april 04

++++++++++++

phone home

4/29/04
A couple weeks ago I noticed an unusually large amount of traffic on my website. Not a ton, but more than the random hits here and there that I usually get. I traced the links back to some French message boards. It too me a minute to figure out what it was all about since the links weren’t to a specific message, but the homepage. I guess I should’ve guessed the topic based upon the image in the upper left of the screen, but I’m not always as swift as I like to pretend. It turned out to be a diaper fetish site, which was sort of amusing. I’m only assuming that someone linked to photos from my 27th birthday party where a couple friends and myself wore Depends and peed ourselves just for the heck of it. It definitely wasn’t dirty sexy, it was merely something that had to be done for the sake of doing it. Damn Frenchy pervs. So, my cat didn’t die. In fact she made such a remarkable recovery that I’m starting to see why her previous owners must’ve given her to pound--she’s the biggest pest on earth. I can’t take the constant crying, scratching, harassing. It’s like being around a needy baby, unless I let her sit on my lap she wails. This is a problem because I have so much to do these days. Just typing, or brushing my teeth or doing dishes has become an ordeal because the cat needs to be at face level or else she jumps, clings to my legs and meows relentlessly. I’m thinking that maybe I’m just out of touch with kittens, since the last time I had one was ten years ago (that’s a really scary thought since it was right after I graduated from college, and well that makes me ten years older than when I graduated from college). Is this how new moms in their 40s feel? At 21, attention-starved baby cats might be cute, but at 31 it’s seriously trying my patience. Clearly, if felines have the ability to make me this nuts, a human child is probably not in my eminent future. By the way, I got my free Baskin & Robbins scoop last night, at the location inside the freaky Gowanus Pathmark with a parking lot. It really wasn’t the trauma I’d expected, but the Puss In Boots choice really wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. And I had such high expectations for free Shrek 2 flavors.

4/22/04
Thankfully, I was informed that The Gresham Outlook still does have a crime blotter online. Two of my favorite recent tid-bits include a guy whose dog was murdered in a hot tub (not terribly funny in itself, but the details are priceless) and a guy who was caught trying on lingerie and jacking-off in a dressing room (once again, the best part is not so much the act, but the clerk describing how she knew what was going on behind the door). So, last Friday after work I adopted a cat from the NY Animal Control, or whatever it is, the acronym is NYACC. I don't know why, I got on this rampage because they had this new breed alert service where you could specify what you were looking for (siamese, in my case) and you'd get two emails a day updating you. And the cats go fast, one that might appear in the morning will be gone by evening. So New York, right? Even adopting (and paying $100 for the privilege) is competitive. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a crazy cat lady, I just haven't had my own pet in the nearly six years I've lived here, and felt it was high time since I'm now in a large space. So, there were two cats I was interested in, a chocolate point boy and a lynx point mix girl (sort of siamese-y and stripey at the same time). The girl was super friendly and wild and loud and jumping around, so I decided to take her. Fine. But now she's sick with what I've deduced is an upper respiratory infection, a.k.a. a cold, which isn't a huge deal, they sneeze and are listless and sleep a lot. The only problem arises if they won't eat because they'll die. And this cat absolutely won't eat, or even drink water, and hasn't since Monday. And she was already skinny as can be when I first got her and she was lively. I don't want to be spazzy about a cat (it drives me crazy when people I know get all obsessed with their cat's health problems) but I can't deal with a new dead cat. How can you not drink or eat for three days? I have a vet appt. tomorrow, and I don't suppose she'll drop dead between now and then, but it's making me very nervous, especially money-wise. I get a free vet visit, but if they have to do all sorts of things to her I don't know how I'm going to pay for it. I should've just stuck with the chubby, hearty all-American cats. I can already tell this one is going to be nerve-wracking. Urgh, and the next week and a half is going to be crazy with end of semester final projects and tests. On a lighter note, I have planned a party for May 1 when all should be calm-ish. Here's the invite. Scary, right? But in a good way.

4/16/04
I've been bummed out ever since I stopped being able to access the "Gresham Outlook" crime blotter online. I guess Gresham would be my hometown. It's not just that the crimes were amusing, but the style it was written in, like someone was taking it very seriously, every little non-important detail would be included. A vandalism report wouldn't just leave it at general destruction of property, it would go on to describe how mustard had been squeezed into a garage door. Most of the crimes involved forging prescription drugs, car break-ins, bar fights and shoplifting. A disproportionate amount of shoplifting went down at the Rockwood Fred Meyer (God, I miss Fred Meyer--now that's a store), which is probably only amusing to me. Rockwood didn't used to be considered Gresham when I was a kid, it was this busted white trash, heavy metal, crystal meth district on the outskirts of Portland that apparently is still hesher central. Actually, I think it's all Mexican now. We used to think it was clever to call it Rockerwood. With NYC, the crime blotter is OK, but it's not terribly funny, in fact it's frequently gruesome. So, my fascination here is with fires. I'm so disturbed by the amount of fires that occur on a daily basis that I've been meaning to start a fire-watch webpage. I'm not joking, I don't get how there can be so many fires, some are arson, but most are random. And no one seems to think it's odd. Just a few months ago, work study students had their building burn down in the West Village. My friend Deanne had a fire fighter ax chopping and busting into her room just about a month ago (she highly advises to always wear something to bed, as being discovered naked by one of New York's Bravest can be embarrassing) and had to be taken out in a cherry picker. An old lady was killed in this particular blaze, this is serious stuff. So, this morning I was thrilled to see a story in the NY Post that combined the best of both worlds, a silly, pointless crime that involved firefighters (this link will be gone in a week, so get it while it's hot). It's all in the detail, if they hadn't added the bits about his specifically throwing cans of chicken soup and Chef Boyardee, it would be a nothing story. But then, I'm way too easily amused. I can still remember getting the biggest kick when I was a medical file clerk in college and read a report of some baker falling and slipping on blueberries while working at Costco. I don't know, mentioning Costco and blueberries specifically just put me over the edge.

4/15/04
Do you ever get the feeling you're a lazy visionary with brilliance just waiting to be tapped? No, me either. But there are times, very few and far between, when it's like all your amazing thoughts and ideas and being realized…by other people. There was a spell in like '98-00 where I was obsessed with making a book about candy. It wasn't going to be a work of literature, maybe more of a history, possibly anecdotal, highly illustrated. This was before Food Network and all those Unwrapped shows where they go to factories and give behind the scenes glimpses of food production. After only living here a few weeks I met a guy at a party and out of the blue he started telling me about his desire to make a book about candy. Seriously. We exchanged numbers (not in that way, he wasn't straight) but I have phone-phobia and nothing materialized. During this same summer I was doing an NYU publishing course where we had to come up with book ideas, and of course I used my candy theme and titled it "Wunderbar." No one was impressed. (The two hits were a book about 101 things to do with ramen, and a stupid thing called Phoebe Does ____, which would be a travel guide where some free spirited college girl would go to different countries, have crazy adventures off the beaten path and tell you where to go while there.) A few years later, during my brief stint at a failed food website, my coworker/supervisor mentioned unprompted how much she'd like to do a book about candy. We were both totally enthusiastic about the idea, but it never amounted to anything, I (and everyone else) was shortly laid off, and I'm not the kind who keeps in touch, especially with the weirdo vibe at that place (a bunch of the staff all went to work for Fresh Direct afterward and no one ever mentioned job opps to me, which was off-putting). And if there's anyone I should be worried about it’s this person because she's a go-getter type who knows everyone, and her work has recently started showing up the "New York Times" Dining section, which I guess is like a food writing pinnacle or something. Candy had always been on the back burner in my mind, but being me, I've never acted upon these instincts. Then at a Columbus Circle Barnes & Noble, I'm not sure how long ago (but I do remember the reason I was in the area was to see “The Truth About Charlie," so whenever that movie came out) I saw “Sweets: A History of Candy.” This irked me. Shortly afterward, I heard about “ Candy and Me: A Love Story,” and was angry. Last week I read about Candyfreak: A Journey Through the Chocolate Underbelly of America and well, simply felt defeated. Those are the three I was familiar with, but as it turns out, have been two more candy books published since Oct. 2003: Candy: The Sweet History and How Sweet It Is (and Was): The History of Candy. What the fuck is going on?! What a thoughtful, rational person would do is actually read these books. I have found that when I'm thrown into an instant weird jealous/spiteful/curious ball of rage over something I know very little about, that it's good to actually study it because often it's not how it appears on the surface. Like these three books are written by totally different people who have totally different insights and approaches. It's doubtful that I'm anything like any of them and that if given the chance, I would've written anything they did (actually, “Candyfreak” seems the closest to something I might attempt, so I should like it, not loathe it, right? Um, hate the game and not the playa?) The only common thread is candy. And really, when it comes down to it, who doesn't like candy? Ok, so I'm going to read all of them. I'm not going to like doing it, it's the opposite of candy, like eating what's good for you. Reading these blasted books is going to be eating salad with no dressing. Taking my lumps and giving other their props will not be easy, it will take some soul searching and analysis. The foremost question is what do these authors have that I don't? Let’s take a look:

Candy and Me: A Love Story The author has a website. So do I. I mean, it’s not a real website, it’s a promotional tool for her two books, she uses her name as the URL. There’s a clue, she’s already written a book, and I have not. But her first book was a compilation of letters sent between her and a friend over a two-year period. How hard was that to write? That I could do. She was born on the east coast. Not me. She attended Yale. Not me. She’s worked in publishing (could be a key factor here) for over a decade. Not me. We both live in Brooklyn. But that’s nothing. If you look at book jacket blurbs, like 85% of them say the author lives with his/her wife/husband in Brooklyn. Clearly living in Brooklyn, having written letters to a friend during periods of you life and having a website is not enough to qualify you to write a candy book. She is on Entertainment Weekly's IT LIST of the 100 Most Creative People in Entertainment (2003). I am afraid this is going to be a very difficult book to get through. I am taking deep breaths as I type.

Sweets: A History of Candy This is the only one I’ve actually flipped through. I recall being relieved because it looked dazzling, but was on the dry side. The author’s British, duh. He calls himself "the first international confectionery historian," which is a bit presumptuous. I said he was British, right? I think this is less personal essay, more hardcore facts and quirky history. I could stomach it. So, what separates me from Tim Richardson? Well, first off I’m not British. He’s not a nobody, he writes for hot shit design mag “Wallpaper.” I don’t write for any hot shit publications. My father wasn’t a dentist and my grandfather didn’t work for a toffee company. Alas, I have zero in common with him. If only I were interested in all things automotive--my father was a mechanic, gramps was a truck driver (who was on disability as long as I knew him. Hey, maybe I could write about not working, there’s a fascination).

Candyfreak: A Journey Through the Chocolate Underbelly of America Steve Almond has a last name that can be an ingredient in candy. I do not have such a surname. He was born with a candy book writing edge. He is a short story writer who had critics devise the term “dick lit” to describe his supposedly dirty/smart style (I don’t know this first hand). I guess I could try writing clit lit, but I wouldn’t want to. He teaches creative writing. I dropped out of the free-benefit-of-working-at-a-university creative writing class I took last summer (people were always crying and talking about their dead dads, fuck that). He went to the Idaho Spud factory. I freakin’ love Idaho Spuds, it’s one of the only good things to come out of the N.W. He is a depressive hypochondriac. Heck, I’ve got that in spades. Steve Almond also has a website with a URL that’s his name. Like I said, no name in my URL. Is being convinced you have cancer, and having a thing for Idaho Spuds enough to make one a successful candy book author?

The next installment of where-did-I-go-wrong torment will be entitled, “Letterpress: What's Old is New (and really trendy).” I have an oddball B.F.A. in Printmaking, love and am experienced in using a letterpress, and yet every yahoo on the planet is now producing letterpress stationery like it’s something they just invented themselves. Fuck you, and you, and you. Oh my, I seem testy today. Actually, all their stuff looks good, that’s why they need to fuck off. This is so much more fun than writing my research paper about marketing library services.

4/13/04
Urgh, I just got up, got dressed, made coffee and everything, and got so sweaty and queasy I had to call in sick to my internship. I knew this was going to happen. I had the past three days totally free, and had plans to be super-productive, get caught up with assignments and whip this apt. into shape. And then I got so sick I couldn’t move around without starting to puke or crap. At first I thought it was just that I’m rapidly aging and can’t even go out drinking two nights in a row anymore. Friday night I did this librarian get together thing that we do maybe every few months or so with library coworkers from jobs past and present. I was freaked out because this one woman who never struck me as terribly heterosexual, showed up with her newborn. That she reproduced with a man wasn’t the weird part, that she brought a three-week old to a bar was. And yes, I’m one of those people who isn’t in touch with natural things like breastfeeding. It was also strange to hear that one of the former coworkers had just applied for the job I interviewed for last Thurs. at a magazine trade association. The job doesn’t require a masters, which is a big demarcation in the library world, the MLS is such a rotten, pain in the ass, waste of time, that people make a big deal about having one. In libraries there is a serious line between professionals (the advanced degreed) and paraprofessionals (nobodies who will never advance). Though in the corporate world it’s a little different because not everyone comes from traditional libraries, and experience is more important. What it comes down to is a matter of pay. I was hesitant about this job because of the non MLS requirement, but specified a decent salary (at least compared to what I’m used to in academia, and as it turned out I asked for $5-10,000 more in my cover letter than the woman who has been out of school for like eight years and also applied for the job). The other woman who just graduated in Dec. got a university job, and now must start on her second masters, which is what they make you do at academic libraries, and then they still don’t pay crap. So, anyway, I was just so-so on this job, I honestly think I’m more skilled. But after hearing from everyone how bad the market is, it’s starting to sound a lot better. I’m starting to get scared about entering the real world. Sat. night it was Jessica’s birthday, so I guess I whooped it up a bit. I wasn’t surprised to feel crappy Sunday. Maybe I am just getting old, six drinks (my usual) never killed me, especially when you consider that amount is spread out from like 10pm to 4am. I was totally amazed after watching this Discovery show “Making of Hangover” where they monitored drinkers periodically and tested their motor skills and vital signs. These people were allowed to drink until 1am and most were in the 15-18 drink range by that point, which is insane. How can you drink 18 drinks and not be totally poisoned? So, I don’t know why it’s Tuesday and I still feel the urge to puke every ten minutes. Maybe I overdosed on Peeps and Cadbury eggs (I’m presently eating an apple trying to up the good nutrients). God, I hope I’m not knocked-up (but think of all the fun I could have babies and bars.) This wasn’t even what I’d intended to write about, but now I’m feeling too queasy to sit at my computer any longer. Oh cool, this very second I just got a phone call from the other job I’d applied for at a P.R. firm and had been sulking about for not getting a response because I was more interested in this one than the one I was talking about earlier. I tell you, that MLS really opens doors (joking). Wow, that apple really fortified me (you know, fruit is nature’s candy. I hate fruit. Every day I bring a banana to work, and half way through it, I’m always like this is the crappiest breakfast ever), I’m starting to get a burst of creative energy. I’d better get started on my homework while it lasts.

4/9/04
Oops, it only took me over a week to realize that I had written for, but hadn't linked to April yet. I guess that's why all the kids have those fancy automated blogs. If it's been dull around here lately, it's not because I'm lacking in wonderfully stimulating thoughts and observations (I mean, you're really missing out on all my deep analysis of The Swan. Oh, and I got the genius idea to batter and deep fry Cadbury crème eggs and marshmallow peeps, but haven't tested it out yet. It's going to be beautiful.), it's because I have to time for anything fun right now. I'm actually going to have to use vacation time at work to get caught up with schoolwork in the next few weeks, but it's not like I had a real vacation planned anyway. Is 2004 lame or what?

4/2/04
No, I don’t follow ol’ Henry Thomas like I used to but every now and then my attention is peaked by some tidbit so monumental I can’t sit idly by. It couldn’t have been more than a year or so ago that my dreams were dashed by his marriage to some “actress” Kelly Hill. That was well and good, I survived. But now I was just tipped off by an emailer that he was just seen at an awards show last week (where he won The Rising Star award. Uh, didn’t his star rise—and rapidly fall—like thirteen years ago.) with a very pregnant wife named Marie. Marie?! What the heck? And knocked-up? Oh, it’s so wrong. This is no April fooling. How could The Hankster do this to me? I totally missed my window of opportunity. Dear lord, I’m supposed to be unpacking and making my newly set up bedroom look nice for James’s parent’s (I think I screwed up those apostrophes) not-so-welcome visit this weekend, but who can organize bookshelves when H.T. is going around unchecked marrying and impregnating women in such as haphazard fashion. Jeez.