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1/31/02
Thought I'd get in a quick end of the month entry here, but I'm so spazzy I can hardly sit still. I don't know why I'm so wound up, but I think it has something to do with no taking that Zyban anymore. If I'm correct, it has anti-anxiety properties so that could be it. I can't concentrate on anything for more than five minutes and sitting in front of a computer is unbearable. Maybe I need ritalin. Did I mention I have jury duty on Monday? Well, I do. And I'm not terribly interested in attending since I can't recall the last time I was up before 11am and I have to report to the courthouse at 8:45am. Egads. I only will go if I get the $40 juror payment, and that's iffy. I just know there's going to be some weird unemployment stipulation or something, and if I'm not going to get paid, then I'm not going to go. I've got better things to do like sleep in, watch judge shows and come up with a snacky Superbowl recipe. I'm leaning towards shrimp chips with a peanut-coconut dipping sauce, though I'm sure nachos or wings would be more loved. Who needs love? I'm sticking with the shrimp chips.

1/29/02
Jeez, I think I really am becoming a schedule-adherent, TV addict. I was just getting settled in the living room to watch "24" and was greeted by the state of the union address instead. Blech. Tues. night at 9pm is when I watch "24"and decoupage my table (that I've been working on for like six months--you don't get too far at one hour a week). At 8pm I try to catch "First Person," which I've really started to get into. I got sucked into the two-parter from the last two weeks with the freaky guy who voluntarily went to high school till '86 even though he really graduated in '78, and was fixated on his loss on "Who Wants To Be a Millionaire" and keeps writing the producers about the unfairness of a question about the highest world captial. Speaking of game shows, it's just not right that I haven't been on one yet. When I was kid, I was obsessed with the idea of getting on a game show (I'd send in postcards like crazy for the "Price is Right's" annual Christmas contest), and assumed when I turned 18 that I'd get on as many as possible, and that living on the West Coast it wouldn't be so hard. I am not living up to my full potential. Thankfully, a few shows have moved east, or at least hold regional tryouts. I totally blew my "Jeopardy" test a few years ago (it's a lot harder than the show), which is really frustrating because I seem to have gotten pretty good at it lately, or maybe it's been an easy week of questions. So, I was just out waiting for "24" and caught the tail end of "The show where your heartbeat is your worst enemy" "The Chair," which I don't fully get the concept of yet, but cracks me up because my heartbeat probably already is one of my worst enemies. I want to try out and have a full on coronary or at least burst a blood vessel or something (Hmm, they've changed their rules. I was looking at the site the other day and there was a stipulation about potential contestants with heart problems or who took drugs and I wasn't sure if they meant any drugs or specifically blood rate/pressure altering drugs, but now it says "Any person whose health may, in the Producers' sole judgment, be adversely affected by participation in the Program or whose participation may, in the Producers' sole judgment, compromise or create the appearance of compromising the fairness or integrity of the Program is not eligible"). I guess you have to answer questions while keeping your pulse below a certain rate that they lower as the money gets higher and for each second you "red line" they subtract money from what you've earned so far. Then they do crazy stupid things like put bees by your head to scare you. It's all really asinine, but I guess it must compete with NBC's "Fear Factor" and Fox's "The Chamber," which oddly enough has been pulled due to public outcry. Only two episodes aired before people protested the barbarism of the concept, equating it with public human torture. Re-fucking-tarded, if you ask me. What's wrong with a little fire and ice blowing on a body while answering trivia questions? "Fear Factor" stunts like eating numerous pig rectums and bobbing for apples in snake infested tanks is far more creepy to me. What I really don't get is why these newer x-treme physical challenge type shows are getting trouble while the truly heinous, ultimately more scarring reality genre of putting-strangers-together-to-see-if-they'll-fuck, a la "Temptation Island," "Shipmates" and a slew of others, is regarded as good clean fun. Oops, I didn't mean to talk about TV that much. I was going to talk about how changes in weather affect the entire mood of a day. It's been creepily warm, today was no exception at a record 70° if I'm correct (there was a mini snowstorm the weekend before last) but I'm sidetracked now. Among other things I did this weekend, I viewed two dead opposite films, "Vanilla Sky" and "What Time is it There?" and surprisingly enjoyed them both. One of Tsai Ming-liang's other films, "The River" totally baffled, yet beguiled me last year so I had to see his latest. If you recall, I think I said how it was one of those hard to deal with movies, full of long, unchanging shots and little dialogue (It's what I call "Rosetta" [another difficult critics' fave] times ten). This one is no different, but instead of getting to see a father jack off his son, this one has the mom (it's the same family and house, but I'm not sure if it's supposed to be a continuation or a separate entity, separate probably) masturbating with the father's ashes (Don't you love how I'll take the most intellectual or high-minded of subjects and focus on the prurient in them). Seemingly incongruous terms like dark, sparse, absurd, funny, lonely and comical all apply to the film. Tsai's movies are growing on me more and more. I didn't really want to see "Vanilla Sky" but James had this strong notion about eating at Chevy's in Times Square, and heck, who am I to argue with a chain restaurant suggestion. There's such beauty in paying $5 more per item than suggested retail (my Prickly Pear Margarita, which had no price listed, was $12.99. Granted, it was equal to at least two normal size drinks, but still), for the simple pleasure of eating middle American in the middle of midtown. But the restaurant is attached to a Lowes theater so it made sense to pick a movie showing there (even though I wanted to see the debut of "Storytelling" elsewhere) and believe it or not, "Vanilla Sky" was the lesser of evils. I can't stand Cruz, and am not terribly fond of Cruise either (not to mention that hideous Diaz while I'm at it), and yeah, "Vanilla Sky" is all Twilight Zone-style cliche and employs hokey it-was-all-a-dream-or-was-it? tactics, but dammit if it didn't entertain me. Sure, the girls in front of us, talking on their cell phones through the film, and after an hour exclaiming, "This is one long-ass stupid movie" may have had a point, but so what. We had time to kill between dinner and the 12:15am movie so we headed to Port Authority to hit the arcade and have a drink at the freaky bar, Splits. I don't know what it is, but like after 10:30pm, you stop seeing white people around 42nd St. It's really weird. It was certainly true of the bar, arcade and bowling alley, but I'm not sure why. Are white people not supposed to go to these places, and I'm just naive? Am I asking for trouble? I have a friend who lives a couple blocks from Times Square, her building is full of widowed alcoholics who've been in the same apt. for like 40 years, and it all seems alright. I decided Port Authority after dark is like high school. There were all these cliques in the arcade and people were guarding the best games. I wanted to play a fighting game, but those were the popular ones and if it looked like one machine was open and I'd make an expression like I was interested in it, a "bully" would go and lean on, not play it, just intimidate. There were families too, and chicken bones scattered on the floor (#1 sign you're in NYC) as well so it wasn't all trying-to-be-tough teens. The bar is the strange scene, like who hangs out drinking at Port Authority on a Friday night (other than myself, of course)?! Freaks, that's who. There's a hardass security guard that I likened to a high school principal. He saunters around the room making sure no one's causing trouble and before we even had our asses fully on our stools he came over and made sure we knew we weren't allowed to eat our food (we each had styrofoam containers of leftover "Fresh Mex"). Apparently someone's smuggled in one chicken thigh too many. Bah, but I still had fun. It'd be a great location next time they do "Blind Date" in New York. There's a reality show that's starting to seem downright respectable in its relative old age.

1/24/02
Have you ever had one of those days where you feel like you've never quite woken up fully? I don't mean hungover, but literally exhausted, tired and hazy. I don't mean depressed either, just bonked over the head, brain damaged dead. That's me all day and right now. It's 9:34pm and all I can think about it going to sleep. It's all because I've been having this horribly uncharacteristic insomnia. I can almost guarantee it's the Zyban since I've heard about it disrupting sleep patterns, and I've only got enough left to last till the end of the week anyway so I'll see if it really is the culprit. But the insomnia isn't of the laying in bed, wound up, stressed-out variety. I can't sleep because I keep getting the sensation I'm being smothered (no, not symbolically) and can't breathe properly. The swallowing, tight chest thing are total panic attack symptoms, but I swear to God, this is not a mental thing because I have this sensation all the time. I notice that it's worse when I'm quiet (not talking) or sitting still like in bed or on the subway or in a movie theater or riding in a car. It's really freaky. I don't quite get antidepressants, it seems like the whole world is on them, but they've never done anything for me. Like I had to stop taking Paxil and Zoloft because they gave me insane, scary headaches every time I'd attempt to have sex. The Zyban, which is the exact same drug and dosing as Welbutrin (an antidepressant) makes me a sweaty insomniac. None of those drugs in any way made me feel non-depressed. I feel exactly like I always do, but with annoying side effects. Oh, and Elavil. I tried that one too, but it's so sedating I couldn't keep my head up and eyes open at work. That brings me to my sleepy stupor today. Last night I tried to go to bed at 2am. I've been trying to get to sleep by 2am and set my alarm for 10am, a perfect eight hours. But I end up lying in bed choking and gasping and fearing my lungs are collapsing till like 4am then not waking up till noon (still the ideal eight hours sleep, and my exact weekend hours, but during the week I'd prefer to rise earlier). Last night I couldn't stand it anymore and took an Elavil, which I remember my dr. telling me at the time was if they didn't work out as an antidepressant, they'd always make great sleeping pills. I guess so, I semi-woke at 1pm today and still couldn't get out of bed. I forced myself up, made coffee, walked around in the chilly damp air, even went to the gym (there's an odd phenomenon--whenever I'm dead tired or ill or hungover and make myself exercise anyway, it's always really easy. Easier than when I'm feeling awake and fit. Today, I stayed on the stairmaster for 50 min. and could've kept going, while I usually do 35-40 min. and feel like I'm going to collapse.) got home around 4:30 and all I could think about was going to sleep. So, since then I've been forcing myself to stay awake, as a nap would skew everything even worse. But I'm too sleepy to do anything useful. I just spent from 7-9:30 laying on the couch watching TV (Jeopardy, second half of Cooking Live, Family Guy, and back-to-back Wil and Grace) which is something I never do at my own apt. (I say my own because I do often do it on Sun. nights at James'. 7:30 King of the Hill, 8:00 Strong Medicine, 9:00 Sex and the City, 9:30 Project Greenlight, 10:00 Oz, then we'll usually go out for a drink after 11:00pm. Of course the HBO shows differ depending on the season, other times it's Six Feet Under, Curb Your Enthusiasm or The Sopranos. Speaking of HBO, I'm totally into the new season of Oz, particularly the storyline with burn victim Rev. Cloutier. Like it wasn't good enough to just have Luke Perry in a prison show, now they have him astral projecting into people's cells and commanding them to kill each other. It's such a male soap opera.) My plan is to go to bed by 11pm and wake up bright and early and on a new regimen (which will just be ruined when I stay up till 4am Fri. and Sat.). Not that any of this matters anyway, it's not as if I have some schedule to adhere to. I just like order in my life.

1/17/02
Last week I dreamt that these cufflinks I'd ordered for Christmas, but hadn't arrived on time were in the mail and when I woke up they were in fact in the mailbox. Last night I dreamt that my registration information from the New School showed up in the mail (I started getting nervous the other day when I noticed my credit card hadn't been charged and I hadn't received any schedule or confirmation yet--the woman on the phone was very nice but very slow and incompetent. I just can't give anyone the benefit of the doubt anymore. If there's a way I can be screwed, it will undoubtedly happen.) and today it was in the mail. I'm turning into a regular Kreskin where the mail is concerned. Well no, it's probably just one of those situations where enough time has passed to cause concern and annoyance to seep into your dreams, just enough time for the belated piece of mail to arrive. Or maybe I really do have mind powers. Tonight I was walking home from the Sunset Park Chinatown and there was this closed auto body shop (or is it a small used car lot?) with three rabid German Shepherds jumping, snarling and barking through the chain link fence whenever anyone walked by. And as I approached that block I told myself that if they didn't bark at me that'd be a very good omen and great luck would have to rapidly ensue. I mentally commanded them to put a sock in it and believe it or not they were dead silent during my walk next to their fence. But then just to fuck everything up, when I got to my own block there was a golden retriever type dog leashed in a neighbor's front yard area (I say area because it's just this short wrought-iron-fenced 7'x 5'cement patch) and it barked at me twice. Bastard. Never in the eight months I've lived here have I ever seen a dog tied up in anyone's front yard. So, I was glad to get my tardy piece of mail today, but I couldn't help noticing my name had been spelled Kristal. What is wrong with people? How hard is it to get my name right? I spent 25 years in Portland and never had one misspelling on anything (oh, I take that back. In grade school I used to get this Girl Scout magazine addressed to Mr. Kristo Garcia--you've never seen nine year old so livid--this kind of stupid mistake has always gotten under my skin). Currently I'm Crista to the electric company and Krispa to Verizon. I don't have the energy to correct them, and besides it's sort of amusing to be Krispa in the phone book. I promised myself I wouldn't bitch about my Planned Parenthood experience yesterday because it's a given that it would suck, but it sucked beyond my wildest dreams. Without going into heinous detail, they pissed me off primarily (Primarily because there like 10 other reasons too long and tiring to get into) because after telling me I could take either depo provera (which I wouldn't 'cause I hate shots) or something called the mini pill which I wasn't even aware of and into the idea of, with my bad blood pressure, they proceeded to inform me they couldn't give them to me without at written note from my doctor. Now, if I had a doctor to go to and the insurance to pay for that luxury, do they really think I'd be watching teenage moms pulling their belts out, threatening their toddlers with cornrows in the waiting room and wearing a ratty, too-small gown while being talked to like some irresponsible whore in their shit-hole clinic?! Yes, I have a real, compassionate, legitimate doctor to go to, but I choose Planned Parenthood's services for fun. I have had two condoms break on me in two months and they just pawn off emergency contraception like it's ghetto candy. I can't imagine taking the morning after pill on a monthly basis being any good for my blood pressure, not to mention the rest of my body. What the fuck is wrong with people in this city? I wasn't riled up when I started writing this entry, and now I'm beside myself (I used to think that being beside yourself was positive, like it meant you were proud of yourself. I never get my idioms right. Speaking of which, does anyone know if the phrase is a wild hair up your ass or wild hare up your ass? I always thought it was hair, but really it'd make more sense if a rabbit was in your anus, wouldn't it?). I swear to God, if I get pregnant I will hold yesterday's nurse practitioner, Mrs. Ortiz-Seda fully responsible. I wouldn't bomb the place because they'd just think it was the work of a simple-minded, right-wing anti-abortionist. What would an apolitical, vindictive brat with no particular agenda and too much free time on her hands do? That's the question.

1/15/02
No one likes a complainer, but heck, that's never stopped me before. Well, I'm not really complaining, just stating the obvious. A couple weeks ago I was irritated and annoyed while trying to get food stamps, but like I said, assuming you'd have anything but a frustrating experience dealing with social service administrations would be silly. I wasn't going to mention the food stamp ordeal one, because it goes without saying that it was a mess, and two because my appt. was the same day as the last interview I had (the one I was supposed to have yesterday was cancelled because they'd already hired someone, and I can't say I'm too surprised. It's starting to seem that the only cause for surprise is when something actually works out) and I had this half-baked idea that by concentrating on the positive aspects of that day rather than the annoying ones would somehow work in my favor, but that doesn't appear to be the case and I'm not holding my breath where that job is concerned so now I may as well complain. I called the day after Thanksgiving about getting food stamps and just a recorded message about leaving my name and address to be sent information, but this couldn't be done because apparently their machine was full and couldn't hold any more messages. This same situation happened at least one more time. About a week later I was able to leave a message; of course I never received anything in the mail. Maybe three weeks later I left another message, which also prompted zilch. I tried to get coherent info from the dept. of human services website where they try their best to not let you have any phone numbers to call anyone in person and ask questions. All wanted to know was if I qualified and if so, where to go and what to bring for proof. Not so hard, really. It appeared they wanted you to go in person to a local office to apply. And knowing from getting food stamps years ago in Portland, I assumed offices went by zip code, though of course none of this was mentioned in their info. So the day after Christmas I went to this random office in Union Square (every other office in Manhattan was located above 102nd ST.) because it was only two blocks from James' and that's where I was that week. I was excited because the ratty little room for food stamps was near empty with only one person in line ahead of me. Now one of my big issues with "they system" (whatever that means exactly) is that the people who work at these organizations are total freaks or fuck-ups. Not that 95% of the people waiting for services are any better, but sometimes I wonder if dealing with all the bureaucracy and nasty personalities (the workers fall into distinct categories: clueless and unhelpful, old and slow, downtrodden and defeatist, and the worst, ill-tempered and condescending like making you read things out loud to them or repeat things to ensure you get it, generally treating people as if they're brain damaged and incapable of surviving in the world [which more than a few are]) has made them all crazy and obnoxious. So, I ask the guy at the window how to apply for food stamps and he totally freaks and starts sighing and looking at the ground and panicking and stammering and playing with his hands like I'd asked him which of his children would he give up if he had to have one killed (a very common dilemma). Then in his spastic manner went into a 15 min. spiel about how this was a senior center and how I couldn't apply there and how I needed a stack of documents as proof of income and expenses and how I needed to go to my local office and I don't even know what, but he wouldn't stop and finally I had to interrupt him and ask firmly but politely for the application he had in a vice grip. I filled the damn thing out (it went on for pages) got all my records together, oh, and called the number of my local office where the phone just rang and rang every single time I called. Eventually, I got some harried woman to pick up when I asked the simple question, "how do I make an appt. to get food stamps?" She also started sighing (it must be part of their training) and mumbling and saying lots of umms, and after a long silence put me on hold. Another woman came on and brusquely stated I was to come in Jan. 3 at noon. When I came in Jan. 3 at noon they had absolutely no record of me ever calling and I was nowhere to be found on their schedule. After some trauma I was given a tag with A-14 on it. The place was packed, every seat was taken, everyone looked extremely unhappy and all I knew was that I needed to be out of there by 2pm in order to get to my interview on time. What also struck me as odd was that out of the 40-50 people on the floor, including staff, caseworkers, security guards, people in line, people in seats, people leaning on boxes, I was the only white person. No, this wasn't one of those enlightening oh, so this is how minorities feel all the time moments, I was consumed with figuring out how in the 11232 and four other zip codes attached to this particular office there could be no white people who received food stamps (at least on this day at this time). They were on A-11 so I didn't think that'd be too bad, except that it started appearing that an average evaluation took 30 min. Each person called went up to the front and had their little inspection right there (in Portland there were actual offices where you had things like desks and chairs to sit in front of and on) and nobody other than me had bothered to fill their application out ahead of time and each freakin' page had to be explained and gone over. Urgh, I had about 30 min. before I had to leave, it was my turn next and the guy at the window left to take lunch. This is when I nearly lost my shit. Finally, another woman took over and called my number A-14, only to have to lunch guy pop back in, say something to her, recall A-12 who'd already been up there for an eternity and have me sit back down. By some miracle, I finally made it up there and was told after a 10 second cursory glance at my application that I made too much money to qualify for food stamps. For fuck's sake. That's why I'd been calling around the previous two months, for guidelines. Jeez, and the amount I was over was $55.80 a month. It's enough to make a person violent. So, I received no help with food costs, and as far as I know I've received no job offers either. Is that enough complaining for a day? Blech. Have you seen the new E.T. website sponsored by Universal for the upcoming 20th anniversary re-release? I'm so stoked (oh, my goodness, I can't even recall the last time I said stoked) about this silly feature calling for E.T. memories and photos that they're going to make a "Friends of E.T." PhotoQuilt out of. What genius staff member in promotions thought of that?! (I'm not being sarcastic; the idea is oddly appealing.) I'm sure anything I'd come up with they'd steer well clear of, but dammit if I'm not determined to send them some stories and images they'll never forget. Uh oh, I was supposed to go to bed by midnight and now it's 24 minutes past. I have to get up early for this stupid appt. at Planned Parenthood that I made when I had a bladder infection the first blessed day of 2002. Instead of cancelling it after getting my Cipro at my regular dr. (still haven't received the bill, I'm scared), I kept it with the notion of going and trying to con them into giving me birth control pills despite my bad blood pressure--stroke, anyone?

1/11/02
Monotony can really make a person go loopy. I guess my time was broken up in the past few weeks by all the holidays, but this week was a solid, dense practice in repetition. Mon-Fri, the same exact things happen in the same order over and over (oh, something new and different--the doorbell just rang, it was a ConEd guy wanting to read the meters. Very exciting. I never feel freakish until I'm forced to deal with the public at 12:30pm and I'm still in pajamas with my hair uncombed. Actually, that brings up an issue I've pondered before--what's the difference between ConEd and Keyspan and why do I have large bills from both? If I'm correct, ConEd offers electricity and gas, Keyspan is a vague "energy" company that no one in Manhattan has ever used. What does Keyspan do, and why do the borough-dwellers have to pay them when Manhattanites do not? My utility bills are like triple what James pays which defeats the purpose of living in Brooklyn to save money). I get up between 11am and 12pm, turn on a judge show in the living room and make coffee, when it's ready I take a cup into my bedroom and check things on the internet and maybe return a few emails, around 1:30pm I'll eat a bowl of cereal with soy milk and watch some TV, then I'll put on some hideous stretchy pants and a tee-shirt, brush my teeth and wash my face and walk to the gym. I'll get home around 5pm and eat some carrots and sit on the couch, then I'll take a shower, straighten up the apt. and eventually eat this Chinese cinnamon beef soup I made tues. that's really good, but I'm sick to death of now, then somehow manage to goof off till about 2am. That's the part that's weird, I never even seem to get anything done, but there's all this unaccounted for time between like 8pm and 2am. I'll talk on the phone (but not excessively and not every night) or watch TV (but not usually for more than 60 min.) or work on my decoupage table project or do my nails or mend holes in shirts or do internet things like finding books and records I want, but not actually buying them and emailing resumes and putting crap on my site or I'll read. It's been said that there's no excuse for being bored in NYC, which was probably said by someone who had more than $5 to ration out during the week, and besides, I'm not bored, just aimless. I've got an interview mon. for a temporary assoc. editor job at Muze and I start a magazine writing class next month at the New School so I'm not a total lazy-ass. There's this spot I pass in the high 20s on my daily trudge to the gym that always smells like baked goods. I assume there's a factory of some sort nearby, since it's a semi-industrial area where no retail bakeries would be, but I'm too lazy to investigate. I've seen pita bread wrappers all over the sidewalk in that vicinity so that's a clue (or a testament to the filthiness of folks in the neighborhood). But it smells like bread, which always smells good even if it's just crappy white bread. I used to live near a Franz Bakery and it had a similar pleasant smell, even though their finished product wasn't remarkable (I became sort of biased against Franz after one of their delivery vans hit and totaled my parked car one morning around 5am. The funniest part of the incident [which wasn't very funny at the time] was how there were donuts flung all over the interior of the van. Oh, the carnage). But yesterday around this spot, it smelled like cake batter, perhaps cherry chip, which reminded me how enticing those icky just-add-oil-and-egg mixes can be. On the way back home, the scent was more reminiscent of Dolly Madison Zingers, which are nonexistent around here. I think Zingers are similar to Hostess Tiger Tails, which are also scarce in these parts. Drake's seems to rule the snack cake scene in NYC. Hmm, I just found out that all three above snack brands (plus Wonder Bread) all come from the same baker and distributor, Interstate Bakeries Corporation (IBC). Unfortunately, I can't find a Dolly Madison website to save my life, but you can rate this poor fool's complaint letter regarding the devil's food variety of Zingers (pound cake with red fruity coating and coconut is the only version worth its weight) on some pointless site, Planet Feedback. Eh, if you want to see a corporate food site done right (if you haven't noticed, I'm obsessed with corporate food websites--I'm starting to see where that lost time between 8pm and 2am goes), just skip the IBC brands altogether and get a gander of Little Debbie's product list. They have photos and descriptions of everything, (which is more than I can say for Hostess who doesn't even mention their two best products: Sno Balls and Tiger Tails) even stuff I've never seen like P.B. & J. Oatmeal Pies, and oh my goodness, Mini Pecan Pies, my absolute favorite treat that no one seems to stock. I think I'm just getting all nutty and snack food obsessed because I'm trying not to eat any junk food or sugary treats, at least for a while. Er, or maybe just mon-fri. But I've tried that bad-food-only-on-weekends plan before and with time I gave in to weekday snacking--a little Crunch n Munch here, a chocolate croissant there and next thing you knew I was off the wagon. I swear I'm going to turn into one of those freaky eating disorder people who devour a whole box of donuts then go running for like five hours (I don't think running around for five hours would actually burn off the calories in a whole box of donuts, but I wouldn't tell an eating disorder person that--a roommate of a friend used to follow this exact routine). That's what too much free time will do to a person. I'll be so full of disorders by the time I eventually get a job. Which brings me to another issue--serious phone phobia, and the need for hypnotherapy. I've always had an inexplicable problem with phones, though I have improved a little with age (in my early 20s, I couldn't even order pizza to be delivered. I still don't like ordering takeout, but it's more of a thing here so you get used to it). I can talk to friends and family for the most part (though I'll rarely call first) and can sort of deal with service issues (I just had to call Verizon this morning about my call waiting and voicemail and it didn't kill me), but there's no way I can deal with nebulous work-related things like touching bases with HR people and potential employers after interviews or sending queries to publications then following up with a call to an editor or researching and fact-checking (which has been a major part of many of my jobs) stories by doing something as simple as calling someone and verifying a name spelling or getting a statistic like how much beef Americans consumed in 1999. It's ridiculous really, but I absolutely can't call these people up without thinking about it for an eternity first, getting all sweaty and verging on puking. I guess it's similar to the feeling you might get when trying to muster up the courage to call a guy you like but don't know very well. I don't know what I think they're going to do or how they're going to react that could be so horrible. Maybe I think they'll laugh at my stupidity or make faces that I can't see, who knows. Part of it is not being able so see expressions or gauge reactions, I'm not as intimidated during face to face interactions. Whatever the case, it needs to stop because it's stunting me and I can't stand it anymore. A couple days ago I was semi-watching that new, lame "Ananda Lewis" show (who is this woman, anyway?! Oh, a former MTV DJ--don't you love how I always end up answering my own questions) and got caught up in their stupid phobia episode where people with fears of frogs or folks in Disneyland-style furry costumes were hypnotized and cured in hours. But I don't want any ordinary hypnotherapist. (My mind keeps coming back to Barbara, the ex-military, lesbian mailroom supervisor for Multnomah County who was a hypnotherapist for alien abductees on the side. Barbara was great, she'd tell me all the crazy stories I could stand and then some. In fact, she had the shit scared out of me summer '94 when I worked there full time. Scared so bad I slept with my lights on for months. She'd want to hypnotize me or set me up with abductees with poor social skills who wore cowboy hats and lived in the woods and in cabins in cities like Estacada.) As great as Barbara was, I don't want a hypnotherapist like her to fix my phone phobia. I want a flashy "artist" like Michael C. Anthony, the guy they had on the show. I'll be damned if I settle for anything less. How an unemployed person goes about paying for a celebrity hypnotist (he's a "stage hypnotist" not a therapist, but that's the fun of it) is a whole other matter...but how else will I get a high-powered job without being an obnoxious badass on the phone? I'll tell these HR people and editors and producers and whoever else what's what and who's who. Out of my way. I'm going to become an assertive monster, totally out of control. Er...or not. Maybe I'll just have the hypnotist pull the ol' now-you-think-you're-a-chicken routine. That one never fails to wow 'em.

1/8/02
So far I haven't had a single problem remembering to type '02. '01 was harder to get used to. I just remembered one more item of recent interest: that new fortune telling i zone polaroid film. I'd nearly forgotten that I even had an i zone camera (the last time I used it was New Year's Eve '00). I don't know what it is, but I almost never take pictures. I carry a regular camera around with me on weekends, but it rarely makes its way out of my purse. Nothing ever seems worth capturing or remembering. It's all in my head and that's good enough for me. Maybe that should be a resolution (if I were to make resolutions), take more photos.

1/7/02
I think I must be the only person alive who hasn't seen "Lord of the Rings" yet. Not that I'm too bothered, but still. It's like there was this window of opportunity between Christmas and say, this past weekend to see it if I were ever to see it, and now it has passed. I don't have anyone to go with who hasn't seen it already and don't care enough to pay $10 and see it on my own. It'll end up on cable some day anyway. I did see "The Royal Tennenbaums" this weekend, which I did like. All cute and astute and smart and funny, yet not sickeningly so. Like on paper, I should be crazy about Wes Anderson, but it's the sort of thing that would never work. Boyish, dreamy, nerdy, Salinger-reading types and I don't mesh in the romance department, but I wouldn't mind being his friend. I had a better than average job interview last week, but I can't talk about it for fear of jinxes. New Year's Eve was alright. Not remarkable, but not bad. I wasn't disappointed; New Year's Eves are never remarkable so I never expect more than I get.

Things That Should Stay in 2001:

Those annoying pop under ads. The biggest culprit being that x10 (or 10x -- apparently all their spending isn't working because I can't remember the exact name of the product) mini camera that's supposed to be for surveillance, safety or god knows what, but strangely shows women in tight or revealing outfits. Obnoxious, not the women so much, just the damn ads sneakily popping up behind your windows.

Swarovski crystals. I don't even know what these are (I refuse to look at their website). I mean, they're crystals, duh, but I don't get what's so special about them. They're on jeans, sandals, tee-shirts and everything else. Gross people (at least in NYC) are getting them glued in pretty patterns over the area of the body that would be covered by pubic hair if it hadn't been Brazil-waxed off. Am I missing something here? OK, I couldn't control myself. I just peeked at their website and there's this hideous section called "Crystal Lifestyle" and it illustrates all the inventive ways celebrities and style mavens are using their product. I feel dirty just for looking.

Pre-worn looking denim. Not just faded, stonewashed jeans, which are bad enough, but pants and skirts that are all light where the butt is like you'd sat in a heap of gravel and scooted around for about a month, getting hipper and hipper with each passing minute. There are also the ones with highlighted, bleached-out creases and crinkles emanating from the zipper/groin outward like obscene rays of light. I first noticed Japanese girls wearing the forced-faded style some time ago, but now it's everywhere. Once you see a trend at Old Navy (where I buy like 75% of my clothes), you know it's done for. Give it a month or two, those full-priced faded numbers will be $11.99 on a basement rack.

Fat suits. I don't even think this is a 2001 phenomena. I can't remember which year "The Nutty Professor" movies and "Big Momma's House" came out (2000, as I just looked up). The fat suit has been a "Friends" staple for some time now. Watching Courteney Cox waddle around is always good for a few cheap laughs. Well, I do know that this was the year of Gwyneth Paltrow in "Shallow Hal," Martin Short as Jimmy Glick and Renee Zelwiger (sp?) as that obese fat-ass Bridget Jones -- oh, that's right she became all grotesque and unattractive by gaining her own 20 pounds. And if I'm correct, Julia Roberts gets all fake fat for "America's Sweethearts" (not that I saw it). I just don't get the public's fascination with seeing celebrities covered in faux flab.

Floppy hats or fedoras and cornrows a la Alicia Keys. I don't even know why I should care about this one. The celebrities can semi pull it off because they're glossy and professionally groomed, but the average girl on the street comes off looking all freaky with a big head and these little tight braids.

Predictions for 2002:

Well, I don't really have many. But I do think that upscale and/or healthy hot dogs and hamburgers are going to be big. Non-traditional hot dog stands are popping up over Manhattan faster than you can say tofupup with rémoulade. Beignets are also becoming big. Sweet and savory -- eggplant donuts, anyone? I'm not sure if this higher end trend will cross over to donuts in general or if the boom just concerns beignets. The day I see a maple bar in NYC... It's only a matter of time before "That '90s Show" hits the airwaves. Oh, it'll be great, I'm not sure if it'll center around early '90s cutoffs over thermals grunge kids and hip hop types with leather Africa necklaces or later like a year ago '90s, where the styles will look almost identical to the present since it's always hard to distinguish the end of a decade from the beginning of the next. There's sure to be lots of dot com humor, use of game boys and palm pilots, Clinton jokes, a Macarena bit and talk shows -- Jerry Springer will undoubtedly make a guest appearance. Then they'll get real crazy and self-referential and have a scene where the characters are watching "That '70s Show" in the '90s!

Recent Attention-Grabbing Items:

Weather toaster. Have you heard about this thing? It's not for sale or anything, it was a school project. But I do like the idea of toasted bread patterns changing on a frequent basis.

Black pantiliners. I just saw these yesterday at Robin Raj, James' corner all-purpose clutter store and got excited. I have a weird thing for pantiliners (god, I hate the word panty), and believe me I get made fun of for it. Really, I just like seeing a feminine hygiene product that isn't white, but don't quite get their function. I think their point is that many women wear dark underwear and that somehow these are more "discreet." But how many people are seeing you in your underwear? Hardly anyone ever sees me in my underwear -- am I abnormal? I like the novelty of black, but that's as far as I'll go -- thong pantiliners are just too much (or too little, rather). I was first baffled by them in England a few years ago, and now they're here too. With so little fabric to begin with, what's the freakin' point?

White cranberry juice. This is just sort of weird. It's not a purity, artificial color issue, supposedly this version is less tart due to the berries being cultivated earlier. The mildness is the selling point.

Dulce de leche M&Ms. My friend Todd tipped me off to this M&M/Mars attempt to win over the Latin American candy market. He saw them while in L.A. recently and said they were too sweet, but I'm still obsessed with why we don't have them here. I'm such a bigger fan of caramel than chocolate. I discovered that this summer they were being test marketed in L.A., San Antonio, San Diego, Miami, Puerto Rico and Brownsville. It's not as if NYC is lacking in a Hispanic audience for these things. Hurry up, already.