5/31/99
As of midnight tonight, I am officially done with my stalkee. People don't believe me, but I'm dead serious. I began weaning myself this weekend and it made me sick to my stomach, but it has to be done. I often joke about doing "interventions" on people when they get all freaky and it's so obvious to everyone around them that they're screwing up their lives. Well, I had an intervention pulled on me this weekend. I threw a fit fri. night because my crush wasn't paying proper attention to me and ruined everyone's evening. Then I completely snapped sat. afternoon while trying to pick out a prom dress at my neighborhood thrift store. It was then brought to my attention how completely insane, irrational, and miserable I'd become. It's not like I didn't already know that I was teetering on the edge, but sometimes it takes friends flat out telling you how worried they are and that you're beginning to scare them, to snap you back into reality. I've so been wasting energy and smarts on frivolous pursuits. Seriously. If I even put half the effort into being creative or doing interesting work or who knows what as I do into trying to make uninterested guys like me, I could be a freakin' genius/millionaire by now (well, maybe). I refuse to put up with anymore retardness from guys. This weekend I practiced going places and doing things minus the obsession and I guess I survived. Now, I know and have been told that I'm supposed to be doing this so I learn to have fun without his presence and meet new people blah blah. That's the healthy motive. However, I'm still in the mindset of how by ignoring him, it'll cause him to notice my absence, wonder where I am etc. etc. I can't help it. I hung out with different friends in Brooklyn sat. night and it pained me a bit, sun. I went to Coney Island and actually had a lot of fun (I'd proposed the Coney Island excursion via email to a group of people earlier in the week and you can guess who didn't even have the decency to respond yes or no and really put me in a mood). Today I was invited to lunch by Marti and she tried luring me into Manhattan by saying, "the CSB [Cum Sucking Bitch--the stalkee's nickname] will be there" and I stayed strong and said no. Last night I had a message from Marti saying she and the CSB would be at Max Fish (I love those corny City Search reviews--bear with me), but I went out for drinks with other friends instead and I got a little panicky, but it didn't kill me. (Though I did call her later and was told, "the CSB mentioned you" and my heart got all tight. I guess he was caught spouting off misinformation [he's not nearly half as smart as he tries to come off and I'm not saying that out of spite. It's the truth. To this day, he insists the artist Paul Klee's name is pronounced phonetically and it's not, it's "Clay" and I even sent him the URL for a website that pronounces artists' names when you click on them and he acts like a know-it-all because he has some MA in mathematics from Columbia and that so means nothing and for some reason I'm the only one who ever calls him on his bullshit and I know he gets off on riling me up because it's backhanded attention {literally--he's caused me to whap him upside the head countless times for being so smug}] and said, "Where is Krista to correct me when I'm wrong?" See, I was missed.) It's so gross. I'm totally an addict. But that's o.k. I've got bigger fish to fry. I said May would be my most transitional month and it totally was. I got a new job, I'm purging myself of badly behaved boys, and now nothing should stand in my way. I may have little to show for it, but I've really learned a ton in the year I've been here.

C(hurlish) S(talker) B(ait)
I never said there was any rhyme or reason to my taste.

5/26/99
I did it. I quit the baby magazine job. What did I learn from this experience? Not much other than some terms you can now add to your vocabulary to disgust and amaze people with.

• Lanugo: The soft wooly hair that covers the fetus. I remember my mom telling me how when I was born there was hair that went from my eyebrows to my hairline that eventually fell out. This always disturbed me, but at least I now have a name for it. I recently read in "Cosmo" that models and ballet dancers often get lanugo from low levels of estrogen due to their low weight. That's creepy.
• Lochia: I can't find the proper definition at the moment, but it's a bloody discharge that lasts for up to 6 weeks after having a baby. Did you know that you're not supposed to have sex for 6 weeks after you give birth (this isn't related to the lochia or anything) but that most people don't even get remotely back to normal for at least a year? I still don't get why people persist in having children.
• Encopresis: The soiling of underwear due to severe constipation and leakage of stool. That's just funny.
• Meconium: Baby's first poop! That's right, but it's not normal poo, it's black and tar-like. Sometimes the baby lets loose during labor and the meconium comes running out of the mom. This isn't a good thing.
• Vernix: A waxy substance the baby is born covered in. After their first bath most of it will get washed off, but often some stays in the folds of skin. But don't worry, the body usually absorbs it after 24 hours.

  5/24/99
  An antacid has opened my eyes. I had already been advised by my sister that as far as crushes/stalkees are concerned that you really should revel in the push/pull, hot/cold, do they like me or not, flirtatious, sick to your stomach stages because when and if you get your mitts on them, you'll just be bored to tears. I know that. This same topic came up yesterday when I was speaking with a friend from Portland who's a piner like me--out of control crazy and lovesick for the unattainable. He was saying how in a way, this is as good as it gets. That may sound depressing, but it isn't. The uncertainty, the possibilities, the thrill of their mere presence, reveling in their sheer dorkiness, the way they tell stupid stories that no one but you cares about (Do they notice this? No!). How quickly this object of desire would become intolerable and disgusting if you were exposed to them on a predictable basis. Familiarity breeds contempt, right? My friend was talking about this evening when he had this great moment dancing with his little fixation at a party. I know about the power of these seemingly trivial moments. But later he overheard this guy saying to his girlfriend as they were leaving the party, "Let's stop on the way home and get some Tagamet." Jesus Christ!! How foul is that?! I don't want to be the girl who picks up antacid for her sweetie after a party. I used to say that I wouldn't know what do with my stalkee if I ever caught them. That's not true, I know what to do and it scares me to death. Well, I know what happens eventually and it's nothing but mundane wrongness. If catching someone means laying around the house watching rented movies and buying Tagamet together after a party, then I should be thrilled with my "relationships." Painful as it may be, the weird mutated friendship fraught with tension and the source of unexpected giddiness is so much more satisfying to me than the prospect of sitting in a small apt. watching sports and listening to that goddamn stupid story (that was originally geeky and endearing) for the hundredth time. Stalkers should really count their blessings.

  5/20/99
  Excitement! Excitement! I’m going to a “Jeopardy” tryout on June 15th. Sure, it’ll be me and hundreds of other people at The Sheraton, but you never know. This could just be the beginning of my new amazing existence. Unfortunately, I know virtually nothing about the categories, Politics, Government, Sports, or Royalty. I have less than a month to brush up so I’d better keep this short and get to studying. My fantasy as a child was to grow up, move to California and tryout for every game show possible. I suppose that if things start going really rotten here on the East Coast (which they won’t—I’m on the verge of greatness, remember?) I can pack it in and head out to the promise land.

  5/17/99
  I feel like I've just been through a wringer. I know I said May would be my transitional month and It's barely past the half way mark so I shouldn't jump to conclusions, but I'm not sure that so far things are how I'd envisioned them. They're definitely changing, but not necessarily in the ideal ways. I had an interview this morning for a library position at the Pratt Institute. This is sort of a big deal because in a way it's almost admitting defeat. Like I moved here to do publishing and it's almost been a year and I have nothing to show for my troubles except heartache and credit card debt. Library work would be falling back on the familiar. I don't know if I'm taking the easy way out or if I'm following a path I should've never strayed from in the first place. I decided that if things went smoothly this morning that it would be a sign that I was doing the right thing (and vice versa). Well, I left more than an hour early (8:55 to be there at 10:00, which is ridiculous) and it was bright and sunny and the birds were singing (they really were) and I was strolling to catch B38 instead of my usual annoying subway. Mistake #1: Taking the bus. The reason the subway's crowded is because everyone (other than me, apparently) knows it's more efficient than stopping every other block to let moms and their 5 children off and on. So, I got a little panic-stricken when I realized how long this was going to take. I mean, if you looked on a map and saw that you could take one bus or three subways (depending on which ones you take), wouldn't you opt for the simpler route? After making our way through some pretty sketchy neighborhoods (you don't realize how creepy parts of the city are when you're underground so much. I mean practically every city has a Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd, but this was the first Malcom X Ave. I'd ever seen) it dawned on me that I didn't know exactly where to get off. I just knew that at some point there'd be a Lafayette St. and that it'd be crossed by a Clinton St. and the school was right near there. I kept waiting for Lafayette St. which was taking too long and next thing I know we're in downtown Brooklyn, which is definitely too far. I freaked because at this point it was already 10:10. I jumped off the bus and pulled out my map. I'd taken my herbal relaxer, Kava Kava before leaving the house, but it wasn't helping. What had been a cheery, sunny morning was now sweltering and I was all flushed and sweaty and on the verge of having a fit. I was all out of cigarettes (I literally had/have no money-partially due that horrible subway mix-up sat. and that my atm says I have $598 but that only $12 is available and you can't find atms in Manhattan that give out anything smaller than a $20) and almost started crying. But I've made it a rule to never cry in public (though that didn't stop me from doing it twice in the past week, but it was dark out and I know no one I knew saw me. Obvious truth #1: If being around an individual makes you cry then you should probably limit [if not eliminate] your contact with that person. Obvious truth #2: If you have to go to all sorts of lengths in effort to make someone like you, then you are probably wasting time and valuable energy that could be better spent). I caught a bus back the way I came, got off on the right stop, but I still didn't know which way to walk. I'm so retarded I didn't bother to write down an address or the name and phone number of the person I was supposed to be meeting with. I had to call 411 and get Pratt's address (I was only 3 blocks away). So, I show up at 10:35, a pink-faced, sweaty mess and all I can do is apologize and hope they can still fit me in for this job interview for the job I don't even know that I want and they say it's o.k., but I didn't realize what a serious interview it was going to be and this threw me off. I've never had a panel type interview. It was freaky to have to sit at the head of a long table with all these librarians and deans of such and such asking me questions. I don't know…it's like a "real" job sort of (without the nice pay, but you can take classes for free and maybe I'd like to get my masters. Who knows. Like some people need structure so they go into the military and in order to put a stop to my floundering I'm thinking about schooling. It's all wrong, I'm sure). Yes, so that was my morning and now it's 4:07 PM and I've done nothing at americanbaby.com except look up crap on the internet and write drivel and listen to the woman two cubicles down yell at her kids and talk about her diet to anyone who's willing to listen.

  5/16/99
  Star-Studded Weekend: Yes, it was in a way. Fri. night I was at the usual hang out, Bar on A, getting a little out of control doing Corky and Geri "I'm not drunk, I've got cerebral palsy" Jewell impressions, which are really only funny if you can see me contorting my face and shrieking like a spastic (and even then, I'd probably still be the one laughing the hardest). But as we were getting up to leave, I spied Michael Stipe and Liv Tyler waiting for our table. This sent me into an M.R. frenzy. I couldn't control myself. I started jumping up and down and er, singing/shouting "Shiny Happy People" and screaming (retard style), "You're handsome. You're a star and I'm nobody. I wish I was pretty" and then pretending to cry like my feelings were hurt. Ah, it was priceless. Sat. night I went to a small barbecue hosted by an Icelandic Armani model and her boyfriend Roger who's in The Cure. Yes, it was odd, but I had good fun and sang Spandau Ballet and Howard Jones songs instead of mimicking the mentally challenged and it was almost as fulfilling. I did like hearing a story about Michael Stipe coming out of a bathroom during some music festival in Belgium with wet stains all over his pants. He reportedly said (in a squeaky, femmey voice), "I peed myself." Priceless.

  "You'll Pay!": That was the subject header of a message I received from my sister Sat. afternoon. It referred to an incident that occurred while she was visiting that involved me mistaking the seat of a chair for an ashtray (don't ask) and therefore putting my lit cigarette on it, which she promptly sat on, charring her leg. Fine. But four years ago when I went to England for her wedding she got a little shovey and knocked me down on her "hen night," ripping the skin off my kneecaps. I had bloody knees in her wedding photos and scars for many, many months. I assumed that after this cigarette burning incident that we were even, but apparently not. She threatened that I'd pay, and did I ever (twice!). After that barbecue on Sat. I went with my friends Jane and Richie to some art party (I was drunk, o.k.?) and on the way there I tripped and fell. It didn't feel very nice, but I was pretty oblivious to injury at that point. The party sucked, we went to a bar, I got a drink, and then felt too drunk to even drink it. I had to get home asap. Luckily, the subway was only a block away. Unfortunately, I got it going the wrong way and I ended up in Manhattan (which irritated me because I was priding myself on spending an entire evening in a borough). This shouldn't have been a big deal. Some stations you can just cross the platform and go back the other way, but at First Ave. you have to go outside, cross the street and then go back down. Still, this wasn't that big of a deal. The big deal was my "unlimited" Metrocard. You pay $17 a week and you get a supposed unlimited amount of rides. Well, as long as they're 30 min. apart, that is. I couldn't use my card to get back in. I asked the woman if she'd just buzz me down, but oh no. She said I had 18 min. to wait. I almost threw a hissy fit and I'm one of those people who never yells at store clerks etc. I was all, "You mean, I have an unlimited card, but the only way I can catch another subway is if I pay you $1.50 for a token?!" Uh huh or wait the 18 minutes. I had to scrape together my last bit of change just to go back the way I'd just came. Irritating to say the least. When I finally got home I realized that my right knee was an oozing, bloody mess. I woke up the next morning with the sheet stuck to my leg and little bloody patches all over my bed. So, I paid. Paid with the poor skin off my knee and my hard earned $1.50. People should watch the idle threats they make because they can effect the lives of others in ways unimaginable.

  5/11/99
  Last night I was in my pajamas, watching "Antiques Roadshow" (it's a good show and it was the Portland episode), eating a Ben and Jerry's Totally Nuts bar (you know, the one with Dilbert on it), awaiting a wonderful new episode of "Ally McBeal" and feeling like the grossest Cathy in the world when I was saved by a TV movie. I couldn't believe my eyes. There was Ally Sheedy playing a tough, but sensitive lady cop, Heather Matarazza ("Welcome to the Dollhouse") as a promiscuous retard, Eric Stoltz as an understanding detective (he has a retard for a brother so he knows how it is), and it was all set to music like New Order's "Bizarre Love Triangle" and Tears For Fears' "Shout." It was too much. As you may know, It's that story about those New Jersey, jock, gang-rapers who took advantage of a mentally retarded girl with brooms and baseball bats in '88. Gripping stuff. Well, the movie version was entertaining and put me in a good mood (but then, anything that keeps me from watching "Ally McBeal" is a blessing).

  3:42-I've got lots of time on my hands. Warning: this is garbled and meandering. I never saw "Six Degrees of Separation" but I think I, and most others are familiar with the concept of any two people in the world being connected by six or fewer other people. I think it's a lot closer than six degrees. More and more it seems that everyone's intertwined. Maybe it's getting older and knowing more people and having more experiences that would logically open up more room for connections etc. Or not. Everything is a hop, skip, jump, or a mouseclick away. Hey, is this that global village thing?

  1. I was just nosing around monchacha this website by a young lady named Tara who does various zines including "We Like Poo" and there was this part with links to friends so I clicked Romy and ended up nosing around her site and she had a section about "cool women i don't know" which linked to Natalie Engel's Chest of Lust, Longing and Obsession and this was funny because like way back in '95 when I could only sporadically surf the internet at work using LYNX (no graphics, if you didn't know) I found this site. I didn't get a whole lot out of it, but there was some stalkerish stuff which interested me a bit. So, I ended up there again today and it doesn't appear to have been updated in the past three years, but I poked around anyway and in this section called CAST appeared Natalie Engel…Danielle Tropea and further down the list Killer…Julia Rabig. Here's the connecton. When I first moved to NY I was staying with Queen Itchie, another girl named Kerry, and Julia Rabig. Julia and Itchie went to high school together. I never got to know Julia well. She was plain, bespectacled, and into "causes." All I know is that Robert Crumb called hereccentric, which is saying a lot. The week before I arrived, a friend of Julia's had been sleeping on the living room couch and I kept hearing how horrible she was and how she listened to Liz Phair and used things without asking and how she was looking for a roommate and even though she'd never met me suggested to them that she and I get a place together since we were both new in NY. Well, her name was Danielle and I can only assume that she's the same Danielle who did that Natalie Engel site. I don't know why this weirded me out, but it did. Unrelated: that Kerry who lived in this apt. had a former friend named Carrie and it turns out that my friend Lance in Portland grew up and is still friends with the other Carrie and knows the other Kerry because he helped Carrie move out of the apt. the two shared. I had a brief, crazy obsession with Kerry's ex, which has nothing to do with anything, but it's funny that I'd meet him here and that my friend Lance would know who he was from a long time ago in Eugene, OR.

  2. My friend Jane shares a loft here with this guy Richie from Berkeley. My sister was in Berkeley for a week before coming to the East Coast to say hi to me and while there hung out with all these people who know Richie. They had all these mutual friends without ever knowing each other. While in Berkeley she stayed with some crazy guy Ravi who is obsessed with marrying this girl Janelle. I don't personally know Janelle, but I do know that she is friends with Queen Itchie (from the previous paragraph) and currently lives with a boy named Seth who is my oldest zine-related penpal in the history of the world. We've been corresponding since he was a 15 yr. old in Arizona who wrote songs about Oprah and was obsessed with Macaulay Culkin. Now he's a whopping 19, lives in CA, and got money from David Spade to use his band's song in an upcoming movie. Weird.

  3. In March this Irish guy, Rory, showed up here. His "girlfriend" in London, Leslie (who I don't even know and it turns out she only knew him for 5 days and plans on dumping him when he gets back and none of us knows whether or not we should tell him) knew he was taking a trip to NY so gave him my friend Marti's phone #. We've since befriended him and taken him under our wings and he's an all around good guy and we're sad that he's going back tonight. But anyway, my sister was here last week and they got to talking and it turns out that his brother is getting married May 29th in Swindon, the same small town my sister lives in in England. She's having a big party that same night. So now she's invited to a stranger's brother's wedding and he's invited to a stranger's sister's party and it's all good and fun and mixed-up.

  This is all stuff from just the past week and maybe I make connections where there needn't be any, but to me it's notable. I am going to analyze coincidence til it all makes sense (and it will one day).

  5/10/99
  I love making new friends. First I welcomed Benny into my life and now I have Officer Wolfson. Fri. night was my sister's last here in New York and I wanted it to be memorable. While waiting for the subway around 4:30 AM, we were approached by Officer David Wolfson. He thanked me for my dining suggestion from a couple weeks ago. My sister was impressed by my new acquaintance. He was there joking around in plain clothes with two of his cop buddies. People don't know all the fun they're missing out on by avoiding the boroughs.

  5/6/99
  I don't understand people. My grandma lugged this extremely heavy wool coat all the way from Portland, OR to N.Y. to pawn off on me. It cost $100 in 1978 and she never wore it and goddamn that was a lot of money and there's no way she's just going to get rid of it and now it's too small and I'm the only family member who can wear it therefore it all makes sense to everyone (except me) for her to drag the thing across the country. Last night she forced it on me and I promptly left it on a bench in the subway station (the 6 line at 28th, in case you're looking for a winter coat) and it made me really happy. People think I'm lying when I tell them what I get for Christmas and birthdays. My sister and I made a pact a few years back that these atrocious presents would never take root in our homes. Every year we'd be forced to lug a carload to Goodwill during the holiday season. We decided to dump everything on the side of the road on Christmas Eve and solve the entire problem. It's just the way it's always been. Let's see, examples of unwanted Christmas gifts (that I received as an adult): a giant rag doll with lavender braids wearing a "Little House on The Prairie" dress, a bottle of baby shampoo with those plastic toy heads for caps, a Betty Boop watch, loads and loads of 99 cent jewelry, mini soap and shampoo from hotels, and my personal favorite-a box of trial sized tampons. My family is very thoughtful. When my grandpa died a couple years ago I got a handful of Sharpie pens, a jug of peach schnapps, and a grocery bag filled with generic cigarettes. Maybe that was supposed to be some sort of learning experience. Something having to do with the meek inheriting the earth, perhaps. I don't know what inheriting cheap smokes makes me (other than sick to my stomach and resentful).

  5/4/99
  Ooh, another month. I decided that May was going to be all about changes and so far a lot has already happened. Fri. night I took my sister out with friends. Normally I don't go out before 11pm, but we started drinking around 8:30. Somewhere between 2 and 3 I was puking in public in front of my crush. That was pretty. I never throw up outside the privacy of my home so you know I was bad off. I've been on what feels like a million NYC tour buses and walked through Times Square more times in the past couple days than I have the entire time I've been here. Then Sat. night while waiting with my sister for the subway we see Benny! It made me so happy that during her week here she'd be exposed to my good luck charm. That was the first so I knew that I was on the right track with May. Sun. I brought the mom and grandma out to Queens. This seemed all fine and dandy. We were walking to my apt. and there just happened to be a street fair that I was unaware of. It was chaotic with rides and sausages and smoothies and hordes of families. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Benny again! Twice in about 12 hours. I wasn't sure if this signaled double good luck for the month or if that two Benny sightings would cancel each other out and allow harm to come my way. Well, I think it may have been the latter because that night I met up with friends at this bar in Brooklyn, it was all good fun, playing pool, listening to Billy Joel, etc. and I was trying to be good and not drink too much or stay out too late since it was a sun. and I was so tired from taking the subway into Manhattan like 4 times (the family can't get around-I had to escort them everywhere-it's taxing on the nerves) and me and my sister finally made it home after our sixth subway trip that day, it was 2 am and I realized that my deadbolt was locked and that I had no key to it. You can not even imagine the sheer anger and frustration that went through me. I did once have a key to it, but when I lost my keys after falling asleep on the subway a few months back I never bothered to re-make the deadbolt key since I never use it. See, my mom on her way out of my apt. thought she was being helpful and locked my door for me. There's no landlord on premises and I'm too poor for a locksmith. Even so, we went to a corner store and asked for yellow pages-they had none. I called information and asked for locksmiths in Queens-they said they couldn't give a number without a business name. What kind of service is that?! I had to call my mom and we ended up going back into Manhattan again and sleeping on her hotel floor in our clothes at 4 in the morning. I was not thrilled. I missed work yesterday (I'm on the verge of quitting anyway) and still feel unrested and am covered in bruises from laying on the floor. But, with all that said, I still am thoroughly convinced that this will be the best and most transitory month since I've been here (and that'll be a whole damn year the 29th). There are so many other nice, sweet things a-brewing (that I'm afraid to talk about) that I don't even mind all the trauma of the past couple days. By my one year New York anniversary, things will be very different.

  ---

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