jan 04

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

phone home

1/30/04
Wouldn’t it seem pointless to live in a city where there's always a million things going on, if you chose not to take part in any of it? As I've stated many times, I'm absolutely not married to the notion of living in NYC. I'd give anywhere else a go if the opportunity arose, but nowhere realistic has caught my fancy. At least that's what I say, but when it comes down to it I might balk at living not just in the middle of nowhere, but even someplace mid-sized but dulll. I say this because after all this apt. moving trauma with James, he is now convinced that he wants to buy, not rent and live in Manhattan, not Brooklyn. So whatever, if he buys a place and moves in less than a year I'll deal with it. I haven’t even moved into the apt. yet and I’m already worried about future homelessness. My point is that the money he was looking to spend on a measly two-bedroom in the city, like $700,000-800,000, on the high end, can practically buy you a mansion in many parts of the country. Or at least one of those hideous nouveau McMansions (I really don’t care for that term--it sounds all Michael Moore--my friend Adam in Portland calls them “puffy houses.”) Seriously, we were randomly picking cities like Memphis, New Orleans, Philadelphia and you can get places with like ten bedrooms [well, at least in Tennessee]. A logical person would certainly want the most for their money, but is it really a great value to live in a palace in Dayton, OH or Omaha, NE or wherever [no offense Daytonites or Omahaians—I’m pulling these cities out of my ass] if there's nothing to do? Like I said, I often feel like I don't take advantage of probably 90% of the perks of living in a major city, so I might as well live large somewhere cheaper where nothing is going on anyway. But really, that's a bit sad even for me. So, I'm trying to venture out more on weeknights, even though I don't feel terribly inspired. Last night everyone and their token mustachioed male friend (I don't know what's up with all the bushy facial hair. I thought that was sort of a 2000 fad. Same with androgynous Asian girls--are they still in? I think there needs to be a merging of the two. I could seriously go for sexually ambiguous Asians with full-on muttonchops and walrus moustaches.) was out in full force at the launch party for the new local porno mag for girls that a friend is involved with, Sweet Action. It's good fun, and a better concept than lame woman-friendly erotica or Playgirl-style cheese, I suppose. Probably more so if you've ever wondered what that artfully disheveled, un-bathed guy riding the L train looked like drinking beer with a hard-on. Each to their own. I could've sworn I saw Ziggy from The Wire (duh, not the Tom Wilson creation. Now that would be sexy.) milling around. But who knows for sure since that greasy, skuzzy, cool look is pretty damn ubiquitous around these parts.

1/27/04
Urgh, I’ve only been back in school for a week and I’m already tired of it. I’m hoping the snow piles up this evening so I won’t have to go to my internship tomorrow. Not that I mind the work (today I got to research the company who makes Equal instead of packing magazines into boxes like last week. I actually get a kick out of things like the sugar substitute market, no joke) and not that I won’t have to make up the hours, I just relish having a week day off. Hooky is fun even if you squander your time. As I think I mentioned, the office where I’m interning is being shrunk (and I got a scary company-wide email memo this morning about all the recent layoffs and moving forward and all the great Superbowl ads the company is responsible for, so cheer up.) so I was put at a different desk today (despite all the job insecurity of the corporate world, you do get lots of useless goodies. Like I was given tons of unnecessary office supplies, phone line with voicemail and even have a metal, engraved nameplate on my cubicle. Just rustling up a ballpoint pen or post its is a trauma at my “real” job. There, I don’t have a phone at my desk, the phones they do have can’t hold or transfer calls, and no one has voicemail, there are just old clunky answering machines for messages) which was fine by me because in the old space there was this huge blown-up photo of that annoying Pepsi girl, which was impossible to not look at. I mean, they have these massive photos from ad campaigns all over the place, but that Pepsi girl is the worst. Well, the Osborne kids with lemon wedges shoved in their mouths are a close runner up. So, I’m giving notice on my apt. Sunday, which is good because I’m going nuts here (bugs are seriously crawling out of the gaping holes in bathroom) but I don’t want any unnecessary trauma because I’m not about to pay last month’s rent. The thing that worries me is that the landlord has keys to my apt., as I’ve previously mentioned. Maybe I’ve just watched too much Judge Judy, but what would keep someone from coming in when I’m not here (I’m really only home Mon night-Thurs. morning) and fucking with my stuff, holding it hostage or even changing my locks? I mean, you’d think that if someone can’t be bothered to fix massive holes in a wall (I just realized that I could post photos, not that it would be terribly exciting. James got me a digital camera for Christmas, but I really haven’t used for much other than documenting my bathroom mess and taking a photo of a license plate that said, “Thank God I’m Serbian.” I don’t know why that was so amusing to me.) after three week’s time, they wouldn’t have the motivation to come out to Brooklyn (the landlord just moved to New Jersey and makes it seem like it’s a total hassle to come out here) to manhandle my worthless belongings. But you never know

1/20/04
OK, so I’m officially a hypochondriac. I’ve been convinced I had a brain tumor or something for years because I’ve always had headaches and more recently my eyes having been killing me and I’m dizzy all the time. An MRI ruled this out. Then I thought maybe I was being too drastic and should take the obvious route—maybe I just need glasses. I haven’t had an eye exam in over a decade, so it is plausible. So yesterday I got my eyes checked out, and yes, I have 20/20 vision. Fine. So, why are my eyes always in pain, my brain blurry and my head cloudy? I know if I even mention this to a dr., they’ll just say it’s some general panic/anxiety disorder, which doesn’t do me a lot of good. And I don’t really buy it either since my eyes give out almost every single day at work and it’s not the most anxiety-inducing environment. I have to make something physical responsible for this condition so I’m now convinced I have a chronic sinus infection that is messing with my eyesight and head (I have had constant crap dripping down my throat, am always stuffed up, and absolutely have had no sense of smell for years). The first day interning was fairly stress-free and nothing crazy happened. However, it is a bit distressing to walk in the first day and have people talk about the library being “downsized.” I guess not personnel-wise (at least not yet) but in space. The library is being shrunk, and IT staff are moving into part of our space, so we are going to have to get rid of things like magazines (they just went from around 200 subscriptions to 78, which is sad). So, part of today I got to throw out shelves of non-essential magazines (they’re keeping all the trade publications like “Pizza Today” and “Convenience Store News”) like “Oprah,” “US Magazine,” and “FHM.” I did pick out all the food magazines for myself, not like I need piles of old “Cooking Light” and “Gourmet” at my desk, but when it comes to periodicals I can be a packrat. When I was in Portland I went wild at Periodicals Paradise, which is this huge store full of recent and ages old magazines that are fairly well organized, though haphazard, what issues they have are dependent upon what someone donated at some point. I used to use the place all the time back in the day when I did a print zine and needed early ‘80s “People” magazines for E.T. era Henry Thomas stuff. It’s weird to think that ten years ago, the only way to find anything was to go straight to the source, assuming it was even available. It was seriously time-consuming (though it wasn’t as if I didn’t have time to spare). God bless the internet (though it’s doubtful that most of those images are available online—I can’t even find nutty fan sites for H.T. anymore). During my last visit to the store, I ended up buying all these ’79-’80 “Gourmet” magazines, which are pretty amusing style-wise. The tone is much more stuffy and pretentious (though not particularly gourmet—I guess cheesecakes were all the rage during this time period? They give like ten million variations, including a Hawaiian cheesecake, my pet cuisine), the photos and layouts are so unattractively dated they’re likeable (that’s why I can’t get the whole passion for ‘80s fashion and music, it’s so selective, the food, dishware, design, color palettes displayed in these magazines is seriously uncool, not even in an ironic way really). The reason I bought them though, is because I noticed Nina Simonds, a Chinese food pro whose cookbooks I like, had a seriously in-depth Chinese food column during this era. Chinese sweets, alone were a two-part series. I’ve always wondered about these white, female authors who live and study in China, Thailand or wherever and become Asian food experts. (Fuschia Dunlop is another one who immediately springs to mind. With a name like that, you could only become an expert, right?) I’m not wondering about their authenticity, I’m wondering how one goes about it. Like why shouldn’t I live in S.E. Asia and become an expert. I’ve always thought being an expert on something, anything, would be a desirable life goal, but NYC is totally not the place to do it because everyone thinks they are over-educated world-traveled creative geniuses. NYC is also seriously lacking in old grimy stores like Periodicals Paradise. It’s not a nice place, barely a notch above a junk shop, and that’s how used places should be. Used being the operative word here—terms like collectible/vintage/ephemera/memorabilia don’t bode well for me, and that’s all you can find in these parts. A 1980 “Gourmet” is not collectible and shouldn’t cost more than the $1.50 I paid for mine. I also bought a bunch of late ‘40s “Seventeen” magazines on Ebay recently for crafty purposes, and noticed the name Mimi Sheraton as an assistant. Back then she wrote about painting and decorating drawers and cabinets. Now she’s known as a former NY Times restaurant critic and food writer. I guess writing about hope chests can lead to bigger things, given a few decades.

1/18/04
I don’t know if it’s the near sub-zero temperatures, that my time off from school is drawing near, or that so far 2004 isn’t anything to write home about, but I’ve been completely lethargic and apathetic, and can’t seem to snap out of it. I haven’t even really gone out, out since New Year’s Eve. I had all these ideas about how I was going to go to the gym like every day instead of measly two to three (though usually two) times a week I usually go, and how I was going to eat more sensibly (I don’t mean any Atkin’s craziness, just not eating junk and snacks when I’m not actually hungry, which seems easy and logical, but somehow isn’t) and create all these wonderful arts and crafts projects, as well as changing the look of some of these webpages (which I started on, but my scanner gave out last week—I think it’s salvageable, but it’s depressing because I think I paid like $300 for the behemoth four years ago and now you can buy little cheapies for $45. Out of principle I want to make the damn thing work, even though I’d rather have one of those new sleeker, better-looking models), and write a storm, sending out all sorts of wonderful ideas to newspapers and magazines (which I started to do, but totally got shot down by a local magazine that always gets on my nerves by either telling me they are already doing that idea, but that I’m obviously on the same page, so keep sending more, or that they’re totally off the mark and that they want things that are “newsy” and trendsetting, yet keep publishing pieces that are so not new, trendy or newsy, so whatever. You’re not supposed to take stuff like this personally, so I’m not.) The point is that I haven’t been doing much of anything. I haven’t even worked since last Tues. (it’s Sunday) and won’t go back till next Thurs. I called in sick last Thurs., there’s the three-day weekend, and next week my schedule changes because of school. That’s a lot of free time to squander. I also start my internship on Tues., which didn’t seem like a big deal, but now I’m starting to worry about it. The unknown is always scary, but I’ve made it worse because I was supposed to call and remind the person in charge that I would be coming in Tues. I called Fri. and she was out for the day. Mon. is a holiday. And now I don’t know what time to come in Tues. This is the sort of thing that will stress me out to no end. Her assistant said she had a meeting at 9am, which would make me think I shouldn’t be there that early, to maybe show up at 10am. But then the asst. said, “she would probably want you there for the morning meeting,” which for some reason I don’t believe. I’m not a new employee, just the intern. But what if that’s true and I show up at 10am instead of 9am? 9am is typical business hours, but I’m not working full days, I’m doing two five-hour days a week. Is it a bigger faux pas to show up early and have to wait around (the trouble with this is that the building is high security and you have to call up from the lobby to have the person you’re seeing escort you to their office, and if no one is there to answer the phone you are stuck in the main lobby) or to potentially show up an hour late? I realize this is not a life decision, but I need something to worry about.

1/14/04
This morning I was woken up at 9:30am sharp by incessant doorbell ringing and extreme door pounding. I didn’t answer the door because that’s just obnoxious and it’s my last Wednesday off. Since school and interning starts next week, I will no longer have any free weekdays. Anyway, I’m not sure who was at the door, no one I know that’s for sure. At first I assumed it was plumbers/construction people/landlord or someone of that ilk since I have gaping holes in my bathroom ceiling and a giant gash in the wall, which is exposing stone, dirt and the occasional creepy insect. But if that were the case, they should’ve called first. This was supposedly to be resolved this past weekend, I wasn’t here (yes, things are as resolved as they can be with James and I), and half-heartedly hoped when I came home Monday night it would all be in order. No, it doesn’t appear that any of the bathroom messiness was touched, however other parts of my apartment were. It gave me the creeps for no reason, then started pissing me off. I could’ve sworn I left a skuzzy white towel hanging over the edge of my tub when I left Fri. night, but Monday it was folded on the floor in my living room next to a big Costco box of maxi pads (as I no longer have cabinets in my bathroom, all my toiletries are strewed in my kitchen in living room). I know I wouldn’t have folded a dirty towel and left it there. Later that night I noticed someone had been playing with my message board, it’s this Todd Oldham/Target, dry erase board with a clock and little round, colorful magnets with words on them. I never actually use the thing so the words have always sat lined up at the bottom of the board. That’s why it was odd that FAT BOY ON was positioned out of the little circles in the middle of the board. I was like who the fuck has been messing with my shit, and then I noticed this little lame satin award/pennant with a lion embossed on it that says, “Good Sport Award” was being held up be a magnet on this board. I seriously can’t remember where I had this thing in the house, but I’m 90% sure it wasn’t on the board (though I’m starting to doubt myself, maybe I had put it up there myself and just forgot about it). I’m guessing it was the plumbers because that’s not the landlord’s style, and last week I was here when they were here and they were three 20-something Bay Ridge doofuses. Like they spent the whole time talking super loudly with heavy Brooklyn accents (pronouncing character like charac-duh) about Lord of the Rings. They were trying to figure out why Sam calls Frodo Mr. Frodo, when no one else does, especially since they’re the same age. It was theorized that Frodo must be a “higher class hobbit.” It cracked me up, but that’s beside the point. My point is that someone obviously had the time to come into my apt. when I wasn’t home (that’s a serious issue actually because I know legally landlords are not supposed to enter apartments without permission. This is an odd situation because I’m hardly home, but need the place worked on. I used to leave my key with the upstairs neighbors when such situations arose, but the landlord told me a few weeks ago that the people upstairs, who apparently have taken on some sort of superintendent role that I wasn’t aware of, especially considering the trash heap that always forms in front of the building, have a key to my apt. Now, I don’t think that’s right. Not that they would do anything with it, they’re just a loud, obnoxious family with nothing to gain by coming in here, but they shouldn’t have access. The whole thing is weird. So, I didn’t answer my door, but peeked out after a bit and saw a middle aged man getting into a car. He didn’t bother any of the other neighbors. My second theory is that it’s a Census Bureau worker because I got a phone call and literature in the mail yesterday about some new survey (I participated in an older one, so now I’m some easy target) about Amercan Time Use. It’s for the best that they don’t know how much time I squander. And now I’m not going to call them back because they are seriously overly aggressive. Apparently, they can’t ring a doorbell normally, but have to push it three times in rapid secession, then pound like a maniac. With the last survey they used to call relentlessly and wanted me to check in while on vacation (the fact that I was in Asia got them off my back, but then they wanted me to call the day I got back, which I didn’t). Not that I envy their job, driving around and knocking on strangers’ doors in random neighborhoods can’t be fun, but they need to lay off. Who knows, it could’ve been none of the above harassing me this morning. This is not related to anything, last year I became convinced that calamansi would be the hot new citrus for 2004 and that all the food press would be writing about it. Well, that’s yet to happen, but in yesterday’s NY Times there was a big story about exotic limes, and it appears that the new darling is the finger lime, not calamansi. But we’re only two weeks into the new year, so the fact that foreign citrus is even being written about, bodes well for my prediction. Just you wait.

1/9/04
Jesus Christ, I almost just froze to death outside. And that’s only being mildly melodramatic. I totally lost feeling in my legs, face and hands (I’m really steamed about not having my gloves, especially since I just bought a nice toasty new pair and haven’t had the occasion to use them). Of course it’s my own fault, no one made me trudge around in the elements. Well, the MTA is also to blame because no matter when I leave the house, I always seem to just miss a bus. It’s that irritating 15-20-block trek that will always get you. It’s a fine stroll when it’s nice, but if it’s wet or cold it’s seems way too far to walk. It also seems like a waste of a subway ride because 15-20 blocks is only 1-2 stops, and depending where you are, you might have to walk five blocks or so to the subway anyway. As much as I hate busses, sometimes they make more sense, like when you’re going sideways, or a short distance. I was forcing myself to go to the gym this afternoon because I’ve been a sloth all year (2004, I mean) and as soon as I got two houses down the block I saw the bus go by. So, I either could stand in the freezing cold for 10-15 minutes or just trudge in the freezing cold for 10-15 minutes because that’s how long it takes to fast walk to the gym anyway. I just didn’t realize it was that cold. I figured it was somewhere in the mid-low 20s, but after like only two blocks I felt frostbitten (I later discovered it was 15 degrees). When I got to the gym my face was bright red like I’d been in the Yukon or something. Afterward, I felt like I might be a shut-in this Friday night and wanted something good to eat, but didn’t want to cook (I was trying to buckle down and come up with story pitches for magazines earlier this morning but I have ADD when it comes to doing that, and I always end up procrastinating by making something time consuming to eat and then putting off my article queries for weeks.) because it keeps me from more realistic and practical things that need to be accomplished, so I decided to go to the Vietnamese sandwich shop near me. It’s not all that far, I took a subway three stops to get there, but figured on the bus coming back. And of course after walking three long, chilling avenues to the bus, I see it pass by right as I approach the block. It was only ten downhill blocks from that point, but I seriously thought I wasn’t going to make it. My fingers started feeling useless and my legs were moving but I felt like I didn’t have any control of them. Those ten blocks almost killed me, and the second I got to my corner a buss passed me, proving my point that it took exactly the same amount of time to walk as it would’ve if I’d stood and waited for the next bus at the stop. But I spent $11 on Vietnamese goodies, which makes for a surprising amount of food: 2 banh mi, summer rolls, and these blobby dumpling things I’ve never tried before. I’m always paranoid when I order large amounts of food that the people working there think I’m going to go home and devour it all in one sitting. I was buying it all so I’d have food for tomorrow too. Though I suppose binging on Vietnamese sandwiches alone on a Friday night doesn’t sound quite as pathetic as curling up with a pint of ice cream and a box of chocolates, but just barely. Speaking of food, yesterday I got this Kraft Foods freebie magazine in the mail, “Comida Y Familia.” No, I don’t speak Spanish, despite the last name, but appreciated the thought. Some of the recipes actually looked kind of edible and good like their “normal” tamales (however, I almost shit myself over the Tamales Hawianas, interestingly called Tamales de Pina in the print magazine, which use cherry Kool-Aid mixed with the masa, and Cool Whip. And I mean shitting myself from joy, not disgust--I have a thing for Hawaiian-esque dishes, grotesque as they may be), though most were typical creepy/alluring Kraft brand nightmares like Tiras de Tostadas Francesas Pebbles. I couldn’t find this atrocity anywhere on their website (English or Spanish) but if I’m correct it’s French toast dredged in Fruity Pebbles cereal. The photo is a real gem, bread slices covered in crunchy rainbow goodness. And it looks like they used wheat bread, too. Appetizing. The fun part was comparing Comida Y Familia to the English counterpart, Food & Family. Much of the recipes were the same (though the ads were different—they’ve got Manchengo Kraft singles and mayonnaise with lime in Mexico—I don’t even like mayonnaise, but that sounded good.) but the Flavors of the Year were different. Apparently the English-speaking flavors of the year are citrus, ginger and chocolate. For Spanish speakers it’s cilantro, chile and dulce de leche. Within the American website, I stumbled upon the African American Flavor Center which is just a sub-section of the regular magazine. There aren’t any special flavors of the year for them. I don’t suppose it would be as easy to target the African-American audience with mass mailings based upon surnames, though someone’s probably figured out a way to do it.

1/7/04
Well, so far 2004 is shaping up to be pretty horrible. It seems like everybody is in bad moods, or maybe my perception is just skewed because I’m in a bad mood. People just seem particularly crabby. My bathroom is beyond a disaster. As you might know, for the past two months or so water has been leaking through my medicine cabinet and flooding everything. Today plumbers came in and removed it, exposing creepy wet brick and stone. There’s this gaping 3x4 ft. hole in the wall, and the thing is that the cabinet at least used to buffer things a bit. Now if the people upstairs take a shower (which they just did—four people live up there, it’s totally relentless) water literally gushes like a waterfall and spills out without restraint. It’s supposed to be fixed tomorrow, but in the mean time, it’s a mess. They’re going to have to rip out tile, a total ordeal. I can’t even use the bathroom now, and would use James’s like I have been for the past few months, except that we are not talking at the moment because we got into a fight last night and I told him if he didn’t get his shit together apt.-wise I was going to break up with him. It’s really annoying because all of a sudden the weather has become absolutely freezing and my boots, gloves and assorted winter crap are at his place. This apt. is so damn dank, I’m going to end up dying of cold here. So as it stands I’m having serious bathroom and boy trouble. Before havoc set in last night I went to this Scrabble for bad spellers thing that friends put on. I always thought I was a decent speller, then last week I noticed the instructions on this lat pull machine at the gym spells vertical verticle. I don’t mean hand written instructions, but the manufactured ones that come stuck on the equipment. It took me two years to even notice. But what is more disturbing, was how last night at this get together I was told that I looked like an unpleasant celebrity. Even more disturbing is that I was told this once before by a mini-rocker with a mullet I used to work with at Pizza Hut when I was 18. He was all, “don’t get mad at me, but you look like that lady from Cagney and Lacy” and I was like, “you’re fucking nuts.” My mom actually does resemble Tyne Daly, so it’s a little scary. People I get compared to, like Liza Minelli, always have bulbous noses. I have a small, angular nose, dammit. But then, celebrity comparisons are always a mixed bag you must take with a grain of salt. Over the years I’ve heard everything from Joyce DeWitt, Brooke Shields, pre-op Carnie Wilson, Rose McGowan, Nena from the same name band, Judy Garland, Winona Ryder, and the actress who played the mom in “The Omen.” I mean, none of those people look alike, except perhaps the mom/daughter duo. Hmm…if I had to, I’d prefer to imagine myself as Tyne Daly in her younger glamour shot era or pre-Cagney and Lacy lady cop moment, as opposed to the current Judging Amy years. But that’s just me.

1/5/04
I was kind of hoping the New Year would bring all sorts of new clarity, sharpness and mental acuity. But no such luck so far. I feel tired, lazy and dimwitted as ever. Today was my first day back at work after a two-week hiatus and was so not refreshed. I felt sluggish and cloudy and still have the blood shot eyes I woke up with. Maybe I need vitamins. Working does nothing for me, I have no idea how I’m going to start getting up five days a week once school begins at the end of the month. I totally don’t understand people who can’t function without work. Like my dad was forced to retire a couple months ago because his heart is at 50% capacity (I feel like mine is too, maybe I could use a bypass) and needs to have his second bypass surgery, but can’t because he can’t be “cut open” or it could trigger his cancer. So, he’s all bummed out because he has to sit at home and is so nuts that he actually goes to work just to socialize. We are cut of such completely different cloth. I’m ready to retire now, fuck waiting till my 60s. I discovered the true indicator of how completely opposite minded my parents are: Rachael Ray. The woman is a hideous beast. My mom is completely annoyed by her, so she gets it. Out of curiosity I asked my dad who his favorite Food TV personality was (I’m not obsessed with Food TV—he mentioned how he’d gotten into it since staying at home). I’d figured on Emeril, he’s a total father fave, but out of the blue he said Rachael Ray. I was stunned, but not surprised. I mean it’s a black and white issue, like flat front or pleated pants. A pleated pants person is just not going to be on the same wavelength. Someone who drives or would like to drive a Hummer is going to be all wrong personality-wise, no question. Also Food TV related--who on earth came up with Dweezil & Lisa, that soon to premiere show where Dweezil Zappa and Lisa Loeb, um, I guess travel around on the road and eat food? Brilliant. Every time the commercial comes on, and they show the part where Bill Murray tastes something and definitively declares, “wow,” I almost pee myself. Who’s the audience for this crap? Well, while cringing during the commercial, my dad commented that he thought Lisa Loeb looked like Rachael Ray, so he could be their target. Back to the New Year. I didn’t do anything major, just hit a couple parties and a bar. I must’ve been completely out of it by the time we reached the bar because I remember getting there, sitting down with a gin & tonic, and that’s it. I know I must’ve been drunk because later when it was mentioned how a guy had been in the girls’ bathroom and after he left there was a tiny turd on the toilet seat. I totally would’ve remembered something funny like that. By the end of the evening my tights were all shredded, which was annoying because they were brand new. I never understand that, when I’m seriously whooping it up my tights always get ruined. It’s not like I’m running around vigorously or rubbing up against barbed wire. In 2004 I resolve to take better care of my hosiery (and be more alert when boys enter the ladies’ room).