Life Listed - Chronologically

Last night, I got a call from a friend I haven't heard from in a really long time or seen in a year and a half. She's in town and wanted to know if I'd see her tomorrow night. I kind of had plans, kind of, to return to New Jersey to get the monthly Metrocard I mistakenly left there that is only a week old and declined her invitation at first. I was a little annoyed, that someone could decide just to drop back in and expect me to see her on the day she wants, when she wants. If she really wanted to see me that badly, she wouldn't have waited so long to get in touch with me after generally not communicating and me learning about when she's been up to through another friend of ours.

But then I realized, this was ridiculous. Only because I was telling someone I couldn't see them because I needed my Metrocard when half of the Maplewood/South Orange 20-something population will be at my house 2 days later. I wasn't meeting with important international figures, I wasn't going on some hot lusty date. I just wanted my Metrocard back. So I asked Marie if she'd mind stopping at my parents' and bringing it to me with the reward of a free subway ride and called my friend back. She was much more chipper chatting the second time. Because I'd kind of insulted her, saying that a piece of plastic was a bit more important.
Thursday, September 5, 2002

I was wondering what I had to say today and then I went to get a liter of water to refresh all of the moisture office air draws from the inside out. And it was gorgeous out. It was sun-shining lovely and warm. But I had to run back to my desk and prepare for a brief talk-about and leave the delicious sun. Riding up the elevator with annoying elevator-type that does not shut down his headphones when confined in small spaces with on other person, I realized I was angry. I’m angry that today is such a nice day and my weekend didn’t go my way.

I wanted to go to the Delaware Water Gap with my dogs this weekend. Really, I’ve wanted to do this for a while and finally decided this weekend would be a good time before it got too cold to swim. I planned on Monday because it wasn’t supposed to rain on Monday. But Sunday night it was pouring, cold and generally not very nice weather for a hike in the a.m. I prayed and prayed to baby Jesus and his daddy-o to have the sun stretch across the Delaware early in the morning, filter through the leafy trees and dry up the earth. I figured he owed me one for making me suffer the wrath of a parasite.

In the end, we know it rained through most of the morning and Jesse and I wound up sitting at a dinner, smoking cigarettes and having breakfast with our parents. Instead of communing with the great out doors, mother nature and running puppies we ate eggs. It made me a little cranky. But I painted a photo frame for my sister that turned out better than I could have imagined and had a restless day where my singular summer plans in the Metro area where ruined.

I wasn’t nearly as aggravated yesterday as I am today with the sunshine out there all smugly, showing off and being a brat. God and all of his glory decided to get together and be glorious and conducive to hiking with dogs when I’m stuck in my office.

Otherwise, I had a great weekend, take away Monday. See Bess for Friday night recap where she makes it sound as if I instantly donned a cape and whisked us to DHL in the nick of time, to then be justly rewarded with tasty martinis. Saturday I had wine and martinis instead of Friday’s beer and martinis and Sunday’s alcohol came in a fantastic creation of “solid sangria” with winey fruit held together with gelatin (Bill Cosby never tried Jello this way) and rum cake. I celebrated not being on antibiotics with enough alcohol that our father who art in heaven wouldn’t even give me once nice day to hike.
Tuesday, September 3, 2002

I wrote a very long and detailed post about the projects I've done this week. Then I realzied it would be really boring to read. It was boring me to write about it. Basically, I wanted to just say I painted a box this week and after mixing the colors forever, the box came out to be nearly the same color blue as the dresser I refinished. This blue is more dusty than the wooden crate I painted blue for my yarn, but in the end every piece of wood I paint comes out roughly the same color. This weekend I might paint my chair but I will not allow there to be blue in the vicinity. It seems to be this default color I magically brew up consistently.

As a side note, I keep on seeing John Goodman of Roseanne and O Brother in the vicinity of my work, between the house of 1 and 3. I seem to be the only person on the street that notices him. It's not as if he's hard to miss. In addition to being about 75 pounds overweight, he's also about 6'3". Basically, this huge guy with a goatee, wearing sunglasses, generally smoking is walking down Madison and only I notice who it is. I'm taking this to be some omen, indicator, etc. Either that or I am consistently imagining this.
Friday, August 30, 2002

It's not yet 10 am and today's grade is far is a big fat "F." It started out fine with "Dreams" by Van Halen set on my cd alarm clock. I listened to it twice, stretched my body while my roommate finished up in the bathroom, had an unnecessary cigarette on the balcony, and got ready. I decided to then eat some yogurt since I didn't want to get on a train too early in the rain. Even if I could have gotten to work on time but that just isn't a priority to me. Once I hit the door, it was all down hill.

I do not like umbrellas, but given how hard it was raining, I took the one I stole out of my parents' car two months ago. I opted out of my rain coat because of the umbrella, assuming people use these things because they keep you dry. By the time I got to the subway, my pants were soaked, my bad all damp and one arm was sopping. I sat down and read my book. I was not completely dry, or even near-dry when my stop approached. I was also riding backwards and every time the train stopped I could feel the yogurt sloshing around in my stomach.

At 34th Street, I knew it would be a challange to deal with an umbrella in the middle of the city. I already find it difficult enough dealing with other people's umbrellas. Under the scaffolding, I took my umbrella down as not to waster space as people do under scaffolding. At the end of the scaffolding, with only a street to cross and a half block to walk, I actually started to enjoy umbrellas. I thought the whole thing was rather neat, even though you do indeed need a rain coat in addition to one, especially when it's raining sideways and upwards as it was this morning.

I stepped from under the scaffolding, and my umbrella would not open. I was walking across 34th street, simultaneously trying to keep dry and get my umbrella up. I pulled my hood over my head and scurried across the street where another bit of scaffolding awaited me. In my frustration, in looking at my umbrella rather than looking down, just as I was getting up onto the sidewalk, I stepped into a huge puddle, completely soaking my feet.

By the time I made it into work I was 89% wet, my umbrella was now working and the rest of the looked pretty gloomy. Nothing, so far, as changed this belief. I'm out of hand cream and my hands are exceptionally dry. My hair managed to get completely wrecked and I don't have a comb. My pants are still wet, my feet are out of my shoes to dry but freezing as it appears as if the a/c is still pumping in the building.

At least today is not Monday. And tomorrow is Friday.
Thursday, August 29, 2002

I feel like a scrooge, grinch, grouch, crank-pot about this small child running through the hallways. Children frequently show up at work for whatever reason and it's usually just fine with me. There was a 3 year old at the desk behind my wall one day and I didn't know until I heard people talking about how angelic she was. But this brat is running around, walking in and out of my office, and generally making a huge nuisance. I can bet anything the president is not in the office today.

It makes me wonder whats wrong with the child's parent, who I hear talking to co-workers rather than looking after the kid; assuming he's so darn cute we all want to be interrupted when I finally found the time to get and eat something. We all want to hear him talk at the other end of the hallway. It might as well be the loud-man the sits across the hall from me. But the thing is, loud-man's paid to be here and dealing with him being loud is just part of the workday. This child serves no function. Except to make me feel particularly cranky, evil and heartless.
Wednesday, August 28, 2002

Yesterday afternoon was too nice to be in the office. I was also too tired to be in the office. And after many conversations with a library at Columbia about some information I need, I decided yesterday afternoon would be the day to retrieve it. I also planned on having a hummus sandwich from a local eatery as they constitued a good deal of my diet while a student. When I got up to the school, it was the first day of orientation. The campus was overflowing with nervous first years and their parents. Blue and white baloons were everywhere. The campus was pristine and the buildings smelled like yummy wood polishes.

I went to what had been my favorite library with their small nooks where many a nap was taken and paper was worked on. The information I needed was, however, unavailable due to a hacker in the system on Friday, some software issues and generally much better answers as to why not than I've ever gotten at the public library trying to get this information for the past 2 months. It was still early enough to return to work but still too nice to actually be there.

And then I remembered, it's the first day of orientation for grad students as well. I phoned my friend who was starting there and met up with her. We giggled liked school girls as we went into the "new" student center that was uder construction the entire time we were undergrads. We rolled our eyes at eager parents, walked down college walk and got tech help for her email. It was strange, to be walking around campus with her. She a student again and me allowed access by using an i.d. that surprising still swipes me in where ever I please.

When she was done running her errands, we looked at each other, turned on our heels and headed straight towards Columbia's #1 drinking establishment. And drank, in the afternoon. Because I hadn't had a beer since we were on vacation, and am finally off cipro. Drank a bit, given I haven't had a beer in weeks, don't eat that much these days and it wasn't yet 5 pm. And talked. And saw a couple of people we used to drink and talk with. Giggled and marvelled that here we were again, on the same side of the bar, the same early hour that we preferrred to be there before the co-ed crowd overran the place. Passed the afternoon knowing both of us should have returned to work.

The guilt of spending time with an old friend instead of returning to my particle-board desk and glaring computer screen has convinced me to work late this week. I believe that fun must be paid for, that a step back to doing what we'd done so many years ago must not be for free. Instead, I get to retrieve information from the public library this week. I promise.
Tuesday, August 27, 2002

The good part about not being so mentally fucked-up any more is the mental clarity, the fading of overwhelming anxiety and generally having a better outlook. Of course, I'm just deciding I'm not messed up anymore, but I might have hit a state called denial but I doubt it. Funnily enough, my life has been much sunnier since I fired my therapist months ago (longer ago than I was ever seeing her for). Of course, a recent event completely took away a big source of anxiety, stress and general mental-fucked-up-ed-ness. Eventually, I have to grow some courage, harvest it and deal with this, but not now.

The bad part is all these diversions I create when I'm down to keep me smiley and all. I just have no diversion creating tactics left. I have no need to plot out paintings or elaborate plans. I simply drilled holes, pounded nails and hung up my pictures, shelves, wall hangings and then went for a walk.

Maybe I'm more likely to want to create elaborate projects and schemes when it's all nippy outside and I'm cuddled under soft blankets. Not now though. It's been a draining and challenging past year, something I've salved over in queen sized blankets and Valentine's Day pouches. Fuck it all now.
Monday, August 26, 2002

If Marie and Bess are Victorian Spinsters, I'm the Tenement Wench. I've survived a bout with TB and recently contracted a parasite but still boldly polish my face, throw on my rags and show up each day at my place of work. I dated men from far off places, lived in damp rooms with bad ventilation. My family history reads nothing like the typical late-1900s/2000s suburban but more Charles Dickens. I cackle, not laugh. I belong in a soot-covered tenement, among unpaved streets and naked children. I should be having affairs with my corseted employer's husband, sex in alleys and under blankets in carriages. I'm the dirt and the grit. At least so based on the grimy diseases that afflict me.

Thursday, August 22, 2002

Juan Valdez,
I've missed you. You are no good for me, but so appealing. Your rich dark delciousness is all that I've wanted since I've fallen ill. Knowing that I should not have you made me want you all the more. So long ago I managed to break free of you, of our relationship that was suffocating me, waking in the middle of the night from your effect on me. I managed these past months, having you only occasionally. But now, as I am ravaged, unable to process you, I wanted you so badly. I hope that my weakness will not cause any ill effects; that this moment of carelessness will not break me.

I did not care that you came with milk, even though I asked for you only with sugar. I did not care that you weren't as large as I liked. I just wanted the taste of you in me. Now that I've been satisfied, I vow to not allow you to make me so silly with desire again.

Thursday, August 22, 2002

I have a parasite! Really, that's all I can say about that.
Wednesday, August 21, 2002

The article in today's Time's about the Bogle Family showed me that my extended family isn't nearly as messed up as I believe. In comparasion to a family full of crime, we are shining stars. Actually, we're improving each generation with lawyers and teachers and whatever I'm supposed to be one day. Of course, for the Bogles, having a criminal record doesn't attest to much. It means you're lousy enough of a criminal to get caught. The Sopranos are coming back in about a month. I believe I'll make some pasta & chicken and have people over for the premier like I did ages ago (two years!) when the last season started.

Of course, the real criminals in New Jersey aren't of the mafia type, but the bears: "Of this year's complaints, there were 40 instances of bears breaking into homes, and 19 attempted break-ins."
Wednesday, August 21, 2002

Lately I've been thinking about the dreams for myself I used to have. My dodgy relationship with my ex-roommate, ex-lover, current friend spurred this as he told me about things I used to say to him, years ago, when we he younger than I am now. I told him that at 25 I wanted to have a baby, I was pretty serious about this. I laugh now at this because I was less selfish and more forward thinking then than I am now.

I always wanted to live in Ireland and a Caribbean island. I've done the first and wonder if I'll do the second before I'm old and trying to fulfill my dreams before I die. I used to look for government jobs in the Virgin Islands, but now I'm working every day and hanging curtains, putting together furniture and stocking up on chicken soup when it's on sale. I used to think I should be a medical or scientific illustrator. Make the pictures in books, make the graphics in software. I forgot that dream when I went to college and only recently did I remember I ever had it.

I wonder if I've chose the right path, I wonder if I am supposed to be on the path or if I am looking for one. I think about glass ceilings and worthwhile and future career prospects. I worry if I am going to find a stable way to live and wouldn't mind if someone would take care of me so I wouldn't have to worry any more. I wonder how some people do it and am not sure if I care enough to accrue too much wealth or things. I'm not sure if I am wasting or putting to good use my mind. I think I have an inflated sense of what my mind if worth.

Mostly, I think am almost done with this point in my life. I promised myself I'll return to school next fall but I am not sure if that is right for me. I don't know ho wmuch longer I can ride out what I have here, but moving on is in order, sooner or later.
Tuesday, August 20, 2002

I woke up when the rain started last night. Maybe it was because the temperatures dropped along with the rain, maybe it was because the whir of my window fan was blocking me from fully appreciating the noise. Either way, I was wide awake. I switched off the fan and put on some clothes, listening to the rain fall, the summer bugs quiet and the world sit still. There wasn't even the whishing of tires as cars flew up the street, it was completely still. I drank some apple juice and sat quietly.

It was a moment of peace I needed, even though I simultaneously stressed about loosing sleep when I require 15 or so hours these days. I'm still sick despite my insistence last week that I was better and visited the center for tropical diseases this morning. I'm on cipro and can now survive in the event of an anthrax outbreak. I would really rather be in bed than at my desk and more than all of that I would like to have some energy to complete the decorating I left half done before vacation. Energy to take my usual after-work walks, rather than suffocating at the 34th Street station would be appreciated.

I have 4 bottles of the most delcious Haitian rum and I am dying to get drunk on one, or two. To get to appreciate the gift I brought myself. I want rum punches and calling girls that cut the bathroom line "puta" and then realizing I was lucky for not getting my ass kicked. I want to be reminded of rum buzzes on boats with boys who attack you for a kiss, leaving your feet strangly bruised and your balance frequently questioned. I want to mix it with juice, with sodas, with Malibu rum. I'd settled for some Dominican Presidente, even a Brooklyn Lager. I really want to get drunk. Being hungover must be better than this.
Tuesday, August 20, 2002

Number of airplane trips from October 1999 to July 2002: 0. Number from July 31 to August 16: 6. Tomorrow I am flying to DC to deliver a proposal. I volunteered for this job. People aren't exactly sure why I volunteered to fly to DC for the day. I am not telling them that the sound of it just appeals to me. "I have to jet down to DC to drop off a proposal." It sounds important. Except for the 6 am wake up, the 2 hours early at the airport for a hour long flight and the 3 hour secuirty check-in at whatever government agency I'll be dealing with.

I will, however, be able to finish crocheting this blanket I've been working on for well over a year. I will be able to finish my squares for charity blankets I volunterred to do weeks ago. I will be able to reconfirm my ability to fly with confidence after a lifetime of being afraid of it. I no longer require Dramamine, deep breathing or the other psycho-semantics I developed over the years. Planes go up and down, sometimes they don't but there's nothing I can do about that part.

While finally able to digest food rather than my body serving as a shuttle that turns food into liquid poo in about 15 minutes, I feel unsettled here. I am not ready to return to day-to-day. My trip introduced me to strange worlds and generally left me unsettled. I wanted home, hot water heaters, NYPD police cars and subway rides, but also wanted people waving at you every turn, flithy streets and urban pigs. There were so many brand new things to see that blinks seemed a missed opportunity, a important fragment to comprehending the world I was in.

Not that Rockwille is Haiti, but I am hapy to be on the go again, if only for a day, if only for a short while.
Thursday, August 15, 2002

I brought back from vacation various small presents for my immediate family, several tokens of gratitude for my roommate (assuming my bird is still alive), two paintings for myself and a vicious case of what they call "Haitian Happiness." This strange impoverished, completely messed up country has a sense of humor. There is nothing happy about being doubled over in an airplane, crying from pain.

I can't fully describe what it was all about, what this trip was about and the things I saw. There are millions of thoughts, thousands or stories and a complete jumble in my head to make sense of it all. They'll come, soon, once I am able to digest both metaphorically and literally.

I am supposed to return to work in 13 hours, I am supposed to show up ready to work but it seems unlikely. I thought returning to one's job the day after returning to the country was the adult-responsible thing to do. However, when people asked if I was really sure I'd be ready to return to work the next day, I figured I could always call in sick, tell them I picked up a bug if I wasn't in the mood.

As we were packing last night, I saw the prescription bottle of antibiotics in my travelling companion's bag. I chuckled to myself, thinking I was happy I did not waste $10 on a prescription I hadn't needed all trip. Until 3 am rolled around, a few hours before departure.

Things like this happen to me, I make statements that seem benign like, reassurance to prevent the worst-case senario and they happen regardless. I probably will need to call in sick tomorrow, I really do need antibiotics. When those thoughts occurred, they seemed to be impossibilies.

Senior year in college, I sent out a April's Fools email to friends and family about me not getting aid from the graduate program of choice. Funnily, a few weeks later I received notice of me getting relatively little aid that became a huge deciding factor in me not going. I predicted it by believing in it's impossibility.

I thought about a boy, without a face or name before I left. I thought about a single gesture, and how that gesture would be sweet. I met a boy who followed through on these actions. What will pan out won't be known until he calls or not when he's in the states this fall. Do I only predict the horrible or can I predict the good?
Tuesday, August 13, 2002