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3/28/02
I never thought I'd say this, but I'm totally Jeopardy'd out. Monday night I got a VIP ticket through a friend of a friend who was a P.A. for the Million Dollar Masters' Tournament (that will air May 8,9,10--look for me in the audience--it's probably as close as I'll ever get to the Jeopardy stage) they were taping at Radio City Music Hall. We were excited, but a little nervous because what if it really sucked? It was fun at first to see Johnny Gilbert hamming it up in a satin jacket, telling bad jokes and forcing applause. When the first show started it was also fun, but by the third show and after airing a lame video of the horrible Clue Crew, then introducing them, and Alex answering audience questions where there'd be commercials and when they'd have to stop taping to verify questions, it started to get unbearable. It got so every time Alex came out for questions, I'd cringe, Deeann said it made her uncomfortable like an embarrassing dad in front of friends. He'd just go on and on and make unfunny jokes and people kept asking things like "can I have a kiss?" or "what are your pets' names?" and because it's NYC people yelled out of turn and when he'd point at someone, a different person would insist on shouting out their question over the chosen one's query. I mean, it wasn't a bad experience, I think my attention would've been held if they'd only done one or two games. And I'm still convinced that I need to get on there. I swear in the past few months, either the questions have gotten easier or I've increased my trivial knowledge because I'm getting way more right (however, I didn't do that great with the material on Mon. It's hard to keep the answers inside you head and not say them--they make a big deal about being silent, but it didn't stop the young hipster couple who moved behind us during the last game from answering every freakin' question in a loud whisper, and they weren't even right answers half the time. Bah.) Maybe by the time I'm 50 (if I make it to 50), I'll get through the contestant tryout process.

3/26/02
This was one of those not enough sleep, drinking too much extended weekends (now that I think about it, the past three months have almost felt like an extended weekend) that leaves you feeling beat up. The various birthday celebrations were a bit traumatic and chaotic, but I won't go into that since it's hard to without sounding malicious and petty. I ended up getting a cute little ice cream cake with a White Castle Craverscope Cravies "the fry bearded ram" on it, and buying a deep fryer and french fry maker for James. I guess when he was home last week his mom told him he was getting a double chin (I think the beast blames me, like I have any control over anyone else's flab [besides, he's not flabby], so this gift should make her happy. What struck me most out of the weekend was an incident that occurred late Friday night. I don't know what it is with socks, and to a lesser degree shoes, that draw bad attention. I was harassed by guys on subway stairs over lavender fishnet socks, told my pink striped socks with red shoes were ugly by a stranger and Friday at Barramundi as James and I were getting up to leave, this femmey guy accosts me and says, "too bad you're going, I wanted to give you a foot massage." I thought I'd heard him incorrectly, mostly because he seemed very gay in voice and in action (he was rubbing up against and hugging the guy he was with at the bar--not that that makes you an automatic homo, but you know). James didn't hear what he said and got all irked, but I didn't want to repeat it till we left because all night he'd been aggro and I could just see him doing some freaky, uncharacteristic thing like starting shit with the guy. So, before leaving we sat at a different table with friends by the door, right across from the wannabe massager and his male friend. To my chagrin, he saw us and started over. He was all, "I thought you said you were leaving" and I was like, "uh" all caught off guard and he crouched next to our booth and put my foot up on his leg and started undoing the strap and was going on about how hot my shoes were (see, my shoes, not my feet. Gay) and I started freaking out because I hate foot stuff, I really do, and massages, and well, I wasn't in the mood to be hit on by sexually ambiguous fetishists either (there's a time and place for everything). I declined politely, but James got all mad like I'd predicted (he's not an aggro fight type either, it was just a pushed to the limit night) and the foot freak asked if he was my boyfriend, then went off about how he and his wife have sex with other people all the time and how it's fine, and this sort of personality is OK to deal with sometimes, but we were already irritated and not up for entertaining free-spirited antics and the vibe quickly turned from amusement to discomfort and ended with the guy dismissing us with a snotty, "well, I guess the flavor of the month is vanilla" which totally made me bust a gut. God, I'm such a fuddy duddy for not getting all hot over the prospect of a gay sexual sandwich. Like that's the worst insult he could come up with, and it was said in that really stereotypical, haughty, lisp that always conjures up Mike Hogan, high school drama class queen who was tan as a Brazil nut, wore pink tank tops and used that voice for memorable lines like, "Eat it up, Yum-my!" during improvs. I know that's funny to no one in the world except my sister and myself. Say "eat it up, yummy" (pronounced yuh ME) to this day, and we'll piss ourselves. I just don't understand what it is with the shoes and socks. I thought I was being sort of classy/conservative that night with black Mary Jane pumps with white stitching (they're my interview shoes, but seeing as how they aren't getting much use these days, I thought I'd turn them into going out shoes) and beige fishnets (which were barely visible since I had long, wide leg pants on). Sat. night I predicted trouble before even leaving the house when I put on black sandals with cream anklets covered in pastel polka dots. As far as I know, nothing was said that evening, but it's best to be on your guard. Your footwear can get you into a heap of trouble if you don't watch it.

3/20/02
It's confirmed. I'm a complete retard. I've suspected it for a while, but yesterday it became abundantly clear when I swung a thin plastic bag with a very large, heavy frozen leg of lamb in it as I climbed the subway stairs. The hunk of meat burst through the seams, landed painfully on my right foot, then landed on the sidewalk. My foot is still in pain, I suppose the lamb leg is OK. It's one of those weeks where you feel everything is working against you. I may as well have stayed in bed for the past two days. Argh, and now a new upset--while I was typing this, I decided to peek at the tracking of my Amazon.com order in the other window and it appears to have been at the UPS facility in Brooklyn since yesterday at 6:06. Fine, but next to today's date is the following: APARTMENT NUMBER NEEDED, NOT DELIVERED;POSTCARD HAS BEEN SENT. I don't have a fucking apartment number! I'm losing my shit. I need these presents by Sat. I ordered them 15 days ago. The upset I was going to mention was how I decided to order a "Freeze Frame" cake from Baskin Robbins. Only certain stores do them, and I was sort of surprised to see that the new one that just opened near me did them. I didn't trust this, as it's Brooklyn and everything's busted, and my neighborhood is especially broken down. Calling first seemed smart, but their website doesn't list numbers and this location is too new to be in the phone book. So I walked in a rainstorm, talked to three different people before the manager finally told me their scanner is broken. Big freakin' surprise. Why I even thought that something advertised in Brooklyn would actually be available is the question. I was told the one 70 blocks south did them so I caught the subway (which was on the corner--that's about the only convenient thing that occurred all day) which only went three stops before stopping and announcing there was a delay and we were being indefinitely held in the station. That's when I lost my shit for the first time today (for some reason, I didn't get mad at the B.R. manager, probably because I wasn't fully awake yet). I really think I am going to make myself have a heart attack one of these days. What I can't figure out is who no one else seems to be annoyed by how half-assed everything is and how long it takes to accomplish petty tasks. It took me four hours to go to Baskin Robbins on 25th St., ride the R to 59th St., get off in disgust, cross the platform, catch the N back up to Pacific St., buy a tee-shirt and skirt at Old Navy, pick up groceries at the Pathmark downstairs and catch the W back down to 36th St. I swear to God, with a car that same series of errands would take 1 1/2-2 hours. I just went up and down Fourth Ave. along like a 70 block track. Whatever. I need to get back to making an iron-on for that tee-shirt I bought.

3/15/02
What I've been digging the past few days: Four Kingdoms of Black Lipstick ep (I hardly ever hear music where I'm like "yeah!" and play the darn thing over and over) and Orville Redenbacher's new Kettle Corn. Yum. I don't even like popcorn (unless it's caramel covered) it' like salty nothing, but this is the best of both worlds: salty and sweet. I guess you could get the same effect by dumping butter and sugar on popcorn, but it's the allure of the microwave (belive it or not, I'd never made microwave popcorn until this evening). James was in Nashville on business, just for the day, yesterday. I got a cute snowglobe with a guitar and banjo out of the deal, but it reminds me of another cd I picked up (well, ordered online. Urgh, online shopping. I was so keen on it, especially a couple weeks ago when I bought birthday presents on Amazon.com after getting a $1,200 credit line [so dangerous for the unemployed sap, all these credit offers]. Then I got annoyed yesterday because after checking the status of my order, realized they hadn't shipped yet and the presents wouldn't arrive by the 22nd when I need them. And today I get an email message saying my credit had been declined, and it would be re-tryed later. This makes no sense since Amazon is the one who issued the credit and sent me an official letter last week with all the official disclosure info. So, the stuff would've shipped today, but is not being held in some limbo until the credit thing works out and I called too late today, now nothing will happen till Mon. This is like the third time I've been late with presents because I've ordered online. I'm starting to think I have brain damage, not just for this reason. I got James this present at Target, but bought the wrong size [it's not clothing] after making extra sure I was getting the correct model. I've also been looking all over for cake flour for a birthday cake and finally found a package today, at some gourmet place, it was organic and crap, but was the only one that said cake flour. So, when I got it home I realized it's wheat cake flour. I almost burst a blood vessel [God, that's another issue--I dumbly watched part of Oprah at the gym the other day and it was about women and heart disease and how all these women in their early 30s who smoked and ate yummy crap like Buffalo wings had heart attacks and didn't even know it--I'm all convinced that I've already had a heart attack or am about to. Wow, that'd be a family record. I thought all the people dying of heart disease in their 40s and 50s on my dad's side was bad. Which reminds me, my sister reports after her recent west coast visit that I guess my dad still has cancer, but that's not even a concern because according to his wife, "his heart or diabetes will kill him first." That's what you like to hear. He's a goner, who's next? ) the other day, Silver Jews "Bright Flight" which is still creeping up on me, it's not as bam, in your face likeable as Black Lipstick. Uh, the point was that Silver Jews is a Nashville outfit (I'm trying to make smooth transitions here--I still haven't given into the paragraph thing, so why bother with sensical segues, right? Hah, I've also heard that if you need to put more than one sentence into parentheses, you need to re-word. Like that'll happen. This is my fun, not-having-to-think place to spew/write. Real writing is hard, I've discovered. Really. Since taking this class, I've come to the conclusion that I'm an utter retard with nothing to say.). Non-smooth transition: Here's the menu I'm planning for a birthday dinner next week Mussels With Spicy Tomato-Chili Sauce, Roasted Leg of Lamb With Serrano Chile-Mint Jelly and Roasted New Potato Medley, Five-Spiced Creamed Spinach and Chocolate Pecan Layer Cake. I'm going all East meets West, so what if fusion food is '90s. Ack, all these recipes are making me hungry. All I had for dinner was that kettle corn, which was probably so chock-full of triglycerides or hydrogenated fat or whatever else it is that's supposed to give you coronary complications. Goddamn that Oprah for ruining all my fun. Some dietician on her show had the audacity to create a dish using soy milk and cannellini beans and pasta and call it fettucine alfredo. Please. That recipe is not fettucine alfredo. I like beans and I eat soy milk every morning on my cereal, it's not a matter of shunning healthy ingredients. I just hate it when people health-up a meal so hard it bears no resemblance to the original. Call it milk and beans over pasta, but don't lie.

3/12/02
What I've been up to lately is a blur, a bunch of unimportant this and that. Despite growing lazier and lazier I have noticed a few things here and there: Last night I just happened to be heading into Manhattan over the Williamsburg bridge when the towers of light, or whatever they're called, turned on. I guess they're alright, but I'd like a little more girth. I know it appears I'm overly fascinated with feminine hygiene products--first it was the thong pantiliner (ick), then the black pantiliner (cool) and now they're advertising Always Maximum Protection Maxi Pads. The site doesn't explain, but the TV commercial bills them as plus size. They'll do anything to create new products, it appears. That concept creeps me out a bit--I always figured vaginas were sort of like feet in the sense that no matter if you're fat or skinny, they pretty much stay the same size. If you wear a size eight shoe at 125 pounds, you'll still wear a size eight at 175 pounds. At least I think so. I'm glad to see Nessie in the news lately. You don't hear much about the Loch Ness Monster these days (though it came up twice over the weekend, previous to seeing the bit on the news today about a sighting). I'm irked that they're raising pay phones to 50 cents, not that I'm surprised. I could never figure out how they were still 25 cents in NYC when they were up to 35 cents in the rest of the places I'd visit in the U.S. Speaking of pay phones and loose change, Fri. this guy in front of the Last Stop Restaurant and Deli (which I fear has already gone out of business--the gate has been down all week) wanted change for one of those gold dollars. Normally, I'd say sorry without even checking my wallet, but after all my pay phone trauma last month I had to help him out. He was happy to have 75 cents (I only had three quarters) but I felt obligated to root around for the extra dime and nickels. Maybe there will be some karmic payback, but you can't count on stuff like that. Ack, this afternoon this Asian family with lots of shopping bags crowded around me on the subway. It wasn't until we were half way to my stop that I noticed one of the plastic grocery bags was moving. At first I thought I was imagining things because after staring for a spell it was dead still, but whenever the subway would stop, the bag would move again and after straining my eyes I could make out the shape of large speckled frogs inside. I don't know why this grossed me out so hard, but my stomach started churning and I felt sweaty. Frogs on menus never make me flinch, I always get a kick out things like duck webs and fish heads when they're listed. Even the plastic garbage cans teeming with hopping frogs for sale on the sidewalks of Chinese grocers don't bother me. But that frog in the bag almost made me hurl. I wanted to buy crabs in Chinatown before but felt all self-conscious about carrying around moving creatures on the subway. I don't know how else you're supposed to do it, though. Things I've done: Went to the newish Queens Target. It wasn't nearly as busted and ramshackle as I'd expected it to turn since its opening. But parking was a total nightmare, cars back-upped on the ramps, people scowling, yelling and all that. The weird thing was the parking lot was completely empty when we came out an hour later. After a quick tour of Elmhurst's Chinatown, and accidental foray into Jackson Heights' Indiatown and Corona's South Americatown (we got lost on our way to Woodside by going the wrong direction on Roosevelt Ave.) we eventually ended up at our intended destination, Sripraphai, the best Thai restaurant in town. But the point is that it was standing room only packed when we got there and by the time we were seated, there were empty tables all over the place. This always happens. I can't help but feel like my timing is constantly off. Wherever I go it seems that everyone else got there first, hogged up all the space creating time-draining trauma for me, then as soon as I've forced my way in, the place empties out. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to be doing things later or earlier. I can't help but think earlier--don't early birds get the worm? What do noon birds get? I'm scared to even speculate.

3/8/02
I hate being wrong sometimes. It drives me crazy when people mispronounce things. The recent source of offense is the word Willamette, as in Willamette Valley, the Willamette River--places in Oregon. I know how it's pronounced because that's where I grew up, plain and simple. It's like Wil·lam·ette with emphasis on the middle syllable, no bones about it. But some time ago I caught James saying it like Willa Mette. This bothered me, but then folks here also call Oregon Ore Gone. But the straw that broke the camel's back was when he ordered this pinot noir from some Willamette winery (just for the reason that I go nuts over the word) and pronounced it Willa Mette, his logic being that that's how the waiter would say it (I disagree, at nicer restaurants the waitstaff is very informed and knowledgeable about what they serve) and he didn't want to confuse him. This is insane and only reinforces my notion that people in New York are completely retarded. People here also pronounce gyro like jyro instead of yero with all that back of the throat stuff. I don't mean hopeless Americans, but the middle eastern guys selling the stuff from carts, at stands and the like. I don't know if they are conceding to the popular New York pronunciation or if it's just been going on so long that they think it's correct now. If you say yero here you'll get looked at crazy, "Wha?! You mean jyro?" My bottom line has always been to say it however the locals do which would make Oregon Ore gun, Willamette Wil LAM ette and I guess gyro jyro if you're on the East Coast, though the last one really pains me. What really freaked me out, though was when we were in New Orleans and I heard someone pronounce Chartres St. Charters. I'm assuming the street was named after the city in France and therefore it should be said like shart with a slight r at the end. I scoffed at the tourist. It wasn't until my second day that I realized that Charters is how everyone pronounces it, and that I'm the retard. And to follow my own do as the locals do rule, I had to concede. Actually, I don't think I ever used that street name, probably on purpose. They're crazy in the south. For those with speakers, Merriam Webster has something to say about correct pronunciation: Willamette, Oregon, gyro, Chartres.