2004
november
october
september
august
july
june
may
april
march
february
january

2003
december
november
october
september
august
july
june
may
april
march
february
january

2002
december
november
october
september
august
july
june
may
april
march
february
january

2001
december
november
october
september
august
july
june
may
april
march
february
january

2000
december
november
october
september
august
july
june
may
april
march
february
january

1999
december
november
october
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august
july
june
may
april
march
february
january

1998
december
november
october
september

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

Stalking
Lone Star Thomas
Goodies

phone home

12/29/04
I really thought I would’ve accomplished more in the six days I’ve had off so far. Thankfully, I still have a few more days left to squander. There was all sorts of writing, cleaning, reading, emailing, cooking and crafting I had planned. Last night I was going to buckle down and tie up loose ends, but instead ended up going to the nearby cheap movie night (I’d already seen Sideways but for five bucks didn’t mind seeing it again), out to dinner, then out for drinks until last call, then continuing to drink and eat frozen jalepeno poppers with a friend here until 6am. I couldn’t even get up until 2pm, then didn’t feel like my day had even begun until 6pm. Now it’s 10pm and I’m feeling like it’s afternoon. So much about the tsunami coverage is disturbing like how the biggest tragedies seem to involve a swimsuit model who lost her boyfriend, a blonde toddler who lost his mom and how a member of U2 might be missing (the latter being some weirdo Craigslist rumor. The tender, touching rants & raves section is always brimming with cheer and good will, a uplifting holiday read, to say the least. Look for headlines like “Jesus was NOT a cocksucker” and “do quadriplegic women get oral pleasure?” to raise your spirits). What I find the strangest is (no, not the phenomena of how they’re not finding many dead animals) the tiny American death toll. When I first typed this the other day the total was 44,000 with 8 Americans. Now it’s 80,000 with 12 confirmed American deaths. Do Americans just not get out much? I’ve always suspected as much. Like holidays are holy and meant to be spent with family in horrible hometowns whether you want to or not. Apparently, Europeans have the good sense to get the hell out of their countries and do something fun for Christmas. With disastrous results, of course…but still. Enough gloom. I’m kind of glad that James and I do Christmas presents late because that means I still have gifts to look forward to. What sucks is I like surprises and abhor peeking, but all element of suspense has been ruined because since I’ve been here alone this week I’ve been receiving UPS deliveries addressed to James from companies of products that were on my wish list. It’s nice to know I’m getting things I actually asked for, but there’s no way the large roll in clear plastic, labeled knotty rug, from PB Teen isn’t, well, the knotty rug from PB Teen that I wanted. Am I supposed to act surprised when I get it?

12/26/04
I’ve noticed a lot of “blogs” are proclaiming light holiday posting schedules. I haven’t been spreading holiday cheer, fulfilling family obligations or traveling to wonderful destinations (though I did harbor a fantasy, like I do every year, of just going on a fun vacation, preferably to S.E. Asia. But what with the tsunamis and 10,000+ death toll, maybe it was best I stayed put in Brooklyn, after all. All natural disasters are horrifying, but tidal waves and drowning has seriously always been a top irrational fear. I’m very averse to swimming in general, and especially in natural bodies of water, so I can’t stop watching news reports and reading about people being swept into the sea because it’s like the worst thing I could imagine coming true.), I’ve just been supremely lazy. My past few days have consisted of lots of eating, staying out late drinking and sleeping in past a reasonable hour. I actually did write posts, but everything that comes out is lame, like I can feel myself getting stupider with age. I can remember certain periods as a kid where I swear I could feel myself getting smarter, as if one was able to feel themselves physically growing. I believed my first grade teacher, the mea Mrs. Purvine when she said that every time you learn something new you get a wrinkle in your brain (I don’t now think this is scientifically sound). This seemed gross, I didn’t want a wrinkled brain, but I imagined developing kinks and curves in my head. Around seven or eight I recall one day just knowing all sorts of new words, being able to use them in what seemed like complex ways in my head, and being conscious of the coolness of it. I don’t think I’ve had such a leap in my adult life, if anything I might be sliding backwards, my brain turning to smooth mush. Really, what consumed my time in the past two days was reading like crazy. Even though I’m getting dumber, I was able to capture that feeling I used to get when fiction would totally consume you. I read lots of news, magazines and non-fiction in my daily life, but book books hardly make it onto my radar. As an adult I associate hardcore reading with free time, which I use for other things. And not every book clicks and creates this sensation. On a whim I picked up Gary Lutz’s I Looked Alive, and it totally didn’t work (funny, as I was just looking at the Amazon page I noticed the “customers who viewed this book also viewed:” feature and saw Arcade Fire’s Funeral listed, which is what I’m listening to as I feebly attempt to type this all out). It was difficult, poetry-like, syntax and language, work to understand, where I like old-fashioned narrative, story, plot development. I’m simpleminded that way. I can’t even remember why I thought I would like it, but it didn’t induce that trancelike dedication I was seeking. But getting sucked in and plowing through the full 356 pages of You Remind Me of Me (this was the book I was pissed off about in a class during spring semester when a guest speaker from Random House brought giveaway books and all the black women and one unreasonably aggressive Ukrainian lady practically duked it out for free literary booty. Library Science students are clearly deprived [and severely lacking in proper social skills] I really wanted this book because I like everything the author had written so far, but hadn’t bought it yet because I’m loathe to pay for hard covers, and the mad dashing women had no clue about any of the books they were grabbing, they just wanted them because they existed, and they’d probably want them more if they sensed someone truly was interested in them like how at discount stores, particularly at the Brooklyn Target, no one will pay any attention to an item until you decide you want to look at it, then there’s an inexplicable mob hovering around a formerly deserted shelf or rack. I didn’t get anything because, well, because I have manners. And when the Ukrainian woman, after taking the book I wanted, seemed disappointed after looking at it, then asked everyone around her what it was about, weighing whether or not she’d scored something worth keeping, I almost told her to fuck off and considered physically removing it from her possession, but you know, manners.) in the past 48 hours was good, satisfying, nostalgic, better than TV or movies or real life. Drunk, freezing, waiting for tardy subways in the middle of the night, I caught myself looking forward to getting home, not just because waiting around subway platforms sucks, but because I couldn’t wait to read more of my book (it’s too big to lug around, plus I don’t trust myself to not accidentally leave it somewhere). Thurs. we got off work at 3pm and I decided to attempt stocking up on books at my local library, which is harder than it seems. NYC public libraries are depressing dreary places. There’s nothing there worth reading. I first discovered this when I first moved here and popped into the Ridgewood location and the fiction was all like Tom Clancy or African-American geared paperback romances. Hardly anything new or contemporary. I stopped in the Carroll Gardens branch, determined to pick up at least two to three good fiction books to tide me through the holidays. It’s an upper middle class white neighborhood so I had higher hopes, but the pickings were still slim. After scouring the three small shelves I settled on Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections (I figured it’s been out for over three years now, so I can feel better about reading such a popular novel, plus my sister mentioned it was what she was reading the last time I talked to her) and JT LeRoy’s Sarah, I guess because he’s one of those authors I assume I’ll be annoyed by, but should at least know his writing before making such a judgment. And at the last minute, noticed You Remind Me of Me on the new books shelf, which made me feel a slightly warmer towards this branch of the Brooklyn Public Library system. Being a librarian, and childhood library nut (seriously, I was a grade school librarian’s wet dream [and middle and high school librarians nightmare—I don’t know how many times I was kicked out for being loud and disruptive], beyond teacher’s pet. I would spend recess in the library instead of going outside, and carry a book with me everywhere even while reluctantly grocery shopping with my mom. My favorite memory involves running into Mrs. Peterson, who I think was actually the library assistant, not school librarian, at Albertson’s. I was reading Harriet the Spy, while holding onto the side of the shopping cart for guidance like a blind book zombie, and she ecstatically started talking to my mom about how dedicated a book lover I must be. I felt like a dream child genius from the praise--that’s why early grade school is so cool, you’re not aware enough or self-conscious to care about what a dork you are. You actually think that impressing your school librarian by reading in the grocery store is noble. By ten I was well beyond all that and into the horrible getting people to like you/getting picked on/picking on others phase that lasts through most of the teen years, and for some well into adulthood ) I reserve a soft spot in my heart for the neighborhood library, but there’s no getting around how much they suck in NYC, it’s hard to muster up some love. I think I’m so bowled over by fiction because I have absolutely no idea how to create it. It’s not even in me, I have no idea how to make things up. There’s no envy, just admiration. I can observe, retell, posit opinions, and make funny, though. I’ll get irritated or unsettled by articles, essays, books about things, because I know I could create these things too, but don’t, mostly because I’m retarded. Maybe it’s how people who have bands that don’t really go anywhere feel about bands that “make it.” But film, music, fiction, I don’t even have the urge or inclination so I’m not bothered. So in 2005 I resolve to read more fiction because it’s such an easy happy thing to do, and to take writing something nonfiction seriously because I’m capable of it and my brain could use a few more wrinkles.

12/21/04
I’m not one for animal cruelty but I swear I’m going to start abusing my cat. For months she’s been taking craps on a carpet downstairs, then pulling out tufts of fibers to try and cover the poop with wooly fluff. This is very annoying, but to be honest I haven’t done much other than clean up the mess and spray it with cleaner because I’m not terribly fond of this rug in the first place. Then she started peeing in my laundry basket (oh lord, I look like a freak—the doorbell just buzzed [I’m home sick] and normally I’d ignore it because that’s how I am, but I’m expecting Christmas packages. I’m completely ratty, non-combed hair, no bra, sweating, bright red nose, wet face and I meet the UPS guy to sign for a professional deep fryer I’d gotten for James. It’s scary because I already bought him one a couple years ago, and it was such a hit that I decided he needed to upgrade to a better quality version. There’s nothing like encouraging unhealthy eating habits. And after taking one look at me [he was totally trying to avert his eyes, I swear I almost turned him to stone] I’m sure he was thinking that the last thing that lady needs is to be eating fried food.) when I’d leave damp delicates like tights and bras to air-dry. Then last night I practically dying in my sleep, having a hard time breathing and swallowing properly and I could hear her doing that violent carpet smacking where she digs her claws into the rug and yanks puffs out, knocking the woven base back onto the hardwood floor making a huge whap noise. I was like motherfucker now she’s messing with my carpet. I shooed her out of the room, shut the door, vowing to deal with it in the morning when I had more energy. I don’t really have more energy now, but upon close inspection she not only tore up and peed on my little carpet, but on my chair where I throw clothes I’m too lazy to put away. My wool coat, two purses, sweater and t-shirt were all dripping with pee, literally dripping, and had leaked onto the carpet. So, now I’ve had it. And I’m worried that she’s also been peeing on clothes that are on my bottom shelf (I’ve yet to purchase dresser drawers since living here—I guess now I have incentive) but because of this stupid stuffed nose I can’t even smell urine. I just know I’m going to show up at work tomorrow covered in eau de dried piss and be completely clueless. On the up side I’ll be able to sit in those empty seats next to stinky sprawled out homeless people on the subway and not mind. Yesterday I saw a guy who did just that, he sat right in this empty pool of seats that were verboten due to the odiferous man who had claimed them for himself. And the pungent one actually started sprawling further until his arm was on the other guy’s lap. But he seemed oblivious, or maybe he was trying to hold his ground, I don’t know, all I could think was that either he was crazy himself or had a severe head cold. By the way, dinner last night at WD-50 was amazing, really top-notch and fun. I’m always afraid I’m going to be disappointed by popular restaurants (like a couple weeks ago we went to Mermaid Inn, which isn’t quite in the same league, but was a hot spot last year, and I was under whelmed. Plus, the waiter called me ma’am, where at WD-50 they had the good sense to use miss. It’s the little things, you know.) but I have no complaints. The disturbing part came from the couple one table away (luckily it wasn’t so packed where you have to do the classic NYC crammed thing where you can barely squeeze into your seat because it’s set up with about 3” of space between tables. The waiters always pull the table out for diners, but still you have to either scoot your crotch or butt right up against your neighbor’s table. It doesn’t really matter how svelte you are, settling in is going to cause a few awkward seconds.) At first I thought it was a date, but then it felt a little too stiff for that. It was an Asian guy with a blonde woman who probably thought she was prettier than she was and you could tell the guy was trying to impress her, and she was egging him on in a manipulative way. She wasn’t going to hump him (though James though there was a slight chance she might) she just relished the attention…and probably the free meal, he did order a $145 pinot noir (we opted for a sauvignon blanc that was exactly $100 less). Though she only ordered one thing, a cod entrée and didn’t even finish her tiny portion, while he ordered two appetizers and an entrée for himself. Then he brought up his fiancée, and it was clear that he was fishing to see if there was any chance things might work between him and his dining companion. We guessed they were college friends, or old acquaintances. He was saying stuff like, “if circumstances were different…” and he brought up babies like three times, it was totally gross, and how this woman would make a good mother. I almost barfed up my pickled beef tongue and fried mayonnaise (and not because I was eating pickled beef tongue and fried mayonnaise). He was schooling her in the history of avant-garde cooking and saying how the chef Wylie Dufresne, was a protégé of Ferran Adria who is like the progenitor of all the current culinary trends (he invented using foam, you know like carrot foam, but has now moved on to essences, seriously, you don’t even eat them, you just breathe them in and experience them) and is chef at the impossible to get into (though not so impossible that this guy wasn’t able to eat there and brag about it) restaurant in Spain, El Bulli. Anyway, Wylie Dufresne isn’t a protégé of Ferran Adria (doesn’t protégé mean you studied under the person?), I wanted to tell him so, but that was hardly even the point. They exchanged gifts, he gave her a L’Occitane gift set (the same one James is giving his mother—does that make it any less romantic a present?) and she offered a wine bag and what must’ve been a fancy bottle of wine because he couldn’t stop thanking her for it (though he probably would’ve jizzed himself over a jug of Gallo of as long as it came from this woman). We were appeased when this guy seemed to become unnecessarily humiliated when the sommelier wouldn’t allow him to open this bottle of wine and share it with his lady friend, the mood was totally ruined, and he got all snippy and asked for the check when the waiter subsequently inquired about dessert. “We’re not dessert people,” he snapped, and they left in a huff. He probably figured that extra wine might’ve been adequate to lower his companion’s defenses enough to impregnate her. Such an uplifting holiday tale.

12/20/04
This is a bad time to get sick with a severe cold (I’ve been on a downward health spiral since last week’s party at Planet Hollywood, but this weekend I developed a full-blown can’t breathe/swallow, burning, running nose and eyes thing) and not just because the weather went nuts and dipped to 9 degrees this morning. It’s bad because it’s a food-filled time of year and I can’t smell or taste anything, and my Walmart brand cold pills completely take away my appetite (they could totally double as a diet pill). I would’ve just called in sick today (though I’m not sure if I’ve earned sick days yet) but our boss is taking us out for lunch today (and I don’t want to come across as anti-social, though apparently I’ve already committed an office holiday faux pas. Today I come into work and there are gifts from all four of my coworkers sitting on my desk. I totally freaked, like I’d missed an email, memo or something. I guess it wasn’t coordinated, everyone just spontaneously decided to bring presents today. I’ve never had the kind of office culture where you exchange gifts and now I look like a loser for not having anything to reciprocate with) and we’re supposed to meet up with the person who used to have my job for drinks after work. Oh, and I’d made reservations last week for dinner tonight at WD-50, which I was looking forward to. Since James and I never do Christmas together I like to pre-Christmas dinner at a place that I wouldn’t normally go to in my every day life--spendy, fussy, hyped up, whatever--restaurants I wouldn’t casually go to on a weeknight, but wish I could. My original point was that it’s a shame to be doing something like this, particularly at a place that’s all crazy and cerebral cuisine-wise, concise (i.e. tiny) portions, unusual flavor pairings (I’m loving the concept of pickled calf’s tongue with fried mayonnaise despite not being a fan of white stuff. That sounds about as wrong as venison tartare with edamame ice cream, yet I still want to try it), because I’m not going to be able to appreciate any nuances. I might as well just eat a burger and fries that look and taste like a burger and fries. So, I was trying to figure out a way to disguise my horrible chafed, bright red nose on the fly (I only bring powder to work, and it’s not helping) and had to resort to using the only display makeup at Rite Aid up the street (I noticed they don’t put testers out at this location, and yeah, I could’ve gone to a dept. store with tons of samples, but I didn’t want to deal with sales clerks), which happened to be Black Opal brand. You could probably deduce that’s an African-American line. I think my nose is no chafed and totally off color. Now I will commence cheap, impromptu beauty secret #2: paper perfume inserts in magazines. It’s a pain to bring perfume to work, and it’s not like I go out directly after work all that frequently. So, whatever scent happens to be nestled inside this month’s women’s magazines suffices in a pinch. Working with periodicals has its perks. Hmm, now I have to decide between Dior Pure Poison, Giorgio Armani Sensi and Escada Magnetism. This is a tough decision since I can’t smell a thing, Poison is too high school, Armani as a brand does nothing for me, so Magnetism it is. Oh, and I totally scored by randomly thumbing through the Nov. Glamour with hideous Renee Zellweger on the cover. Inside was an Estee Lauder foundation sample in ivory, my shade. It’s clearly my lucky afternoon.

12/16/04
There was an article in today’s NY Times (called “Why So Cold, My Proud Beauty?” What is up with the stupid ass titles they always use?) about trophy refrigerators, Sub-Zero, Viking, etc. I clipped it because I figured it might have meaning, I try to keep up on retail trends at work. But what struck me as odd weren’t the high prices or bizarrely behemoth sizes (when you take into consideration the how tiny most NYC kitchens are), but the statistic that on average refrigerators are opened 55 times a day. How is this even humanly possible? Fat Americans or not, there’s no way people, even huge families are each taking out (or putting things back into) the fridge 55 times a day. So, why are people opening the door so much? Just to peek in on the food? That’s plain weird. Maybe there’s an obvious explanation and I’m totally missing it. That’s why I would be a bad analyst and for the time being am a researcher. I can find a million facts and statistics, but I don’t think I have the proper thought processes to interpret them logically (I guess that’s why librarians make way less than business analysts, media planners and the like). I’m sure people aren’t really opening the door 55 times a day to look at the food, right? Please tell me they’re not.

12/14/04
Ah, it’s the company holiday party season. It’s hard to muster too much enthusiasm, it’s not as if I get a bonus, raise or lame gifts that media types complain about. Last night I attended the Special Libraries Association’s (special meaning corporate as opposed to public or academic libraries, though “special” in the I Am Sam way, wouldn’t be off the mark) gala at Planet Hollywood in Times Square. It doesn’t get more festive than room filled with frumpy women and gay men getting sloshed on two Cosmos on a Monday night. I’m sure the planners (the NYC president of SLA sits right next to me, I hear all the goings on) figured a Monday open bar would be safe, imbibing would be kept to a minimum, though I didn’t let that prevent me from getting my full three hours of drinking in. Six drinks sounds like a lot, but I think two per hour is completely reasonable. So, I got tipsy and totally didn’t mingle or network, then got hit on by the dykiest straight woman I’ve met since living in Portland (“let’s go look at the view” as she led/forced me towards the massive room-spanning window overlooking Broadway and 45th St., fingered my brooch and told me about her last boyfriend, a Middle Eastern guy who’d only do it up the butt and totally gave her chronic diarrhea), then tried to avoid the librarian from the Public Relations Society of America whose job offer I’d turned down the week before taking this job and also got nervous when introduced to the new boss of the woman whose job and desk I now have (who also lives just down the street from me, as it turns out—I think we’re living parallel lives) because I interviewed with her in the spring and it didn’t go all that well, but she didn’t remember me at all. But the biggest baffler was my coworker who sits on the other side of me, the only other person who seemed to be keeping up with the two drinks per hour standard, started telling me about how he’d heard third hand (from our supervisor from I’m-not-sure-who) that next week our company would be laying off 300 people. He’s one of those loosey-goosey, wires crossed kinds of people, very sweet, but kind of gullible and spacey, and he was totally drunk, so I don’t know how seriously I should take this. He was kind of rambling and talking about how he wanted to move to San Francisco anyway. It didn’t make sense, he’s been here over seven years, I would be the first to go, not him. And 300 is huge, that seems a bit excessive to me, and peculiar that no one else would be chattering about it (not that I’m in the loop here at all). But in my equally drunken state, this was very perturbing. Now, I’m kind of like whatever, and preparing for James’s Christmas party tomorrow night (that I’m attending in lieu of my own because ours is just drinks and his is drinks and food, though you do have to contend with wives and babies and Santa where we don’t include families here) where employees (with a completely opposite gender make up than my field: 90% straight males) will get bonuses bigger than my whole salary. And if I’m to believe the rumors of an inebriated special librarian, that whole salary might be zero very soon.

12/10/04
A couple days ago this woman totally stomped on my foot on the subway. You might expect that to happen on a super crowded train, but it was particularly annoying because there were actually seats open (I was sitting in one) but she was one of those types who won’t sit, instead choosing to gab, hover and flail over her friend who was sitting. So, when the train jerked she stepped way back and stabbed the top of my foot with the sharp heel of her boot. She said sorry, I semi-acknowledged this/semi-ignored her because I get very irritated when people won’t hold onto things and then fall on you (this happened in a big way this morning). Honestly, it didn’t hurt that much…at first. About thirty seconds later my foot started killing me, and for the past two days it hasn’t felt normal, I couldn’t even sleep that night because it was throbbing. I think my foot bones were nearly crushed. All I could imagine were insane repercussions in the future that might sound outlandish, but that I’d know were a result of my foot being maimed. Like that story about the guy who jerked his neck back to avoid being hit by a shrimp at Benihana then died ten months later. His family claims his death was due to an infection from a neck surgery they claim he had to have after the shrimp tossing incident, and they now want $10 million. I predict a year from now serious medical complications will stem from this random act of foot stomping.

12/7/04
It’s moments like these when I realize how grown-up and mature 32 really is. I want to talk about my new neighbor whose bedroom butts up against mine (no, I don’t have any lewd noises through walls tales, though when the Three’s Company two gals and a guy moved in upstairs earlier in the year I totally did hear humping one night. There was typical bed creaking then I heard the female voice yell super loud, “ouch” and then everything stopped.) but I’m afraid of getting into some sort of trouble, and I don’t even have anything terribly interesting or sneaky to say about her. As I’ve said before, James and aren’t fond of the people in our building, though not for doing anything outrageous, it’s just their existence and demeanor, they’re all recent NYC transplants and as such are very fussy and accustomed to different standards (I’d never even noticed it, but one of the doors in the foyer had faint scratching in the wood that read gays=aids, which isn’t cool, but it had obviously been there for ages and was thickly painted over, but the guy upstairs had a conniption fit and couldn’t understand why the super and landlord didn’t do something about it). And the newest tenant is no exception, not that she does anything horrible either, so far she’s bothered James by merely owning a big dog and leaving all her lights on when she’s gone (that’s a whole other issue—somehow the building thinks we’re supposed to let in the ConEd guys for readings, but don’t and hold us responsible for getting estimated bills. Anyway, as it turned out when they actually did show up that this new tenant wasn’t even on record and wasn’t being charged for her electricity. Meanwhile our bill is massive.) Oh, and that we always get her mail. We’re apt. #1, she’s #1R, the previous tenants had their own mailbox in front of their door so mix-ups didn’t really occur, but for some reason she has a mailbox in the lobby of our building, but not with the rest of the mailboxes, it’s this weirdo standalone metal box on the wall and the mailman seems to have trouble using it (that’s not his only trouble--half the time the mail for the all five apartments in the building is just dumped on the floor, we get random mail all the time for addresses up the block, and they never lock the mailboxes back up). She lives in an oddball apt. that I didn’t realize was part of our building, it’s this little ground level addition with its own entrance that’s attached to the back and formerly was lived in by this weird arty Black/Asian couple that had it filled with scuba equipment and kayaks, and it was a total messy dump like where you’d find someone dead and decomposing (after months of being missing) in piles of garbage. I’m sure their rent was super low because you can tell that our edge of Carroll Gardens used to be much rattier. The new girl I’m sure is paying at least double, but clearly she can afford it because the crux of this matter is that I opened her paycheck. Actually, James did it, not me, and it wasn’t her check, but the direct deposit receipt. Apparently, she works for the NY Times and makes a lot more money than I’d estimated they paid their low rung writers (I’m only guessing her rank because she’s not that old and writes maybe one article a week and it’s usually dry local stuff like tires getting slashed in Queens or firefighting crews being downsized in Brooklyn). And today I was needlessly irritated by an article about late-night shopping at the Lowe’s down the street from us (I only link, knowing it will be dead in seven days—god forbid someone reading this knows the author and clues her into her freak neighbor who gets worked up over pointless shit and steals her mail) that was in today’s special retail insert. I don’t even know why that needled me. I guess if James can get rubbed the wrong way by dogs and electricity wasting, I can take issue with little slice of life stories about home improvement stores written by people fresh from California (nothing against California—and I only can guess that’s her origin because I’ve seen her with a car bearing that state’s plates) who don’t even know landscape of the neighborhood yet. I don’t know why I feel so protective of the Lowe’s, like it belongs to me or something, just because I wrote a little blurb about it to stake out my claim. (Ok, I’m not the only cuckoo, I just called James and told him about this article and he was all, “What? She just moved here and she thinks she can write about the neighborhood?’ Oh my god, that’s so Brooklyn. We’ve both started to take on these rough, territorial, old-timer attitudes without even noticing. Next thing you know we’re going to start honking at people to go when the light’s still red and stare down anyone parking on our block to make sure they don’t dare bump anything that might belong to us.) Yeah, that’s an irrational thing to have a problem with. Not only do you start to think twice about snooping as you age, but apparently you also start developing peculiar issues with strangers.

12/3/04
Ok, now I’m really getting obsessed. I decided not to waste time yesterday trying to decode the Hollywood math that makes Renee Zellweger’s B.J. character a size 14, but dammit if there wasn’t a big article this morning in People that set me off. I read conflicting versions as to what she actually gained for that role, but most websites state her “normal” height and weight at 5’5” and 115 pounds, and a size 4. I’ve heard that she gained anywhere from 20 to 30 pounds. Let’s average that to 25 pounds, making B.J. 140, which is accurate because I forced myself to watch the first movie on TV last week and her stupid journal entries seemed to fluctuate between 135 and 140. Ok, that’s settled, now I’m trying to figure out how a 5’5” 140 pound woman is a size 14. If I were 140 (granted, I’m 5’8”) I would be somewhere in the size 10 range. How is it possible that the difference in 5 dress sizes is a mere 25 pounds? Speaking for myself, 15 pounds probably equates a change in dress size either direction, and I’m six sizes away from a 4. Using that formula I’d have to lose 90 pounds to get into a size 4, which scary as it sounds is likely correct (and not likely to ever happen). I’m having a hard time understanding how 25 pounds translates to a size 4 jumping to a size 14, when for me who’s only one size larger than Renee Zellweger supposedly was, would need to lose nearly 100 pounds to get to her original size. That’s a huge discrepancy. At the very most 25 pounds is equal to two sizes, putting the fat pig B.J. at a size 8, which isn’t obese by any stretch of the imagination (unless you’re work in media or Hollywood, apparently). Even if you allowed a three size inflation instead of my conservative two that would still only make her a size 10, still not plus size, as she’s been called in most reviews. (For comparison, Toccara, the actual plus size person who got booted from America’s Next Top Model claims to be in the 12-14 range and she’s 180 pounds. I believe that.) The People magazine article mentions that they had to pad her “bottom” (I wouldn’t ever use the word bottom) because it wasn’t big enough in many scenes—despite her 4,000 calorie a day diet she just couldn’t keep her weight up. If any 140-pound size 14, 5’5”+ freaks of nature actually exist I’d like them to contact me. Seriously. Other than hosiery and wetsuit sites, I can’t find a resource online that gives you a dress size based upon your height and weight, though I did find a frantic woman on a low carb message board who couldn’t figure out how she could possibly be a size 14 and only be 5’5, 140, in fact she called herself a “freak of nature” like she was reading my mind.

12/2/04
I swear I’m not one of those diet freak, fat fixated people but it seems like I can’t read a single publication at work without seeing some obnoxious article about the “French paradox” or see some gross exaggeration about Renee Zellweger’s Bridget Jones body (which I will get to later, though I’d rather not). It feels like there has there been an unusual amount of ink devoted to praising the thinness of French women lately. There was that recent piece, “Our National Eating Disorder” in the NY Times Magazine that contrasted our eating style with the French by showing how we’d eat a piece of chocolate cake: leaving an empty plate, while their plate was left half-full (or half-empty depending on your perspective). Vive la difference—there’s no way I’m leaving a half-eaten piece of chocolate cake behind (I might split it with a dining companion though because I think I have issues with wasting). There’s also this charming new book, the perfect stocking stuffer: French Women Don’t Get Fat. I’m not doubting that French women are thinner than Americans (as well as the “fattest in Europe” British—I also just read a nasty article in The Guardian where French transplants in England were all dismayed at how ugly, fat, alcoholic, bad skinned and vulgar British women are) but I’m not getting why that makes them better. They’re smaller, Americans are bigger, so what. Every article seems to equate weight control with elegance, style and intelligence. I don’t think that a sedentary, junk food cramming lifestyle is healthy, but being active and eating rationally doesn’t guarantee an ooh la la, XS frame as all this writing would suggest. Let’s not also forget French women (and Hollywood starlets, also lithe and lauded) smoke like chic little chimneys, which no one singing their praises seems to have health concerns about. And while I’m uselessly getting over concerned with body image, next to the “I just walk” thinness explanation, my new favorite is the “After I stopped fixating on weight I began to eat whatever I wanted and lost ___ pounds.” I guess I’m one of those unenlightened food/weight fixated folks because I’m so not getting that approach. If I don’t worry about food and gaining weight I’ll miraculously be able to eat whatever I feel like and lose 30 pounds in the process? At the moment my body is telling me that it wants a Vietnamese sandwich, it’s also craving some sort of rich creamy cheese like Brie, oh, and a lemon bar sounds nice too. So as long as I’m not worried about my weight, I can eat all three of those things and drop pounds? Ok, I think they’re saying that once you stop worrying about food and weight you’ll no longer want things like Vietnamese sandwiches, high fat cheese and flaky pastries all in one sitting. That’s like that hideous Suze Orman saying (in a highly paraphrased summary) that feeling shame over debt makes you fat, and that once you can admit you have debt you will be freed. Ok, I owe over $40,000 and have never been secretive about it—did you hear that—I’m in serious debt. I’ll never have savings or spending money and I’m totally not ashamed. I’m waiting…so far my pants haven’t gotten any looser. Margaret Cho used this approach to explain her sudden slimness. Well, her version of it. It’s slightly different that I remembered, but it is going the once I-stopped-worrying-about-food-and-weight-and-no-longer-deprived-myself-and-I-started-eating-what-I-want-I began-to-lose-weight-route, but there was an important component I had missed: “deserving” to leave food on your plate, not taking food home and not eating leftovers. “Love and the audacity to actually waste food” to sum it up. Love, whatever, but wasting good food is just not going to happen with me. So, let me figure this out, if I’d actually gotten a Vietnamese sandwich, lemon bar and wedge of brie at lunch (which I didn’t) I should’ve eaten maybe half the sandwich, and a couple bites of cheese and lemon bar. Would I have to physically throw away the rest of the food or could I save it for lunch the next day? See, I totally don’t get this approach. Is it simply portion control, in which case you could eat the rest of the food the next day, or is it a psychological thing where you only eat what you want at that moment, then vanquish it because harboring the leftovers is holding onto something unnecessary and irrational? If loving my banh mi enough to want more of it later is relegating me to a path or perpetual chunk-dom, well then I’m prepared to lead that sad life. And if this is really the key to not being fat for many, it’s no big wonder why poor people are obese. You eat what you want, toss the rest, stay thin or clean your plate, save leftovers, and become a hoarding fatso. This morning I (unintentionally) read an article in Business Week that mentioned “she had always been a bit overweight until one day she decided to eat exactly what she wanted. Miraculously, she gradually lost 30 pounds” in regards to Gourmet editor-in-chief Ruth Reichl. Oh my fucking god, enough with this bullshit already. It’s enough to make me go and eat three square meals a day and completely clean my plate. So subversive.