dec 03

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

phone home

12/31/03
Oh, so I’m back in NYC. Not that it’s likely I was missed, it was only a week, after all. Though it feels much longer. Portland time is slow, I forgot. I forgot a lot of things. Obvious things like how freaking dreary it is. It rains incessantly, duh. It was gray and non-stop rainy the entire week (except for my last day when there was freak snow—it hardly ever snows there. It became an ordeal because my mom lives way the heck out, almost in Hillsboro, which means it’s over the hills. My mom was convinced the freeway would ice over my last night and I wouldn’t be able to get to the airport by 6:30am, which was already too early, if you ask me. So, they had me stay at some airport hotel, which I didn’t really mind, though I wasn’t there long since I went out with a friend till about midnight [late by Portland standards, I’m not joking, every bar I went to, which wasn’t many, were completely empty even on Friday night] and had to get up at 5am. The annoying thing was that I forgot to fill up the rental car and since I was already in the airport complex didn’t have time to track down a gas station and got charged $44 dollars for not filling it.) When you have to use your headlights during the daytime, that’s too gray. It’s just so damp and moldy and sluggy and mossy and mushroomy—it’s enough to make you want to stab yourself in the stomach. It was good to see family and friends, really, but I think I could stand to wait another six years before doing another N.W. Christmas. And people say how Portland’s changed, it certainly has become cutesy and gentrified, all the dumps have been turned into lofts (my old, twenty years older boyfriend’s old busted warehouse is now fancy apartments). But despite how the city is supposed to going through some renaissance, I still saw an awful lot of Birkenstocks, Tevas with socks and polar fleece. Lots of polar fleece, Portland could easily be the polar fleece capital. For Christmas my grandma gave all the guys polar fleece pullovers. I got a polar fleece blanket with penguins on it, not that I’ve ever shown any fondness for penguins or polar fleece. And like I said, I don’t get what’s up with the bars and clubs. I met my friend Adam and visited his design studio, and I don’t think he’s a super goer-outter, but he suggested going to this bar a couple blocks away because it was close. And it was Friday and he said the last Friday he went it was all creepy and these guys asked him, “is this your first time?” and he got all scared and they then said, “is this your first time at Fairchild?” which made no sense because the bar is called Holocene. I’m not sure if that’s pronounced Hallow Scene, or not. He figured it was some gay social meetup. That’s so Portland. I remember my sister and I eating at this place on Burnside that no longer exists, Café Valentino on a Wed. which I guess was a bisexual meetup night and people kept checking us out and giving us knowing glances and we were like what the fuck are you looking at? There didn’t appear to be any freaky Fairchild members when we showed up, especially considering we were the only ones in the “hip loft warehouse club” (not my words). I mean, how cool can a place be when you’re the only ones in it? When the clientele finally started dribbling in, it was all hefty Carhartt wearing lesbians with intentional facial hair. Also so Portland. Adam informed me Portland has the most dykes per capita and I tend to believe that. But the best part came when this guy, who appeared to find himself quite cool, strutted by us and Adam said, “that’s one of the owners, his name is Jarkko,” pronouncing the name in a mocking way, like what kind of pretentious name is that. Well, I know because that’s an old high school friend of my sister. I would’ve never recognized him in a crowd, but that’s not the kind of name you forget. So weird. I remember that his father had some field and stream show in Portland (still does according to my mom) and that his mom had died and he’d inherited some huge house in S.E. Portland that I’m sure is now worth a ton. He also went to some good East Coast college and visited my sister in England after she first got married and while he was studying abroad, maybe ’96 or so, and he was all arrogant and the visit was awkward and they never kept in touch after that. Seeing him all perched on a bench in his empty club playing on his wireless Apple laptop, actually made me with I had one of those darned photo phones all the kids have. There was a second picture phone moment that occurred earlier that same day. I was out killing time the Friday after Christmas, and decided to head to far out S.E., streets like Holgate, Foster and 82nd, and creeped myself out. I don’t get why the kids get such a kick out of white trash chic, trucker hats and PBR, because real white trash isn’t funny at all. I mean, you could say I was asking for it by going to Walmart (Walmart became a running joke at Christmas because my cousin is going to nursing school somewhere in Eastern Oregon and I was like what do you do for fun and she said, “go to Walmart” which even my family members found sad. Apparently, when her friends really whoop it up they drive to Boise. My grandma gave this cousin a Walmart gift certificate as a present. She also gave her the creepiest [I know I’m using the word creepy a lot, but it’s the most suitable term.] doll I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s this giant nurse figuring holding a dog. I was trying to get a photo of her holding it and she asked if I was going to put it on my website and make fun of it. I didn’t even know she knew I had a website, let alone that I would have a hey day with her doll. Maybe she’s becoming astute in her older teens. I told her that wasn’t my intention, but since she’d mentioned it I just might put that doll photo up after all) but I wanted to see the carnage for myself. All of the extremely wide people (and that’s saying a lot because I’m not svelte. But people were large beyond belief), camouflage, and walrus moustaches were giving me a panic attack. I had to go and sit in my car to try and mellow out (I also started smoking heavily, a bad Portland habit I need to rid myself of this week). After calming down I decided to check out the nearby Value Village and it was pretty much filled with nobodies. Then a mild hipster contingent seemed to start filtering in. I caught this young kid giving me the eye and instead of being flattered I scowled at him. I don’t know why, I was feeling surly. Then I noticed a classic Portland girl. Totally frumpy, with unstylish mannish short hair, glasses, jeans, no make up, possibly wearing converse or hiking shoes (I didn’t look). This genre is very plain, but fancies themselves as cool, like they don’t need to show off because they’re too intelligent too be consumed with fashion (you also see this type in Park Slope). And I was just like eew. Then I wanted to see the guy she was with because very often these types have inexplicably cute boyfriends. So I look up to scrutinize her some more and realize her boyfriend is Ezra, Jesscia’s old boyfriend, and almost shit myself. Where was the photo camera!? This was a guy we went to college with, I never got his appeal, but girls all liked him, and Jessica lived with him in the house he’d inherited (also very Portland). They broke up in ’95 I think, and he started dating this girl Tracy. Well, I guess it must’ve been a match made in heaven because almost nine years later they’re still together. I remember them being at a party thrown by the old, old boyfriend of mine. I came out of the bathroom and she was standing outside the door waiting to get in. I almost wanted to joke and wave my hand in front of my face and say, “phew, you might not want to go in there for a while,” but I didn’t. My friend Dassi used to work at Nordstom and once sighted the couple shopping. She reported that Ezra was with some weird frumpy girl with short hair. So, what’s up with the whole manly, mousy thing anyway? Speaking of manly, there’s no way in hell my stepmom can be heterosexual. Every time I see her she gets more butch. My sister and I used to refer to her as a walking fetus with a perm. Now she’s become even wider (and my step sister was even scarier. She was always a bit of a chunk, but now that she has supposedly cleaned up her act, quit drugs and gotten her first job in 12 years at Burgerville, she’s absolutely enormous. All I can say is thank god we are not genetically related). She is very short and used to be sort of square, equally wide as tall, but now she’s a rectangle. Still wearing sweat suits, of course. And now her hair has gone gray and is in this crew cut style. She used to be on a women’s softball team. She works in an auto parts warehouse. She used to be a school bus driver. Need I say more? The question is, what does this say about my dad? He’s not a big fan of the queers. It’s all very baffling. But that’s Portland for you. I did have success when it came to shopping. I really like that Uwajimaya. They have the best produce, lime leaves and galangal, which are tricky to find here, are just normal grocery items. I bought a pack of lime leaves and nearly forgot them in my mom’s freezer, which would’ve been a tragedy. I remembered them as I was walking out the door and had to stuff them in my purse, which did make for a pleasant aroma while on the plane. For the longest time I couldn’t figure out why I kept smelling Thai food. I also scored on that Time Life ‘70s cookbook series Foods of the World, which sell for way too much on Ebay. Even at Powell’s in Portland they were selling sets (each cuisine comes with one hardback and one paperback spiral) for $18 each. Outrageous. I found a thrift store selling them for $1 each, but was scared of going overboard, so I only bought about eight volumes and had to ship them to myself. I bought so many books, that after packing my box, I could barely lift it, thank god for media rate. Oh, and they have good Vietnamese food in Portland. The city’s not all bad. There’s also a huge Mexican population out my mom’s way (Robert, the step dude, kindly referred to the area Hillsboro as Hillsburrito and insisted the Mexican guys he works with also call it that) but I didn’t have a chance to go on a taco eating rampage. So, food and book-wise Portland is alright, but like I said, I could stand to wait another few years before visiting again.

12/23/03
So, I have to leave in an hour to try and catch one of those Olympic coaches to Newark. I’m a little nervous because like an old person set in their ways, I’ve only ever caught it at Penn Station, which I’d like to avoid like the plague as 34th is overrun with scary shoppers on a good today, but it’s holiday madness in midtown, tourist central, all the subway platforms yesterday were filled with gaggles of large white families who totally seemed lost but were still jovial about it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no meanie, I’ll always point someone with big white tennis shoes and a fanny pack in the right direction. But I don’t want to maneuver a suitcase among a sea of confused slowpokes. So, according to the bus website, there is also a stop at Barclay (a street I’d never heard of) and Church, which is right near where the Trade Center used to be (I do recall the busses used to stop at the Marriot behind the Trade Center). I like this option because it’s quicker subway-wise, and shouldn’t be chaotic at all, I mean tourists never clog up the sidewalks near ground zero, right? Jesus, what was I thinking? But luck is on my side because I was just hemming and hawing over which sweater to wear instead of packing and couldn’t decide because they all seemed miserably frumpy. I settled on a plain black one with pockets. That’s when I noticed a stiffness in the left pocket. It’s a total score when you find a $5 bill you’d forgotten about, but there was $44 dollars stashed in there. How did I not go missing $44? It’s best not to question fate. I hope I don’t get into trouble at check-in for bringing a tsp of red curry paste, ¼ cup of cocoa powder and a container of dried cherries. I know it’s retarded to cart ingredients across country, but I’m cooking Christmas day and I don’t want to have to buy a whole tub of curry paste or can of cocoa if I don’t have to. Fish sauce will have to be purchased in Portland because that would be a total mishap in a suitcase and it’s cheap. You’d think they’d have dried cherries (especially since last year I paid like a million dollars for a tiny package in Park Slope that were from Oregon) but I’m not taking any chances. All I know is that in ’95 I needed some for Thanksgiving stuffing and no one had them. I just can’t be taking any shopping risks on Christmas Eve. At least I was able to take the springform pan out of my bag when my mom surprised me by mentioning she already had one.

12/22/03
This weekend a person told me that it was a good thing they knew me before reading my “blog” (I would never say blog) or else they would’ve thought I was really annoying. That statement didn’t irritate me (despite his thinking it would and then telling me I could write about it, which would normally make me not want to write about it. You you can’t take comments like that too seriously from someone who thinks Karyn of savekaren.com, who appears to no longer maintain the original website since getting a book deal and her debt paid off by strangers, is stalkable). The only reason I’m bringing up that someone would think I’m more annoying in print is because I’ve always been totally convinced of the opposite and it never occurred to me it would go the other way. Not frequently, but I have met people over the years either through my old print zine or via this site and we either don’t speak afterwards because of personality clashes or who knows what (I don’t just mean guys, like romance failed to bloom in person, platonic relationships too) or else we just stop corresponding, not for any particular reason. None of that is surprising, I’m not always easy to get along with in person. But if I’m even worse in print where I’m actually more pleasant because I don’t have time to type every rotten thing in a day, and some stuff just isn’t appropriate to be airing, well that’s scary. I head out to Portland tomorrow, which should prove interesting. I’ve never traveled around Christmas and I hope I don’t have a stress-induced aneurysm. I also hope I don’t get terror bombed, not that I fret over that sort of thing, if your time is up it’s up. But I will be really angry, well, my corpse will be very angry if my plane gets blown up. You know I’m being the martyr this year and going home while the usual Portland home visitors are staying in NYC. If I go down in a fiery blaze, believe you me, my ghost will wreak havoc over Brooklyn. I’ll spookily fuck shit up in all the Williamsburg bars: making the beer go flat, switching all the DJs “cool” ‘80s records with lame ‘80s auteurs like Peabo Bryson and Glen Fry. Then I’d cause all the hummus and Annie’s Macaroni & Cheese to go bad before the expiration dates, and start washing and combing all the hipsters’ hair the second before they awake, totally ruining the perfect bedhead. Instead of chains I’ll rattle over-sized ironic belt buckles and empty cans of PBR. There might be a few “mishaps” involving doors shutting too rapidly on the L train, maybe I could even finagle an impromptu bypassing of the Bedford stop—why not send the train express to a random sketchy stop like New Lots Ave.? I will be one vengeful specter, alright. So, orange alert be damned, I will be the mom’s mobile home tomorrow night. To my knowledge they now have Web TV, so unless I want to write this annoying stuff in front of a familial audience who’d rather be watching Farscape (I’m serious), this space might be sparse in the next week.

12/19/03
Wow, I'd estimated I'd be able to manage three drinks during my hour stint at the work holiday party last night before heading over to take my final exam. The final tally was five glasses of wine. And I even managed to finish my test in 20 minutes. I was out of class by 6:50 pm (and briefly considered going back to the party, but decided that would be excessive). You'd have had five drinks too if you were me. I've been hesitant to speak of this new apt. of James's as mine also because nothing has been set in stone, despite my declaring I would give my 30 days notice Jan. 1 and technically move in Feb. 1. The big if, which I think is ridiculous, is how his mom takes the news. Now, I'm not going to defend a grown up asking their mom for permission to do normal things adults do, that would be a waste of energy. Just think of it as a given, an insane given, but that's just how things work with him (whether or not one day it becomes wedge that ruins our relationship is another thing). So, I guess Wed. night in some abnormally bold move he got the nerve to leave a message telling her I would be moving in (he was supposed to do it at Thanksgiving). I think he made it even more platonic than that, probably something along the lines of how his friend Krista would be renting a room in the apt. Well, yesterday morning she left a million hysteric (and hysterical, depending on your sense of humor) mentally ill messages back on his machine accusing him of sneaking around behind her back and how "trial marriages" (we never said anything about marriage) don't work and if we were secretly engaged then he'd better admit it and that I'm after his money and that I'm manipulating him and that she'd expect this from a Mexican because all the Mexicans she knows are horrible people. Oh, she also said she would pay my rent if that would keep me from moving in with James. I was like, fork it over. I mean, it was way crazier than that, but I'm at work and can't take the time to transcribe all the nutty details. The oddest part is the Mexican thing because I'm so hardly "ethnic" and this woman is Spanish-Filipino, clearly more spic than I am, and runs an organization out of Washington D.C. that's pro-female and pro-minority, and is supposed to help the disadvantaged. She has James subscribed to "Latina Style" magazine, for crying out loud. I would link to the site, but I don't want any added trauma (god, I've become mature in my old age), I will say the word Diversity is in name of her organization. The woman absolutely exemplifies the embracing of diversity, does she not? She left more messages this morning that I didn't hear. And I have no idea what's going on because James isn't answering any of his phones. I don't know if that's a good or bad sign.

12/17/03
God, Christmas is boring. Or more precisely, this afternoon is unreasonably dull. It’s my only day off this week (I have to make up holiday hours that we are forced to use vacation time for because I don’t have enough vacation time saved) and it’s a total bust. I just finished up my final paper of the semester and now feel empty and aimless Sudden free time can do that to a person. I’ve never been employed anywhere that has been known for serious Christmas parties, I don’t think this year is an exception. If I’m correct (see how the memory fails) I don’t think I even had a job the past two Christmases (I definitely know I was temping last holiday season). Being a part-timer now I never know what’s going on, but I guess there is a university-wide party tomorrow night and supposedly the food is always good, so on that basis alone, I should go. The only problem is that tomorrow night I also have a final exam in one of my classes. There is an hour and a half window between when the party starts and when my test begins, two blocks away. Knowing myself too well, I’ll manage to get at least three glasses of wine down in that time period. Most would probably abstain on such an occasion, but the class has been one of my easiest, and I’m willing to bet I can still manage an A, even after an alcohol-fueled bout of test taking. On the other extreme James’s company always throws proper lavish parties with bands and santa, the whole shebang. It’s also the same day that everyone finds out what bonuses and raises they’ll be getting (a few months ago I received a 28 cent raise per union rules, it was very exciting), the bonuses alone can be like six figures, so I guess it’s a big deal for people. His party is this evening, but I’m not sure that we’ll be attending because he doesn’t want to mingle and meet spouses and children, and why would I since I don’t even know the coworkers to begin with. Which reminds me, depending on your position certain obligations follow you. Like because James supervises people, he occasionally feels the need to attend their events. Last Friday we went to hear one of the guys in his dept. sing in some Upper West Side choir, which I normally wouldn’t choose as weekend night entertainment. Being an underling myself, I don’t have such duties. The closest I come to managing staff might be mildly keeping track of the work-study students. One of whom last week was trying to get people in the office to attend her friend’s thesis dance routine. The performance was about the friend being Eurasian and bisexual. I am not joking. To be fair, the inviting student did admit that the concept sounded bad, but was actually quite good. I was not convinced. But it was clear that the two women who run the office felt like they should go. That’s not the kind of responsibility I can handle.

12/15/03
So, I guess it’s almost Christmas. I hadn’t thought about it too much because this year I haven’t gone the baking or crafty gifts route, there just hasn’t been the time. My only awareness stems from working in a school and noting the library closing for the holidays, as well as my own semester ending later this week. This actually ought to be an interesting Christmas, as it’ll be my first that I’ll be returning home for since I’ve lived in NYC. I haven’t done a family Christmas in six years. The irritating side of it, from a sheer selfish perspective (who said that holidays are for caring and giving), is that I think I will be spending it friend-free. Though that should not come as a major surprise. If anyone has been reading this thing for any substantial amount of time, they would know this is a reoccurring theme, year after year, every single freaking Christmas I become very resentful because everyone I know goes home except me. Not that I want to go home, I just don’t want to be here bored. And then people want me to do their chores like clean up their cat crap. Two of my good friends here also have family in Portland and hang out there during the holidays, seeing old friends, visiting old haunts, while I sit around Brooklyn with nothing to do. So, the year my mom decides to pay for my visit (believe me, I wouldn’t fly out on my own dime) everyone decides to stay and celebrate in NYC this year. What the fuck is up with that? Part of the fun of going back to Portland is having others to commiserate with and to re-remember how lame N.W. guys are and to remind yourself why you moved the heck away. Spending a week in a suburban mobile home park with my mom and step-dude wasn’t what I had in mind, though I’m sure I will make my own fun because I always do. So, I won’t have anyone to go out drinking or to try new restaurants with, but I am determined to do some serious thrift store shopping because despite the city becoming hipster central since my absence, the second-hand scene still has it all over NYC. I’ll will also go nuts looking for used books. I will buy gifts for the few people that I’m buying for because I won’t see anyone till after Christmas anyhow and there isn’t any sales tax in Oregon. I will go overboard on strip malls, since my mom seems to live at fast food and chain store ground zero. And I’ll be able to drive to my heart’s content amidst the world’s slowest, irritatingly polite drivers (I know I read somewhere years ago that Oregonians had the slowest response time to green lights of all fifty state). And I’ll be away from my rotten apt., if for only a week. There are perks.

12/9/03
Look at this. I am documenting the fact that months ago I declared kalamansi the hot new ingredient for 2004. This peanut panna cotta with wasabi-kalamansi-lime jelly (um, isn’t that a bit much? Oh who am I kidding, I’d probably order the damn overwrought confection if I saw it on the menu) featured in this piece is just confirming my convictions.

12/8/03
I've managed to luck out the past two Saturdays, school-wise. Class was canceled this weekend due to snow, then the weekend prior because of Thanksgiving. Not that I did anything productive with my extra free days. I'm not a big snow fan, not on aesthetic grounds--it is pretty--but for practical reasons. I have enough trouble just walking on concrete. Walking on ice and snow makes me totally phobic and paranoid. And I wasn't prepared because I haven't been home since Wed. night (I'm scared to see the state of my apt. All I know is that the last time it snowed, my apt. was the only one with snow and ice in front and the landlord got a citation from the city. I didn't actually know it was an offense to leave snow on the sidewalk in front of a building. A nuisance sure, but illegal? I don't know whose responsibility it's supposed to be, but just because I'm on the ground floor is not grounds enough for my shoveling it up. The trash family upstairs who never budge from the stairs and seem to think the front area is a playground and smoking porch can deal with it since they seem to think they own the place. I’ve discovered that's the difference between a shit hole neighborhood and a creepy nice neighborhood--having things taken care of. I was told not long ago that if we didn't keep the garbage and recycling tidy out front (I'm not the one who makes a mess out there, I'm never even home) the landlord would have someone come clean it for us and it would be reflected in our rent. Uh, whatever. As my bathroom is flooded worse than when I left it Wed. when the plumber supposedly fixed it, I’m having serious thoughts about my impending move and how to deal with the security deposit issue. I hate to be a pessimist [well, not really] but landlords don’t easily part with security deposits, even when no damage has been done. I’ve been reading tenant rights websites, and even though it is illegal, lots of people in NYC advocate not paying the last month’s rent and making them use the security deposit. They can sue, but why put them in the hard situation rather than having them force you to take them to small claims court for not refunding the deposit. And the fact that I don’t have a lease is a whole other component. At the new apt. there is a person who does all that stuff, you know like a super who takes out the garbage on the proper nights and who shovels the snow. Imagine that.) so I didn't think to bring boots or proper clothes (or my tweezers, which is a big deal. I have a full 1/2" of plucked eyebrow skin that must be maintained on a daily basis. Seriously, I have a 75-year old man's eyebrows. I pluck half of my natural brow away and there's still a substantial amount left.) because I usually go home on Fridays, but got snowbound this week. I was stuck wearing my ugly white gym shoes (I don’t know why I bought ugly white gym shoes) all weekend and to work today—I looked like a goddamned Jerry Seinfeld. I'm still getting accustomed to the new neighborhood that's not really my neighborhood yet. They seem to like the color red very much. There are restaurants Red Rose, Red Rail (which has gone out of business since James moved in, two others have also gone kaput since mid-Oct. which makes me wonder if the neighborhood is going to the dogs or what), the closest bar to the apt. Red Room, and children’s hair salon Red Pony. I guess red doesn’t bother me much, but the trains do. The G is lame on a good day, but yesterday, a snowy Sunday, probably wasn't the best time to try it out for an errand. Like I previously mentioned, last weekend a ten minute car ride to Williamburg became a 50 minute trek on the G. Yesterday I convinced James we should get Thai food in Queens (there are like 5 Thai restaurants in the neighborhood and they are all just completely wrong). Living a block from the BQE, we can make it to the restaurant in 15 minutes driving, but the car was all buried in snow and I don't trust NYC drivers in ideal conditions, so the car was out. It took an hour and a half on the G and 7 trains (and there wasn't a proper G, it was some crazy F shuttle running on G tracks, very confusing). This morning I was late for work (which is an issue on Mondays because I open and people were waiting to get in), what should have been a 20 minute F ride took about 45 minutes--that's longer than it takes to get from my current apt. But half-assed trains are not what distressed me most. It's the clientele. No one believes me, but every single time, not just every now and then, every single time I ride the F train I am forced to stand or sit right near a young-ish couple who can't stop gazing into each other's eyes and kissing or stroking hair or rubbing backs or squeezing thighs. Train PDAs are very wrong. People on my present trains N/R/W do not touch each other. During rush hour couples do not ride the train together, perfectly coordinating their schedules as to have maximum loving time to spend with each other. In my neighborhood, people ride alone and keep their affection to themselves. This is the way it should be. I do not want to share precious moments with strangers. This morning the train was obscenely packed, the kind of squishing where one wrongly placed hand or foot or knocked bag will set someone off violently. I couldn't move an inch and was forced to mush up against a couple where the guy wasn't hanging onto anything, but using his girlfriend or wife as a pole to steady himself and kept resting his head on her shoulder and whispering and blowing in her ear. I couldn't avert my eyes because of the angle I was forced into. My retinas almost burned off from the horror of it all. The other night the train was crowded (duh, I've never sat on the F, I don't know what's wrong with this line) so instead of just standing like everyone else, this couple decided to sit on each other's laps. That's annoying enough, but they had to keep kissing each other's foreheads. I was just like enough already. I can't believe that these irritating lovebirds only exist on my car, touching distance from me. That would be too coincidental. It could only mean that they must inhabit all the cars, the sheer volume of them ensuring that at least one lovey-dovey duo will invade my ride on a regular basis. Why? Not why me, I'm not that self-absorbed. I mean why the F line? What renders F riders completely incapable of resisting a cuddle and unable to conduct themselves like non-nauseating human beings. My theory is that the F cuts through serious baby-making territory--Park Slope, Carroll Gardens, Cobble Hill, DUMBO--all upper middle class enclaves of forty year old first time mommies with $2,600 strollers (I actually saw one of these tacky things the other day, but in Bay Ridge, not the new neighborhood. The older, refined organic type moms I see more often prefer those sporty jogging strollers). All these star-crossed subway lovers are new families or planning families or trying to get knocked-up, and these poignant home emotions can't help but carry over to their public behavior. They are caring, loving couples who want to add more love to the world in the form of precocious children. They can't be blamed for their conspicuous compulsion., can they?

12/2/03
I think I left November off pining about what happens between 18 and 31. Frighteningly, not much internally (I’m immature as I’ve ever been) but everything externally. This past extended weekend (I only worked Monday last week, and called in sick this morning Tues. but I really do feel like crap, and then I realized there was a sprinkling of snow outside so it all seemed appropriate to stay indoors being lazy. Unfortunately, I have a class tonight, one I’m growing to loathe, but next week is the last week of school so I can only complain so much) I sat uncomfortably (there are only folding plastic Ikea chairs and a computer chair) around the new apt. (which has still yet to be determined when I will be moving in. In my mind it will be Jan. 1, no ifs ands or buts about it. I especially need to move ASAP because this apt., the dump I’m currently sitting in is busted beyond belief. There has been a problem with leaking water in my bathroom. I few months ago I realized it was all in my medicine cabinet and everything inside had to be taken out and put on my living room floor because it was waterlogged. Old cold pills are one thing, but tiny $25 eye shadows are another. This shit has been sitting all over my apt. for a while now. After being gone all last week, I got home last night and discovered a totally flooded bathroom, every surface pooled with water, the medicine cabinet, which is quite large, maybe three feet high and across and composed of particle board so water damaged the screws had fallen out of the doors [there are three narrow doors] and they are now barely hanging. I went to touch a door to feel how wet it was, and a medium sized cockroach popped out of the cabinet. That was just too much. I haven’t had a mice/bug problem in over a year—now I’m afraid they’re going to invade. The landlord hemmed and hawed about sending a plumber over. I don’t care if this place rots to the ground, my main concern is my security deposit, a tricky thing that never seems to get refunded. They’re going to have to tear up tile to get into the wall, it’s going to be a trauma. And you just know that if I give my notice in less than 30 days, they will find some way to claim my $750, despite the bathroom mess being no fault of my own. There’s always the not paying your last month rent ploy, but that can cause all sorts of trouble. I don’t even have enough money in the bank to pay all my Dec. bills so that $750 would be most welcome. I never know how to handle this stuff. And speaking of bathroom weirdness. James has been informed that at his new place, which has a full bathroom upstairs and downstairs is violating code, and that the one downstairs can only have two components, not the three: toilet, sink and shower, so they’re going to have to remove the shower, which will involve weeks of construction. And then offered him the new apt. which just became available upstairs. That seems a little untoward, considering all his things are in the bottom apt. and we’ve already installed new ceiling lights, put up shelves, curtains, etc. I don’t know the legalities of renting an apt. then the next month deciding more construction needs to be done on it.) I didn’t do a whole lot besides final homework assignments, but by Sat. night became bored enough to venture out to Williamsburg for drinks with friends. I’ve become so absolutely spoiled by being driven everywhere that I’d almost forgotten the annoyance of late night subway riding. Not even any subway, the G, the bastard train, the only one that doesn’t go into Manhattan. I left the apt. at 11:50pm and didn’t make it to the bar until 12:40. It would’ve been less than 10 min. in a car, and I’m way too cheap to take a cab or car service like everyone else seems to do. Wasted time is the price you must pay for penny-pinching. I think it’s a problem of my own, but I’ve started to find hanging out depressing. I seriously think we were the oldest group in the bar (Royal Oak), with three 31 year olds and one late-twentysomething. Jessica is all into one of the bartenders who is around 22, which has absolutely no potential of anything. It’s pointless. At least to a hag like me. By the end of the evening, 4am, closing time, two of the three friends had met guys—one that might lead to something, one that was probably a one-nighter. I didn’t meet anybody. But then, I’m not single. But I’m not married either. I guess I should feel relieved that it was a case of no one I wanted to meet as opposed to lots of great guys whose attention I couldn’t get. I could still get attention, dammit. I just don’t know if it’s worth the effort. And I’m not interested in meeting stylists, musicians, or artists. I don’t find ‘80s music endearing anymore. It’s like that horrible fashion adage about how if you wore it the first time around, you shouldn’t the second time. Though that’s hard to apply since trends get recycled so rapidly lately (though you wouldn’t catch me wearing new millennium grunge). All the under 25s digging Nena, Duran Duran and Blondie irritate me. When the DJ put on The Pointer Sisters, that was it. They can’t even discern the difference between good ‘80s and bad ‘80s. Then in the new neighborhood (in the current neighborhood it’s all salsa, which could be hits from the ‘80s for all I know) it is also all ‘80s, but for the 30 year old and up crowd. That too is depressing. I don’t want to listen to R.E.M. or The Pixies while eating a panini. So I’m a crank. Jessica jokingly suggested to me that I should start hanging out with other couples. That’s also enough to make me barf. Actually not, it’s just that I don’t really know any couples well. Those are the sorts of people James works with, not me (well, a coworker of mine did just move into Carroll Gardens, mere blocks from the new apt. with the specific intent of starting a family. I mean, that's good for her, but it's so not where I'm at). I can’t talk about buying houses, I definitely can’t talk about or be around children, I can’t discuss good wine vintages. I just want to stay up late, eat good food, get drunk, be loud, play games, have heated discussions about things that don’t matter, listen to non’’80s music and occasionally get belligerent. That’s not too much to ask. In Portland, I worked at the library with a seriously anti-social, mean-spirited, yet hilarious guy David Hapgood (who I call Halfgood) who actually had the audacity to tell a friend that I was funny, but went too far sometimes. Me?! He got into trouble at work way more than I did, totally inappropriate, making fun of people’s weight problems and physical appearances. I never tormented fat people. But the point is that he told me I would eventually get sick of staying out late and hanging around bars (he was about ten years older than me, perhaps a 34 to my 24 at the time) and I didn’t believe him. I used to go out maybe 3-4 times a week (though that probably had more to do with dating an alcoholic stoner 20 years my senior) now maybe only once. Maybe Hapgood was right. But how seriously can you take the message of a man who was so thrifty that he lived in an illegal apt. without a bathroom, and would bathe in a large Rubbermaid container? Well, maybe he was on to something--at least he didn’t have to suffer the bathroom headaches that have been plaguing me.