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Stalking
Lone Star Thomas
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phone home

4/30/02
Well, I've made it to the end of the month. Thank God, it was too hard trying to come up with a good thing a day. March was stewing, lollygagging and introspection. April was all about budding ideas, potential and promise. May will be for results. It's about time. At least I say so. Tomorrow my friend "Troll" a.k.a. Todd comes from Portland for a visit. I really only average about one houseguest (or NYC resident visitor, for that matter) a year so I hope I don't go crazy or anything. He's Troll, and I'm also Troll. It's strange how nicknames develop. I think it started because we used to work at the same place, and were self-conscious about doing too much stuff together like taking breaks, going out to lunch, etc. for fear of seeming clingy or presumptuous, troll-like, if you will. There's nothing worse than a cling-on co-worker who goes everywhere you go without your encouragement (actually, I've forgotten this feeling since I haven't made a single career-related friend in the four years I've been here. The on-the-job stalker I inadvertently created a couple years ago, that I've never chronicled because I'm too chicken [I don't write everything here, you know], doesn't count). So we didn't mind each other's company, but didn't want to be overt either, hence we became mutual trolls. I've only had one other friend where our nicknames for each other were the same, "Seiver." It started in college where somehow Kristin became Maggie, another friend Dassi, became Mike and I became Carol from "Growing Pains." I have absolutely no recollection as to why this started. Dassi wasn't really into it, but for some reason it stuck with Kristin and I. For years after college (and up until '98 when we stopped talking) she would call me Seiver, and I would refer to her as the same. It sounds odd to call and respond to Seiver, or Troll, for that matter, but it becomes natural (like when as a child we got an orange kitten and named him Garfield. It sounded strange at first, but after a while, it was like he'd always been Garfield, and the comic fat cat had stolen his name). I'm wondering if there is any commonality between my two same name friendships. Both people are INFJ's (me too), raised in West Coast suburbs (like myself), who love driving and blasting classic rock and own trucks (me as well, but I've never owned a pick-up), are non-heterosexual (not really me), and a chunk older than I am (somewhere around 8-11 years difference) like we'd never be in grade school together at the same time. Are these factors a recipe for shared nicknames? Anything's possible.

Good thing: Forget today (it's technically 12:06am anyway). Tomorrow is free ice cream scoop day at Baskin Robbins! And my location is actually participating. I missed Ben and Jerry's giveaway a couple weeks ago (and I don't live near one anyway) so this is a must-do. James thinks I love torment and claimed I would be disappointed if I showed up tomorrow and there was no line, no screaming kids, every flavor was in stock and everyone was smiling and polite. And you know what? He's right. There'd better be a badly behaved mob scene, dammit. My heart would freak out if there was a free anything in Brooklyn that went without a glitch.
Mon: I noticed that the Round-up I'd sprayed on my weeds on that ungodly hot 96 degree day a while ago had actually taken effect. Last week the weeds looked as healthy as ever. What a pleasant surprise.
Sun: I spent the day at home, which was unsettling. OK, that's not good. Um, I made pork and chipotle tacos and they were pretty good.

4/27/02
Thursday was one of those pointlessly trying days. I was woken up at 7am by the dad upstairs yelling about who knows what and couldn't get back to sleep even though I was really tired. So after goofing around on the internet, I settled into a daytime TV coma only to have all the usual shows preempted by breaking news about this building blast in Chelsea. I wasn't so much bothered that my judge shows were interrupted, I was more disturbed by the address of the accident site, 121 W. 19th St. This sounded suspiciously close to where I was supposed to have a job interview the next day, 625 Sixth Ave.. Instead of worrying about the victims of the explosion, I was selfishly concerned with whether or not a potential employment opportunity was still on, but that's how I am. With my luck, the one interview I managed to finagle in three months would just happen to be in a disaster zone. Out of how many thousands of blocks in NYC, it had to be this one? Then I went to get online to see just how close the two addresses really were and couldn't dial up, my phone was being weird. There was a dial tone, but I couldn't dial. Instead I got a recording about calling 911 if there was an emergency and calling my service provider if I wanted my phone turned on. Turned on? I totally felt a coronary coming on. This stuff makes me crazy. Last time my phone went out, it was 17 degrees outside, this time it was a rain storm. I tried finding a 25 cent pay phone, and the first one stole two quarters, then I realized that though the Verizon ones are 50 cents, you can call customer service for free. I quickly found out that my phone had been turned off because I owed $183. I had no idea. I'm not a non-bill payer. I always pay my rent and utilities on time, even when I'm broke. I got more angry, partly because I'm easily wound-up and partly because I was soaking wet by this point. Aren't you supposed to get warnings before they turn off your phone? I had never received a letter or anything. It turns out they'd been sending my bills to 203 31st, not 206 31st, my correct address. It did occur to me some time ago that I hadn't received a bill in a while, but I didn't give it much thought. This didn't make much sense since a couple months ago when I had to have repair guys come out and fix my phone line, they knew the correct address. I mean, they showed up at my door no problem. How did they screw up the address between then and now? Anyway, they turned on the phone, but I had to promise to pay the outrageous $183 (that's not even long distance. I'm always baffled by how high my phone bill is. It's been no more than three months since I received a bill so that averages to $61/month, which is obscene if you ask me) by next week. On the way back, I made a mental note of 203 31st ST, diagaonlly across the street from my apt. There was this elderly babushka type, scarf on head, glaring out the front window at me. I silently cursed her and decided to hold her responsible for my phone being turned off. Later, when I finally got online, the company I was interviewing with's website was down, which made me nervous. Bad omens all around.

Good thing Thurs: This is a stretch, but sometimes you have to dig deep for good things. Even though one pay phone ate two quarters, it spit one back for no reason. So technically I only lost 25 cents, not 50.
Fri: The interview wasn't cancelled, and went well. The windows on one side of the office were shattered though.
Today: It's 4pm and I just got dressed. That's not a good thing. I'll have to wait and see what happens with the rest of the day.

4/24/02
I saw the most disturbing thing on TV the other night (no, not Bernie Mac taking on homosexuality). Lord knows I'm a sucker for 'tards, but "Pet Practitioners" on HBO Family was too much, even for me. It was an awards show, hosted by Mary Tyler Moore, for animals who've helped humans. The audience was filled with teary-eyed women and their pets and small children. Awards went to a rabbit who helped burn victim kids and cats who kept the elderly company. This was fine, a bit sad, a little amusing. See, these are furry, cute mammals, and it makes sense that petting the cuddly creatures could be therapeutic. What totally threw me for a loop was "Splash" the huge (well, in my eyes. Water beasts freak the hell out of me. It was probably 2-3 ft. wide, but it may as well have been 20 ft. in my mind) stingray who coaxed a cerebral palsy child out of his wheelchair and subsequently out of his shell. Jesus Christ. First off, it was creepy. Secondly, it was mildly touching--this crazy kid genuinely seemed to enjoy Splash's company. The kid hates to get out of his wheelchair, but if he knows he's going to feed Splash he gets excited and walks a little (with help), preparing his (I think it's a he) food, getting the bucket etc. The scene where he puts a tiny fish in the stingray's mouth, accompanied by "Splish Splash, I Was Taking a Bath" in the background, is priceless. Splash is all splayed out, up against the side of the aquarium, head (if you can call it a head) poking up, mouth (a freaky slit-like orifice on his flat underside) moving. Then, this long, thin, alien-feeler of a tongue pokes out like six inches! I almost shit myself. So scary. And to top it off, the kid kisses the slippery bastard. All this grotesqueness, and with that song as a soundtrack, it was too much. I almost think I imagined it. Luckily, the show airs again...oops, tonight, and I missed it (ah, 11:45pm West Coast--you still have time if you're insane enough to pay for the HBO Family channel). OK, it's on next Tues, and I have to remember to record it. Nevermind that I don't have cable or a VCR at my disposal.

Good thing: Getting a quick response to my proposal for a short "Time Out NY" piece. Response is the key word. There was interest in my idea, but I don't know if it's going to go anywhere or not, so I'm not holding my breath. Ugh, that sounds so negative and the point was to find good things every day for the entire month of April.

Wed: Getting an interview for that job that I'm totally perfect for (I think) on Fri. Now I'm stressed, but it's good stress, not bad stress.

4/22/02
Do you ever realize that you don't really know what a word means? I'll look stuff up if I don't recognize it, but generally most of what you read uses an accessible vocabulary (not sure if that old fact about newspapers being written at an 8th grade level is or ever was true) or you can guess from context. But I just read a New York Times headline "After an Age of Digital Hubris, Wired's Editor Is Still a Believer" and it struck me that I was fuzzy on the definition of hubris. And after I read the definition, it became clear that I had no idea what the word meant. "Exaggerated pride or self-confidence" it turns out--one of my most loathed traits--this is a word I should've been using for years (but will refrain from for at least a month or so, as to not sound like I've been reading the dictionary). I feel so uneducated, maybe I should take up Reader's Digest's Word Power. Good thing: it's too early to tell--I haven't done anything except drink coffee and watch "Judge Mathis."

Sun: I can't think of anything. It was a rainy neutral day spent watching TV and reading. Oh god, I saw the most painfully cliche, storyline seemingly crafted by a 12-year-old girl movie on cable, "Sweet November." The truly scary part is that this is the third time I've caught myself watching it. There's something about Keanu Reeves and Charlize Theron playing a working stiff meets free spirit, a la Dharma and Greg, that's hideously enticing. I couldn't stop laughing, and yet I couldn't turn the channel either.
Sat: James wanted to go to Philadelphia to get cheap cigarettes (they're going up to $7/pack here, while they're only $2.80 in Philly). I'm not supposed to be smoking, but went along for the ride. Of course we got cheesesteaks. I also picked up a six-pack of these Amish pecan buns that are amazingly good (I just ate one). Sat. night we checked out a new S. Williamsburg bar, Boogaloo, that I expected to be horribly hipsterish and obnoxious, but was really fun and laid back. (We, and a cute Japanese couple who happened to be sitting next to the restrooms, spied on this icky girl with an apron top and tight, faded jeans getting eaten-out in the bathroom. I don't think the grotesque couple realized the green, round window in the women's stall, while frosted, is still see-through to the public.) They'd turned a long, narrow basement apt. like mine into a mod drinking palace. I guess all it takes is carpentry skills and a chunk of cash to perk up a place.
Fri: Spent the evening in Sunset Park,which is a rarity. It's tough convincing anyone to come out and visit, even my boyfriend (it only worked this time because I live closer to the Philly route and we wanted to get an early start the next morning). It was a tacos and Trivial Pursuit night (if anyone loves games in the NYC area, please let me know, no one will play them with me. My mom [who also won't play games with me since I get too "overbearing"] sent me a millennium Trivial Pursuit version for Christmas 1999 and this was only the second time I was able to crack open the box. It's very frustrating and I have to practically bribe folks to play with me. Life should not be like that.
Thurs: I bought my yearly pair of cheap, summer slip-on sandals. I just realized that every summer since '99 I've purchased a pair that really only hold up until the following summer. '99: $14.99 black platform-ish sandals from Rainbow, '00: $9.99 tacky, black old lady slippers from Bradlees that I only bought because my other shoes were killing me that day (that I just tossed out last week), '01: $12.99 green Old Navy thongs (I've always said thongs, not flip flops, but now you think underwear when you hear the word), '02: $12.99 black, glittery Rainbow slides. I threw out (well, bagged-up) a bunch of clothes last week, which made me realize I've been in NYC a long freakin' time, four years in a month. I'm to the point where clothes I bought the first year I lived here are out of style, fit poorly, etc. and need to be gotten rid of. Yeah, I know some people only wear things for like one season and they're done with them, but I've always managed to make things work for as long as possible. I always get nostalgic and sappy when I get rid of things, but I really feel like I'm about to make a fresh start. I think serious, big life changes are very near, and that's a great, rare feeling, like you're on the brink of some amazing revelation. It's hard to believe I've been in NYC ('98-'02) the same amount of time that I spent from graduating college to when I moved here ('94-'98). My early to mid 20s were so stagnant, while the mid to late years whizzed by with a million things happening in between. I'm not sure if that's a function of age or location. Probably the latter, friends and I have agreed that one Portland year is equivalent to four New York months. At least three times as much stuff can happen in any given period of time. Does that make me age three times as fast, too? God, I hope not.

4/17/02
Well, I'm finally able to live out my fantasy of sitting in my backyard in pajamas, sipping coffee and typing away. What I didn't anticipate was waking up to 90 degree weather (and giant bees--they're making me nervous). If it's this hot at 10am, what's it going to do this afternoon when heat usually peaks? Yuck, I hate hot weather. I was excited last week to turn off the heat because it's so damn expensive, and now it's stifling enough to use air conditioning. You just can't win. I experienced what seemed like a spring fever instant crush the other night (but apparently spring is already over and summer's in full swing). I haven't felt that gooey in the stomach sensation in ages. In fact, I'd thought that maybe I was incapable of it, or that there just weren't any worthy guys here. We had an editor from Salon.com as a guest speaker in my class, and from the second he walked in the door there was this weird vibe, like I knew him or should know him or something. And when he started talking, I realized the attraction: familiarity. He had what I've been told I have, "a west coast accent," was sarcastic, funny, but not snotty. He was self-deprecating, making jokes about being old and out of touch (He could've been anywhere from 28-34--I'm starting to appreciate old persons' humor more and more, seeing as I'm no spring chicken). This is all very un-NYC. People here always feel the urge to bowl you over with personality and confidence. Humbleness or self-effacement being weak qualities in need of beating-out. This guy used to be a music writer (very obvious...and cliche to boot) in San Francisco and used adjectives like twee. He was wearing one of those olive green, '70s button-up shirts that every single freakin' guy of my era in S.F., Seattle and Portland owns (I even have one in my closet right now, though I don't think I've worn it in years--too thrift store trashy for any self-repsecting city girl), though he'd added his own cufflinks in an effort to spruce-up the second-hand appearance. It was the strangest experience. I knew nearly nothing about the guy, but from voice, demeanor, background and style he fit into a formula stored somewhere in my brain, conjuring up crush mode. He's probably a dope or a jerk. I've never ever dated this type, it's the type I used to always like, but never got along with in a romantic way. Ah, Quasi just came on my cd player (it's shuffling), so Northwest. I don't know, NW made me sick, but NYC isn't all that either. I got nostalgic there for a second, thinking about boys and silly spring fever. If I weren't in a relationship that I'm still happy about, I could see myself doing all sorts of stalker-ish things like coming up with a million story ideas and pitching them to this guy in order to impress him and win him over. Jeez, I should do that anyway since I seem to lack motivation professional writing-wise. There's a theory here, stalking as key to success. Really. Humans are capable of all sorts of things when trying to attract or win over the opposite sex that they'd never do alone. I'm really at my most productive when I'm attempting to woo the unresponsive.

Good thing: I've only been up for 45 min. so it's hard to say. Oh, I have a phone interview at 3:30 for some intimidating (but well paying) corporate research type job. God, what if I have to start wearing suits or something. The tide is turning so conservative. Those 90K jobs for kids with tattoos and leather pants are becoming few and far between. I always thought that overpaying for youthful talent was a crock of shit anyway, but pantyhose and blazers for a fraction of the pay is depressing too.
Tues: Some Muslim woman (I'm assuming as much from the head covering and shawl-thing--pardon my ignorance of proper names) befriending me outside a deli with, "Are you new to the neighborhood?" Odd question. I must stick out. I hesitantly told her no. It turned out she wanted to bitch about the lack of decent grocery stores in the area. No shit. I got started on banks and drug stores. We both agreed it was a nasty ghetto, but affordable. She wanted to know who are city councilman was to write a letter. I happen to know it's Angel Rodriguez and he was (or is in the process of) being arrested for extortion, not because I generally keep up on community news, but because I had to write an op ed for class and chose the issue of a new Fairway grocery store opening on the waterfront (in Red Hook, not my neighborhood. They irritatingly lump Red Hook and Sunset Park together, even though they don't even touch each other--it's because they're both dumps). I was outraged because I'd rather have the IKEA that was shot down last year. It turns out Mr. Rodriguez was given money in exchange for his concession on the Fairway plan. I didn't tell the woman any of this because it doesn't really matter much. But now that I think about it, it all sort of relates--improving underserved neighborhoods with fancy supermarkets and such.
Mon: The weird crush on the stupid Salon editor.
Sun: Saw "Y Tu Mama Tambien." Not sure if I loved it, but it was likeable enough.
Sat: "Y Tu Mama Tambien" was sold out, so we had tapas and too much sangria (I was drunk and tired by 10pm) at Pipa across the street. Who needs movies when you've got food and booze.
Fri: Not a good thing: I totally food poisoned myself with that chicken I said was still good. It clearly wasn't. Let's just say I spent the whole day and night (and next morning) in the bathroom. It's a miracle I made it all the way to Manhattan on the subway without a mishap.

Alright, the sun is starting to creep towards my shade and I'm all sticky. I can only deal with sunlight if it's indirect. Time to go back inside.

4/11/02
While on the way to the laundromat yesterday, I had this bright idea that this morning I'd wake up bright and early and take my laptop (it's not really mine, but I have it semi-indefinitely) and cup of coffee out back and enjoy the sudden burst of sunny, nice weather. I think an initial side effect of daylight savings time is a case of spring fever giddiness. I was finally able to turn off the heat and even open a window a crack, though I don't have faith the balmy weather will stick--it was 28 degrees just last weekend. The backyard is a dump, but not as dumpy as it was a few weeks ago. I do have a found table that I painted green and some white folding IKEA chair, so it's a feasible idea. But for some reason I woke up at 6am this morning all wound up and unable to relax (it might've had something to do with this temp job that I thought might call me. That's another annoyance in itself. I called about an ad yesterday first thing in the morning and was told to immediately email my resume because I sounded like a good match and might be able to set up an interview the same day [this is for a temp library job, which only shows how low I've sunk--six months ago this same job would've made me barf]. I never heard back and was pissed. I rarely check my Hotmail junk mail folder, because it's junk, duh, but around midnight last night I did and my message to this agency had bounced back. I threw a fit and re-sent it [using the correct address, which I hadn't done the first time because I'm retarded]. Anyway, they didn't call me all day, and to be honest, I've lost interest.] This wasn't what I meant by bright and early. I was thinking somewhere in the 9am-10am range. I spent from 6am-7am trying to get back to sleep to no avail. Apparently 7am is when the family upstairs wakes up. I was treated to a loud serenade of Guns and Roses's "Patience" by the father, then some good raucous playing with the baby, whose name I've deduced is Theresa, as he must've said it in a goo goo voice at least 25 times. Suddenly, I felt very, very tired and next thing I knew it was 11am, not all that warm (high 50s) and my brilliant plan to write and laze about al fresco in my pajamas didn't seem all that exciting anymore. Whatever, I need to get ready to go out. James and some friends went to a Knicks game, which I guess I could've gone to, but there were issues over tickets and I thought it would be a guys night out thing so politely declined, then the other two guys got all weird and spatty over each wanting to bring a girl (there's only one extra ticket, four total). It's dumb. But I'm supposed to meet up for drinks afterwards, and I figure the game will end around 9:30pm.

Good thing: I'll be damned if I can think of one. Hmm...well, the leftover chicken and Asian basil I bought last week for a different dish were still OK today so I was able to make gai pad kra pao. Also, I found these odd neon green stockings at Grey-Shel, the freaky 99 cent store in South Slope. From the package they looked pretty ancient, '60s, maybe '70s, and the sizing was unclear: numbers like 9,10,11, I wasn't sure if they meant shoe size or dress size, but dresses wouldn't be odds and evens both. I bought the biggest size I could find, 11, because I'm big and you've got to play it safe with sizing from other eras. I thought they were tights, but they turned out to be what I think were intended as thigh highs (though they barely made it over my knee) to be worn with garters. What I can't figure out is the text on the thick top part, "Mod Look for short skirts." They seem incredible unsuited for short skirts, unless you intend for the tops and garters to show. I can't imagine anyone with any sense of decency wearing them with a short skirt and getting away with it, or maybe my legs are incredibly mammoth causing an abnormal fit. I may never know.
Wednesday: I think when I don't go to the gym I'm more creative. Seriously. I get all tired and sweaty and my brain fogs over. I didn't go wed. and got all these great ideas for decoupage/paintings using my huge collection of E.T. trading cards. I even have ones in French that I'd nearly forgotten about.

4/9/02
"How ya doin'?" are the words I sometimes hear when walking past the Texaco near my apt. I'm never sure if they're meant for me and up until recently I'd never looked for a definitive answer. I hate it when you hear a question like that. Are you supposed to respond? What if it's not for you? I chose to ignore it the first couple times I heard it, though worried I might be deemed a slut since that seems to be the incongruous insult of choice these days. Not wanting to seem rude, the last time I heard the gravely, Brooklyn-esque words, "How ya doin'?" I did a stealthy sideways glance and gave a half-smile so as not to seem rude. The guy was a Hispanic attendant in his 30s with glasses, but he was leaning near the window of a car--maybe he was greeting the driver or passengers. Not wanting to look like a fool, I decided the half-smile was the best tactic and a response wasn't needed. Then today like clockwork, there it was again, "How ya doin'?" so I turned my head fully this time, the guy was just sitting on this box thing and I still wasn't sure if he was talking to me. I suppose I could pull a "You talkin' to me?" to clarify things, but that's not really my style. It's starting to make me crazy. That's the way I walk almost every day, so I can't avoid him, but I don't feel like telling him how I'm doing either. There used to be this guy who worked at the gas station a block from my apt. in NW Portland that had the cheapest cigarettes. Whenever I'd approach, he'd say "here comes trouble." That didn't bother me so much. I guess because it didn't demand a response, and I was face to face requiring a service, not just passing by on the sidewalk. What can you do?

Good thing of the day: Seeing the restaurant that we ate at in London, St. John, featured on A Cook's Tour.
Monday: Deep fryer madness part 2: Beignets.
Sunday: Deep fryer madness part 1: Empanadas (plus a totally over the top goodie discovered in Red Hook: deep-fried calzones. Ah, my arteries).
Saturday: Birthday Party (not for me, duh).
Friday: Danielson Famile at Knitting Factory.

4/4/02
This is the grossest thing. Every so often my kitchen sink will bubble-up, make loud noises and regurgitate old food. This isn't the gross part. I think this is relatively common and it hasn't ever bugged me much. It used to just be green spinach-y bits and black crunchy crap, but last week I noticed a few strands of spaghetti had made their way into my sink. I hadn't eaten spaghetti in quite some time (though I had eaten fettucine relatively recently) and figured it must have been sitting in the pipes for a while. Then yesterday there was bloated, bleached-out, water-logged elbow macaroni in the sink. I never eat macaroni. Someone else's macaroni (and spaghetti too, now that I think about it--must be carbohydrate addicts upstairs) had made its way into my apartment, and that's gross. Last night I was watching "Good Eats" and do you know what Alton Brown was making? Macaroni and cheese. Later that evening Jessica called, and you know what she'd just made for dinner? Yes, macaroni and cheese. I hate freakin' macaroni and cheese, and now it's haunting me.

Good Thing: I was finally able to use the mortar and pestle I got for Christmas, and made green curry paste from scratch.

Complaint that inevitably follows each good thing: It's quite the endeavor. I was going to make it last night before I went to bed, but out of courtesy decided to wait, as it's super loud when you're pounding the ingredients and I didn't want to be rude to the upstairs neighbors at 1am. But at 4am they let their one-year-old who sleeps in their room directly above my bed, scream and cry bloody murder for a solid 20 minutes (I don't even mean regular crying, but that horrible screechy, angry caterwauling that leaves them hoarse and choking and will stop for like five seconds while they cough, then starts up again). This goes on all throughout the day, but it's particularly unnerving when you're trying to sleep. If I can hear wailing so loud it's like having a baby next to me, I can't fathom how they can tune it out. I know that's just what babies do, and that's why I don't have one. So, next time I feel like mortar and pestling in the middle of the night, I think I will.

4/3/02
I'm starting to feel sort of the same way I felt when I first moved here: jobless, aimless, unmotivated, negative, anti-social, wondering when my luck will change. Disgusting and pathetic, basically. OK, that's an exaggeration, but I am starting feel crazy. The major difference between then and now is that I'm almost four years older, so it's really freakin' disheartening. I mean, what gives? At least in '98 everyone here was doing great, I was the fucked-up anomaly. But now, no one seems to be doing much of anything, at least job-wise, maybe life-wise, too. The city is stagnant. It's odd, I was reading a few other online journals (I refuse to call them blogs, yuck) last night and it seemed like they were all about waiting, bad stuff, then a sudden change of fortune in the past few weeks. But these were all west coast sites, I'm not sure how long it'll take for their winds of change to blow to NYC. Anyway, I think when I first started doing this site that I would try and mention one good thing a day to keep from becoming a total nasty brat. I don't think it lasted more than a few weeks. But for the month of April, in tribute to that equally dead-end period of time, I will add a daily fancy-tickling tid-bit, no matter how meager. I have not left the house yet, so today's will come later.

Retroactive Recounting

April 1: At the out-of-control Chinese buffet, among the preserved egg congee and spicy tripe, was a bin of little, golden fried potato cakes about the size of silver dollars with two eyes and a grin cut out of each. Smiley-faced potato products served with ketchup on Easter are completely fancy-tickling.

April 2: My local Rite Aid finally started carrying Sally Hansen Chrome Nail Makeup. Never mind that it's been at every other Rite Aid (even the one in New Orleans), and in better colors, for months. Oops, that was a complaint (two, really). Well, at least I'm trying to be positive.

So, I thought the 30+ walk to Chinatown would be a nice diversion. All morning I couldn't figure out why I was so hot, it wasn't till I opened my door to leave that I realized it was almost 80 degrees. I put back my jacket, was glad I didn't have on tights, but did bring my umbrella because it was that steamy/humid kind of warmth where you know it's eventually going to pour. I almost made it all the way to 60th before the storm hit. I don't care about the rain (I'm from Portland, right?) or even the 30 degree drop in temperature (it went down to 47 in a matter of hours), but I can't stand wind. I was drenched and chilled, but the real issue was my skirt kept getting blown up. That, and the panhandler who called me a slut (I can never figure out why guys use that term in the wrong context--he could've called me a stingy bitch or cheap cunt for saying "sorry" and not giving him money, but I don't see how my reluctance to cough up change makes me promiscuous), were really the only two annoyances of the day. That's not bad, I guess.

Today's uplifting tidbit: Finding pancit noodles made from ube (purple yam). What I can't figure out is the URL on the bag. It takes you to a restaurant in the Philippines called Via Mare, but never makes mention of retail products or more specifically, these noodles.