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6/27/02
Of course yesterday after claiming there were no online diarists (see, I didn't say blogger) in Ridgewood, today one popped up just to prove me wrong. Running into people...yesterday I saw this guy from my (former) writing class who I think is named Andy. There were only like two guys in the class and both had dark ponytails, but the other one was bigger and louder and named Jake. Anyway, I didn't say hi. The other day there was a mass email sent out be another former student who wanted to start a writing group. That's not a bad idea, but I don't really feel the urge to get together with any of those people, swap prose, critique, whatever it is writing groups do. After lunch, and seeing this guy, I check my email to find a message from him (not to me specifically), forwarded from Jake about how our teacher just got her memoir published. I've never understood people who reap so much from situations, stay in touch with instructors, forge lasting friendships, make connections, network. I just can't be bothered. I glean important bits, learn what I need to and implement accordingly. I don't need constant attention and feedback. Isn't that main difference between extroverts and introverts? People think it's about being quiet/talkative or solitary/social, but it's mainly to do with whether you become energized and inspired by others or internally. While I'm in a Keirsey Temperament Sorter state if mind, I may as well mention how much I love a good itinerary (it's the J in me, I can't help it). Even though my party Sat. is small (less than ten people), for me there is still great planning involved. Time is scarce and getting around town a total nightmare. I need groceries (more than I can carry by hand) and a grill (also cumbersome) so I enlisted James and his car (pray for no accidents). Anywhere else in the world picking someone up after work and shopping would not require much thought or effort, but attempting this feat in midtown Manhattan during rush hour is plain foolish. Yet still, the idea of simulating a suburban experience (taking twice the time) is ridiculously appealling. In an impressive move, James (who is not a J) created a schedule for tonight using Microsoft Project. The things that get me excited...

Plan B ( Queens Target )
1. Get keys before leave for work - 4:00pm
2. Krista get printed driving directions from Target to WB - 10:00am
3. James Leave work - 4:00pm
4. James arrive at car - 4:30pm
5. NE corner of 46th and 2nd Avenue - 5:00pm
6. Krista get in car - 5:01pm
directions subject to deliverable 2
Turn left on 46th street > Turn left on 1st Avenue > Left on 58th > Right on Queensboro bridge
7. Arrive Target - 5:50pm
8. Park at Target - 6:10pm
9. Leave Target - 7:10pm
10. Eat somewhere - 7:45pm
11. Arrive Western Beef - 8:30pm
12. Leave Western Beef - 9:30pm
13. Go to Krista Apt. - 10:00pm
14. Leave Krista Apt. - 10:30pm
15. Arrive Manhattan - 11:00pm
16. Look for parking - 12:00pm

Whew, we'll see how smoothly that goes. An eight hour excursion. Really. We were generous with most of the time allotment, but not crazily so. I'm already ahead of the game because I got driving directions at 9:01am which give a laughable 6 min. travel time (we allowed a not far fetched 20 minutes just for parking at Target--it's taken longer). I also found a perfect place to eat that's exactly on our route from Target to Western Beef, Tangra Masala, a Chinese Indian (Chinese food like they'd make in India) place I've been wanting to try. This is actually an ideal plan, not only is the restaurant directly on the proper path, but I also needed to take a quick peek at the Onderdonk House, this historic site in Ridgewood to make sure it's really in an industrial pocket of the neighborhood (I know I lived there for three years, but I never walked through this particular isolated area) since that's what I say in my profile and I can't stand inaccuracy, and the house is on Flushing Ave., also directly on the route to Western Beef. I won't even have to get out of the car and lose precious minutes. Originally I thought I'd have to make a detour to pick up a copy of "The Ridgewood Times," needed for average rent comparison, but luckily the pregnant secretary here happens to live there and I was able to have her bring me a copy today. Even more time shaved off. I'm determined to make this itinerary a success. I just got a Target credit card and I'm not afraid to use it.

6/26/02
So, I'm writing this profile of Ridgewood, Queens and I'm trying to find nice ways of saying it's a freakish, isolated neighborhood where 80% of the residents never venture into Brooklyn or Manhattan. The Queens NYC Blogger map (have you been hearing all about this new site, or is it just an NYC hype? Damn, I hate the word blog) illustrates exactly what I mean. I was surprised at how even the most obscure, far-flung neighbohoods have dots on the map (many are high school kids, I've noticed. So far, there are two dots at my 36th St. stop including myself) yet there is a peculiar absence of "bloggers" (ew, I said blog) at all three Ridgewood stops: Seneca, Forest and Fresh Pond Road. I guess there aren't any dots in the Far Rockaways either. Yesterday I ran into Noah Anus (sorry, I just can't refrain from the tired nickname, I mean no harm, I just fear one day accidentally calling him that to his face) in front of the office I'm temping at. He said he'd seen me around the area previously, and that's not good because I always pride myself on seeing people first--you've got to keep the upper hand. I noticed his hair was graying, and I was like god, I really am aging when even the guys I think of as youngsters are getting gray too. For maybe the last six months or so there's been an awful lot of my hair in the drain, then this morning I noticed along my part little 1-2" gray hairs sticking straight out where all the dark brown had broken off. What horror. The last time I suffered this fate was in my late teens/early 20s and I'd bleach my hair like crazy, three times a day sometimes, and the white blonde part would snap off leaving prickly black patches when my natural hair grew in. Now it's the reverse, color-wise. I haven't even colored my hair since last year, now I'm afraid that it'll all start falling out. I don't really mind going with the gray, actually I'm curious how gray it will really turn if I don't color it, but as I think I've said before, in my early-mid 20s it was kind of a cool novelty to have gray pieces, at nearly 30 it's haggard and lazy looking. It turns out Noah Anus works at the same place my friend Jessica does, but has never talked to her. I told him he should. It's weird running into people, and it seems to be happening with increased frequency. I'm guessing because the last 6 months I spent primarily in my own neighborhood where no one goes and before that spent a year working in Brooklyn. Sunday I was lazy and didn't leave the house (well, James's apt.--he was out of town, and I got bored hanging around his place) till 5:30pm and that was to go look for records (cds technically, but you still call it record shopping, right?) since I feel weird about always buying music online, and I'm out of touch anyway, I couldn't tell you the last show I went to. On my list was "Rock Bottom" Kiss Offs, "Getaway" The Clean, "Psychedelicate" Slumber Party, "Feel" Nagisa Ni Te and "Everyone Who Pretended to Like Me Is Gone" Walkmen (see, I could've just bought them on Amazon). First I went to Kim's but that was lame even though they were playing "Fool's Gold" and that song always puts me in a good mood, then I headed to Other Music and ended up running into acquaintances, friends of friends, indiepop kids (ha, many of us are rapidly leaving our 20s if we haven't already) affiliated with the March list. I don't subscribe to any music mailing lists (well, technically I never unsubscribed from the Sinister list, but I haven't checked my earthlink mail account in over two years so it's as good as being unsubscribed.) I always forget how nice these folks are. I was invited to a party, though it's the same day as a mini fete I'm throwing, Weed & Feed . After saying goodbye, Heather came back and asked if I wanted to go with the crew for drinks at Great Jones before the Indiepop Dance Party. I vaguely know about these things, shows, parties, excursion, but rarely attend. So I went, and it was fun, and I drank too many girlie vodka lemonades and got hopped up on ephedrine, but weird because I'm so not plugged into any scene, even though I like the same music and don't notice things like how Mark Ibold from Pavement was bartending (I did recognize Calvin Johnson at the party later, but duh, I'm old-school NW). I was just going to buy a few cds (which I didn't do in my distraction) then go home eat leftover Thai food. But I got all wound up and ended up going to the party anyway, especially since it was free and only two blocks from James's at Bar 13. I had to leave by 11pm, however, since I had the keys to his place and that's when his train arrived and I can't stay up all night now that I'm a working stiff. So, I think you run into people more in Manhattan, and that's not so bad.

6/23/02
Speaking of mind-numbing temp jobs, today I saw this article (the link will be dead in a week) in the Times referencing a recent popular piece "Boring, Passive Work May Hasten Death: Study." What interested me the most is that the author is a Slate columnist, Rob Walker, and Friday when I wasn't even doing boring, passive work I ended up on his website reading about his move to New Orleans. Why, for crying out loud? I don't know the guy, I don't care about the guy, I was just really freakin' bored. I felt the years being shaved from my life, with each line I read. Yesterday I had an enlightening excursion to Jamaica, Queens to use the Long Island Collection at the Queens Library. Queens is so peculiar that way. The central Brooklyn library is in an accessible location, on lots of subway lines, close to Manhattan, at the corner of Prospect Park in a lively area. The Queens central library is way the hell out on the end of F and E lines, a pain in the ass for anyone in Manhattan, Brooklyn and most of Queens for that matter (it used to take me a full hour to reach Jamaica from Ridgewood, which is already in Queens, and only like 2 inches away on a map). I wanted to get info on Ridgewood for the next Village Voice neighborhood thing I'm writing and certain stuff couldn't be found on the internet. I don't think it was totally necessary, but I like covering all bases. Everyone else went to the mermaid parade at Coney Island, but that was OK since it's always hot, crowded and nasty (a condom was reported to be floating around in the water amidst god knows what else) and I won't swim anyway. I may as well have spent the afternoon in a special room (you need a pass and the guard has to use the key on the elevator to allow access to the second floor) full of NYC history nuts. Of course, I (not so) secretly love that whole genre of people, underpaid, unsocialized, full of useless knowledge, eager to show off. The desk guy (not sure if he was a librarian or an asst.--this is a serious distinction in the library world--one fancies himself a highly trained professional, the other is a grunt) brought me all sorts of bric a brac like Ridgewood vertical files filled with walking tours written by grade school kids in the '70s. A short know-it-all heard my interest in the neighborhood and piped up all he knew about Ridgewood and Geraldine Ferraro and zip code changes from 25 years ago. I wanted to know whether Ridgewood was considered all Queens, or part Brooklyn, like some sources state and everyone seemed to have an opinion the subject. Who knew. I stopped off in Jackson Heights on the way back, walked around and tried to find, Sripraphai, the best Thai restaurant in NYC. We always drive there, so I got turned around a bit. I picked up a green papaya salad (which I just ate the remnants of for breakfast), duck and eggplant curry and a plastic container filled with those weird custardy, ricey, coconut squares with three black beans on top. It was a successful afternoon, if you ask me.

6/22/02
It's Saturday so working is far from my mind, but I was meaning to write about work-related tid-bits that are now escaping me. I've never had such an odd temp job (well, the one where I sat at a desk with no computer and nothing to read and waited for repair faxes to come through so I could radio maintenance comes close--same temp agency too). Some days I have about 10 minutes worth of work to do. Yesterday I had absolutely nothing to do all day. You would think this would be great, but a. it's giving me brain damage, b. I don't have any idea what they think I'm doing all day--I feel like some weird George Costanza, it'd be a great scam if I was getting paid more, I think I'm pretty much earning what I deserve at the moment. c. it's not as if I can do whatever I want, I'm in view of people all day, it's too quiet to use the phone (the higher paying temp agency who sent me on the interview for the non-profit that I never heard back from called me last week about some potential job, but I can never get in touch with the recruiter, she's always out and I'm not at a number where I can be called back, it's very frustrating. She must think I'm irresponsible or disinterested in jobs, which isn't true I called like 4 times Thurs. and Fri. and she was out or on the other line and I got voicemail and had no number to leave. I guess this is why people have cell phones) and it's hard to concentrate on anything so it's not like I can get any writing done that I'd like to. Plus, there's always the fear that anything written on a computer can be read when you're away from the desk, which I learned while temping last time. It only took a week before the guy at the coffee/donut cart knew my order: large black coffee. They're always on the ball that way. It's nice but it's pressure because as soon as they see you they start your order, and what if I wanted to change it? I wanted iced coffee Friday but he already had the hot coffee cup out. So trying. Sometimes I get a bagel to mix things up. I know the coffee and bagels aren't so hot at these carts, but it's quick and it's cheap. I don't know anywhere else where you can get both for $1.25. I'm not supposed to be eating bagels anyway, no, it's not a low-carb issue, it just seems healthier (and even cheaper) to get a quarter banana at the cart next to it, even though I hate bananas. I've never worked in midtown before, and I have to say the east side seems preferable to the Times Sq. area, at least there are places to sit at lunch. Sitting is very important to me, I absolutely refuse to stand and eat or walk and eat. There's this little Dag Hammarskjold plaza place with benches (on the same block where I interviewed for that non-profit job two Mondays ago, and had bloody heels from my interview shoes and stopped in to change into flip flops, with no knowledge that the very next day I would be assigned a job on that same block and eat there nearly every day. I'm always afraid I'll bump into one of the people I met). Pigeons are everywhere, which I never give much thought to, but yesterday they seemed particularly rambunctious and it occurred to me that they could shit on you. I was sitting on a bench with my legs at a normal angle, feet tucked under a bit when I felt a slimy sensation on my right heel. I jumped and looked down to discover a big, wet green turd on the back of my foot and sandal. There's no way a pigeon could've flown over and pooped, as my body was above my feet and they were tucked under the bench. All I can figure is that a pigeon wiped his butt on my foot and that's highly disturbing.

6/18/02
All overheard last week:

Beefy, 20-something guy in khakis: "So,'I Am Sam' comes out Tuesday."
Different beefy, 20-something guy in khakis: "Nice."
That would be today. Have at it.

In the elevator: "You're staying late today?"
"Yeah, I'm leaving at 3:30."
Who are these people? And how early must one get to work to consider 3:30 late?!

On the subway by a woman about my size: "What I would give to be a size O."
I'll grant you a wishful 4, or even a hopeful 2, I suppose. But a 0 is nuts. How can a body possibly be smaller than a whole number? Give it a few years and 0 will start seeming large. Negative sizing is a definite possibility for the future. Less than zero will become more than a Jamie Gertz movie.

Wafting from a room at my current temp job:"Yeah, she's still sick"
"Your wife a smoker?"
"Nah. Overweight."

I've been sensing a creepy, angry vibe lately, and this weekend just proved it. Driving is a total nightmare here. Of course I don't have a car, and wouldn't dare, I'm petrified how drivers handle themselves. Just being a passenger gives me headaches and induces nausea. It's like a constant obstacle course. Every excursion is fraught with near misses, and I always marvel how few accidents occur, all things considered. Well, Sunday James and I almost made it all the way to my apt. before a car pulled out from the curb and smacked the side I was sitting on (did I mention how a couple months ago a car hit my side twice on the BQE going at least 70/mph and scared the shit out of me. It made a popping noise, car parts flew in the air, and the car squealed off. The weird thing was that the only noticeable damage was a little scrape above the back wheel and a small dent). It wasn't a hard hit, but I heard and felt it. I saw a car bump into the back of another the other day and the guy who got hit just ignored it. The guy yelled, "sorry, man" and started driving off, but James didn't ignore it, pulled our car over and told the guy to wait while he looked for any damage. This seemed reasonable, I thought. You never know if what seems like minor damage could end up being bigger. After James angrily said, "you hit my car" the incident started developing all the makings of a road rage tragedy. The middle-aged, pot-bellied, classic white Brooklyn guy went ballistic, got out of his car, a shouting match ensued, I wrote down the license plate number and waited for someone to get punched (James, most likely since I've never known him to be physically aggressive or intimidating). Everyone on the block was watching from stairs and porches, so we had witnesses if needed. The guy was screaming how he hadn't hit the car (funny, since he apologized while initially driving off), he didn't see any damage, then started wildly accusing us of hitting him. James kept repeating, "You know what you did" which just sent the guy into an even uglier rage, conjuring comical threats like, "the only thing I'm going to dent is your face." Some nearby Asian woman frantically started dialing her phone, and I wondered if the police were going to show up. I wondered if we should call, I mean if something actually turned out being wrong with the car, and some sort of action needed to be taken, wouldn't you need a police report? I was like, "let's just get out of here" and as we started driving off, the guy kept walking slowly in front of the car, not letting us speed up, then acted like we'd hit him and jumped up on the hood of the car making a big indented butt-print, and this is when I lost my shit. Some secret part of me must have absorbed stereotypical New York behavior. I started shaking my fist at him out of the window and yelled, "Get the fuck outta here!" like some mustachioed man in an undershirt leaning out a window sill. I don't know where that came from. We did call the police when we got back to my place, and nothing came of it really. At best you can report a hit and run, but it's not worth it unless your car has suffered serious damage since filing such claim will raise your insurance. The police were basically of the grin and bear it school of thought and seemed suspicious of James when he said the guy jumped on the hood, all likely story. Please. It's just frustrating, and it's not even my car. It's frustrating because this is the second time we've been hit in about three months, and maybe it's a dent here and a dent there, but this is a new car, and at this rate it's going to be a banged up piece of junk within a year, and don't people have any respect for others anymore? People are so goddamn nasty. I'd not very seriously been entertaining the idea of always carrying a handful of rocks on me, mostly to sling at cars who almost run me over when I have the right of way. I don't mean in Manhattan where it's crazy congested, though pedestrian dominated, but in Brooklyn, my neighborhood specifically, where cars pay little attention to people who stroll (you've heard about the cop who ran over that family just down the street from me--I wasn't one bit surprised). If I had my handful of rocks, that car-hitter would've definitely been pelted in the head. Part of me was glad the jerk was white, otherwise you know the ass would pull some race issue. I thought people were unstable and crazy, and this was before I heard about the fucked up shooting/hostage rampage that'd happened the night before. This story is just out of control and confirms that bad ominous feeling I've been having about the city lately. Violence is one thing, but random violence always scares me more. Mr. Johnson (the scary guy) shot a stranger in the stomach just three blocks from James's (we didn't go out Sat. night which is really rare. Now I'm glad) for no good reason, then shot him again as he entered Bar Veloce (which amuses me only for the fact that it's a wine bar, which screams 'white person' and like this guy apparently hated white people, so it was an uncanny choice. Another good reason to avoid wine bars. A few months ago a friend had a 30th birthday at a different East Village wine bar, Louis, and next to us was a 20th birthday party, which baffled me. I noticed the ages of many of the victims in this hostage situation were 20. So now underage drinkers are sneaking into wine bars?) for help. I don't know, Mr. Johnson had three guns, a 30" knife, boxcutter, 100 plastic handcuffs and kerosene which he threw on people, that's just a bit much. I just don't have time for irrational, hopped-up crazy people. You can't reason with them, there's nothing you can do, and that's true creepiness, like years ago when a bunch of teens (well, I was a teen too, now that I think about it) followed me off a bus and went nuts on me about Rodney King (it was right after the verdict) and how it was my fault, and pulled a knife on me and demanded my money (I had like $7). I was so mad, but they were clearly high or drunk or who knows what and you have no control over their fuzzy logic. That was Portland, this is New York, so craziness can't be avoided anywhere, I suppose. I'm still contemplating concealed rocks as a weapon, though.

6/13/02
Ah, the temp life. It's weird, but you don't need me to tell you that. I don't know if I should be bothered or flattered, but it seems that nearly everyone I've encountered in the past week thinks I'm much younger than I am. The pregnant woman I'm supposed to replace thought I was early 20s. On the phone, The Village Voice editor flat-out asked me how old I was (I know that's illegal in job interviews, but I doubt it applies to writer/editor interactions) And today I ran into this guy from the other office on our floor at the elevator three times. Unfortunately the last time was when were both leaving for the day and he decided to introduce himself and strike up a conversation with me. Outside of work I'm in a zone and wanted to leave with as little fuss as possible. He walked with me outside, started talking to a bootleg cd salesman, so I kept walking. Moments later he caught back up, "hey, you took off." Well, duh, I had important things to do (go to the gym, try on new skirt, make penang curry and apple crisp [which I'm eating right now--it's pretty good]). He wanted to know where I lived, talked about his job and used words like "telecom" and "C.E." and wanted to know if I was a C.E. too. Who knows what the heck C.E. means, I made it clear I was merely an administrative temp, he was all, "so you're a consultant" No, I'm a temp, I hate all that glorified terminology. But the thing is he's in school, thought I was also in school and seemed baffled by the fact that I already had a degree. College hasn't been on my mind in over eight years. I don't get it. Anyone in my peer group would guess my correct age within a year or two. It's people that I share little common ground with who get confused, so I think perceived youthfulness must stem from disparate life experiences. What I think makes me appear younger than my almost 30 years: being single and childless, timidity with strangers, staying out of the sun, talking fast in my "west coast accent," not wearing taupe and not carrying a cell phone (OK, the last one's arbitrary). What I can't account for is my gray hair, which must be at least 15%-20% of my total color now, and years of smoking, which hasn't seemed to create any deep lines or creases that people my age have been known to posess. In the same way I love chain restaurants, I also enjoy all the ammenities positioned in worker hubs. Places catering to middle-class, bargain-hunting lunchtime shoppers. Places I would never go out of my way for, live no where near, but frequent when positioned nearby. Places like Conway, Daffy's and Strawberry. I used to kill my lunch hour at these same stores last time I temped, only then it was downtown, not midtown. At Strawberry I bought an odd pair of 35% off shoes. Odd because they're borderline, sensible old lady, and brown, to boot. I even found a cute $9.99 skirt in my size. Go Strawberry! Food-wise, places likeCosi and Pret a Manger (there's two?! within mere blocks of the office) entice me with their packaged to go preciousness. I'm a sucker for prepared stuff, but I can't afford it. I'll never understand people who get coffee and an egg on a roll (classic deli special. The woman I work with gets hers fried and oozing with cheese and bacon, for lunch she eats pepperoni pizza. Her dr. told her not to eat bacon or pepperoni. I've never been told not eat either, but I still know better to do that kind of thing daily) for breakfast, and also eat lunch out every day (and would estimate about 89% of New Yorkers do). That cutesey impulse crap adds up, but damn I love prepared foods. Too bad I'm back to my ol' brown bag tricks. A can of beans, pack of tortillas, old but not expired cheese and sour cream hidden in the back of the fridge and a sprinkle of chile garlic sauce (I'm crazy for this stuff, I've been known to eat it with cream cheese on bagels) made a four day supply of burritos.

6/11/02
Urgh, I feel like I've been running around like a chicken with my head cut off (pardon the convoluted-ness of this entry). And I've taken so many freakin' typing tests in the past few weeks that it's hard to put fingers to keyboard for fun. So many temping dilemmas. Yesterday I was sent on an interview for a temp, two-day/week, decent hourly pay job writing for a non-profit. It seemed alright, though they may be a bit finicky. The two days a week pay is slightly more than my full week unemployment check, but still not enough to really live on. But this seemed OK if it panned out in addition to another temp job, a 20 hour/week (pay unknown) librarian for a financial magazine that emailed me Fri. wanting to know a good # and time to reach me. This is not through an agency, it was an ad I answered, and it is now Tues. and they have not called me. This is worrying. I'm not sure if I should just email again. I thought the two day/week plus 20 hour/week combo would be ideal, even if they only last till fall. However, I have nothing substantial to go on from either and immediate money is imperative. So I hit a lower-brow agency, the same one I used when I first moved here four years ago. They instantly got me a job, and for the same not-so-hot pay I received in '98 (The reason I tried the infuriating agencies a week or two ago was because I knew they had higher paying clients, but apparently no jobs, at least for me). Great, and I have to report at 8:30am, the earliest I've ever had to work in my life. I started this job today, and it's stressful. Not the job, the hours and culture. I wasn't able to log onto the internet a single time today, and had no private use of a phone. I was supposed to call the agency about the non profit job and had not a second alone to do so, and I think The Village Voice editor is getting annoyed with me because they need me to be available to confirm facts, as my piece is going up tomorrow (I think?) and I don't have a number to be reached at. This morning they emailed me a photo to I.D., but I couldn't get in my email till after I got home at 6pm, then I was told specifically that I needed to be available by phone late tomorrow afternoon, which is near impossible. It's really frustrating. The only solution I can think of is to borrow James's cell phone tomorrow, which will involve my stopping my his apt. before work, which means I have to get up even earlier than normal excruciatingly early. I hate working mon.-fri. 9-5 (or 8:30-5 in this case). What if I end up getting an interview somewhere? I can't just take off during the day. In my experience, temp jobs aren't all flexible like people think they are. So, first day on the job was dull, but not wholly scarring. Essex (the low-end, but always busy temp agency) must have the corner on the market on peculiarly boring jobs. Last time I worked the front desk in a ratty, isolated construction firm, on a desolate floor in an otherwise prestigious building. The staff were all men, all Italian, swore like sailors and smoked in the office. There wasn't really all that much to do, I was left alone for hours at a time with computer with no internet access. This time it's a structural engineering firm with a large, bustling office on the third floor. I'm at the desk on the sparse, dingy 12th floor annex with only a handful of employees. There isn't really any greeting (visitors would go to the 3rd fl.), the phone didn't seem to ring too much, and if I understood correctly, the job really only consists of typing memos and making lots of printouts and photocopies. There is internet connection this time, but there is also a very pregnant, grouchy Puerto Rican secretary from Ridgewood (named Yvette. This is the third job in two years where I've worked directly with a Puerto Rican named Yvette--what gives?) who is still at her desk. I literally spent the whole day sitting in a chair watching her bold text and change fonts. Well, not the whole day. She didn't come in till 10am so the first hour and a half I spent hanging out with the marketing director, who is a total classic character. He's got to be in his 70s, Italian, born and bred New Yorker (I think I'm the only one in the office without an accent) who calls me "doll" and "hon" and constantly cracks "take my wife, please" type jokes. He was very nice, the 40-ish, Spanish speaking woman who lived in Venezuela for 17 years and works with him and has the same Jewish last name as the company's name is also very nice. The cranky pregnant secretary who's a picky eater with a grade-schooler's palate (sorry, pet peeve. I go nuts when people are closed-minded about food. She hates cranberry juice and carrots, didn't know what bechamel or gazpacho was, and won't cook anything from scratch, only cans and boxes) I'm supposed to replace in July (please sooner) is actually pretty nice too. Everyone's OK, but I have absolutely nothing in common with anyone. I felt numerous anxiety attacks coming on, light-headedness, tight-chest. I don't interact well with strangers, and the day started off predictably rocky. Yesterday I wore my interview shoes (instead of my BCBG loafers I'd been wearing to these things for the past couple weeks because I was told by the agency to dress more "conservatively." The funny thing is I'd been wearing this hideous black Ralph Lauren suit jacket [it was the least offensive of the four black jackets they had in my size at T.J. Maxx the day I happened to go] to every other agency, but decided against it at this one measly place, since it's temp anyway and who really cares...well, they did, apparently.) without socks (but with bandaids) and managed to rip the skin off the back of both my heels and create blisters everywhere. Then, James played hooky from work yesterday so instead of going home and being productive and preparing for my first temp work day, I went back to his place and we goofed off eating junk food and watched "Insomnia" with heinous Robin Williams. I meant to go home after the movie, but got lazy so I stayed, but this meant I had to make do with the clothes I had at his place which were a total mismatched hodge podge. The interview shoes were out, the glitter sandals also a no no, same with the strappy heels. All that remained were my too-tight, sky-blue semi-ballet shoes with a rubber sole. Even with three bandaids on each foot and a godawful pair of men's socks, it felt like little knives were stabbing my feet with every step. I looked like this hobbling hag with bright blue shoes, decent pants, and too tight, too sheer magenta button-up that looks OK with a jacket (I wasn't going to attempt it in 90 degree humid weather), but freaky alone. I'd barely stepped wounded foot out the door before the bust-line button popped open. Clothing trauma always ensues when I temp. I'm not meant to live like this, putting on these bland, sensible outfits, constantly worrying if my buttons are popping, if my pantylines are visible, if my tattoos show, if it's OK to go bare-legged or wear glorified flip-flops. So, I sat with the secretary all day, looking forward to my hour lunch where I could just be alone, check my messages, make appropriate phone calls, etc. Well, at 12:15 the old charmer came out and announced it was lunch time. This meant he, the secretary, the South American Jew and myself were all going out together. I totally panicked. He took us to an Italian joint where everyone knew and totally fell all over him (the experience had a touch of the "Sopranos" to it) and we had to do an actual sit-down meal with Peroni (I had water) and biscotti and espresso afterward. We were gone a solid hour and a half, and he paid. That's not something I can complain about, however. But the two women took off on an errand, and I was left to walk with Charlie back to the office at a painfully sl-o-w pace. But with my bloody stumps, I could hardly object. The whole day was weird, maybe it was unusual, but there appeared to be very little work being done by anyone. People who came in after me, left before me, and I left earlier than my 5:00 end time. This job is supposed to last till the end of Sept., and I can see it being tolerable if I had the desk, phone and computer to myself (and if the pay were a little better), but I would prefer something a little less brain-numbing and slightly more lucrative. Plus, it's time-sucking. I'm so tired from getting up so early that I have no energy to stay-up and write when I get home (it's 9:13pm and my eyes keep going blurry), and there's this intensive writing class I want to take that starts next month. I really want a part-time job, and I fear becoming stuck at this engineering firm all summer long.

6/6/02
I don't know why I always feel bad for local failing business. I've mentioned the Last Stop Restaurant and Deli on my corner that was closed for like first 9 months I lived here, then opened for about one month, closed and has been re-opened by another family. I've never seen a single person go in there, and they've gone crazy this time, putting down Astroturf, a wrought iron fence and tables around the perimeter. It's an isolated corner with a view of the cemetery. Today they added large bright signs advertising rotisserie chicken. I don't think it's helping. I think I'm the only who gets wound up by these failures. Last week some woman was out front talking about the new tables and chairs in front of this deli to my upstairs neighbor, and all he could say repeatedly was, "how stupid" and that they'd be out of business soon. People think I'm all nasty and negative, but that isn't true at all. In my daily life I experience at least twice as much hostility and negativity coming from others. It makes me think of those Hispanic guys you'll occasionally see selling cotton candy on poles. I always thought it was pretty, maybe not the most noble profession, but pretty. But there was a cotton candy guy on the M subway platform and these two young black guys were totally losing their shit over how stupid selling cotton candy is, "it's dumb!" and going on loudly and relentlessly about what an useless job this guy had. I mean I could easily think of one hundred more idiotic jobs, there's better stuff to get worked up over, I think. Maybe it's the warm weather, but there seem to be lots of minor changes in my area: that bodega with the amusing giant sandwich painted on the front just added text, "Super Tortas," which amuses me even more, another bodega on my immediate block that's been shut-up for months just re-opened as a candy wholesaler, which doesn't do me much good I guess, but who can deny the appeal of goodies, on the same strip an old intimidating Mexican restaurant is being turned into a new place called La Cascada touting Italian and Ecuatorian (their spelling) food, which may prove interesting. I love incongruous combos. Speaking of all this neighborhood talk, my profile of Sunset Park is going to be in "The Village Voice" in a week or two. They recently added this new section about up and coming neighborhoods in their real estate section, and while I don't really see Sunset Park gentrifying in the immediate future, I convinced them to let me write it anyway. The real trick is if I can sell them on Ridgewood, Queens. I would have the last laugh if I were able to stir up a mini influx of apt. seekers to NYC's hinterlands. Urgh, I can't stay up late since I have to be at a temp agency tomorrow at 9am (I had to be at another one this morning at 10am). All this getting up before noon is killing me.