2003

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What, do you only post once a week now? Not intentionally. But pretty much.
Living at home with the parents is a shock. It is more than I bargained for between the senile grandmother who is obsessed with closing windows and moving things around in my bedroom to my mother who is so bothered by the things my grandmother does as if she has control over her senility. My older sister is in full on bridezilla mode with the wedding nearly 4 weeks away. My father "does know what to do" with dirty dishes when I cooked for the family on Monday when my mother was out of town. So I had to cook and clean. Even the boyfriend understands the deal: I cook, you clean. I am not sure exactly what combination of my family, the big changes in my life and the 14 mg of nicotene delivered through a patch is to be blammed but I freak out on a regular basis. The boy is in no way resopnsible, it is one of the times I feel relaxed as I call and demand to be allowed to see him to unwind. Him and friends. And the little sister who is the only one in my family, including myself, who has her head on straight.

I spent this past weekend worshipping the bride. All Saturday morning I prepared for her shower by making salads, helping her females of honor get things together and even shaving my legs. We kidnapped her from her apartment and made her drive around Essex County blind folded as we drove through back roads and unusual routes to throw her off and confuse her internal location devices.

Nearly to my parents' house, we were stopped at a light. While she was blind folded, the three of us in the car began to laugh, increasing her paranoia and discomfort level. "What is it?" she demanded as we watched the cop stopped in front of us looked at the Audi station wagon with a toddler seat and 4 girls, the one in the front blind-folded through his rear view mirror. Still the intuitive and clever person I know, she figured exactly what was cracking us up, "There must be a cop! Help me officer, these girls won't let me know where I am going!" Thankfully, it was raining and all car windows were rolled up.

At my parents' house, I ran in to get an umbrella "from the door man" and we then guided her into the house, taking each step so slowly as she told us how much she hated us and how uncomfortable she was. In the front vestible, we took her cardigan and purse, oblivious to the crowd of women right in front of her ready to surprise her with more housewares than anyone needs in their lifetime. "Where the fuck am I?!?" she shouted to her in-laws, friends, and family as we took off the blindfold.
Being able to mess around with her like that makes it all worth-while. Or at least makes it some-what worth while. That and the bachelorette party (which I had to take an honorary sorority oath to never reveal to anyone but closest of friends.)

She plans to give sratch-off tickets as her wedding favors. I had a dream the other night that I was sitting in the periwinkle dress, a dime in my hand at her reception. I scratched off my card and had to look so close at tiny numbers. 338467 was the number I needed. And it matched. I won $7,000 dollars. Some have suggested I play the lottery as an interpreation of this dream. I feel that the dream best reflects how much I think just compensation for being a bride's maid should be.
Wednesday, June 11, 2003

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The biggest divide between the boy and myself is his general stance on the government. He says he doesn’t care for politics and for who is in office. He believes that those in office will do what they want to do and political parties do not change the fact that he must wake each morning and get in his car, make money and treat me like a princess. Although he is not above making fun of the President, debates over governing and conversations about what’s happening in D.C. rarely occur between the two of us. I don’t think that his view is unforgivable (a GWB lover would fall into this category), I just think that he fails to realize exactly what powers the government can exert over you.
Read the rest
Thursday, June 5, 2003

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