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Lone Star Thomas
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phone home

5/30/02
It's been confirmed. I'm OK, everyone else is not OK. They truly are the crazy ones. I should've been nervous yesterday when the temp lady called me forgetting she'd already called me the day before. So, I show up at 2:30pm, fill my stupid forms, do my stupid typing tests (I'm faster than I thought at 50 w.p.m.--for some reason, I always thought I was around 35, probably because that's what I did in high school typing class) and wait...and wait. The lady was out, never showed up and no one knew where she was. It was a royal waste of my time, some other person briefly spoke with me and wanted to send me on some interview at a construction company for a marketing asst. position. A. I have very little interest in and no experience in marketing. B. I have absolutely no interest in construction. This wasn't for a temp job, which I could stand doing marketing assisting at a construction co. for, but a permanent position, which I just couldn't see myself enjoying one bit. She thought I'd like it since I had QuarkXpress experience (haven't used it in years and at beginners proficiency) on my resume and writing ability. Therefore I could compose good business letters and who knows what. It was a glorified admin. asst. job, totally entry level, boring as heck, and paid more than I've ever made in my life (not much more, but more nonetheless). I wasn't interested, and moreover was irked because I was told to wait again in reception for the person to show that hadn't yet. After a good 30 min., I left. Total waste. Then I get home to two apologetic, but aggressive messages about how I had to go on this interview. I ignored them, then got another call semi-late, from the woman I did see telling me she'd set up an interview for me, to call her at home when I got in, no matter how late. These women are totally scary. Quintessential NYC, middle aged, black suits, glasses, jaded, mouthy, full of faux compliments, coercive and pushy as all get out. All I wanted was a pidly temp job, and somehow I got talked into going on this interview today. It didn't go badly, but it was so not something I would want to do. Lesson #1: if a prospective employer ever uses the term "thick-skinned," run like hell. In my experience with corporate/office-y jobs, people are naturally assholes without any warning, so if you're being told ahead of time to be tough, you know you're up against a seriously beastly personality. Also, beware of the "nobody leaves at 5 on the dot around here." Um, if you're going to pay me decently, and it's a job I love and there's this wonderful sense of satisfaction and comradery, maybe it could be swung, but I've yet to find that job. One of the big reasons I'm keener on temping than taking a mediocre real job is that I want zero responsibility and culpability. I come in at 9, I take my full lunch, I leave at 5 and that's the end of it. Bah, and they made me do another typing test. It was like regressing four years, almost four years exactly. I'm having total issues because it's my four year NYC anniversary to the week and with my 30th birthday approaching it's time to take stock and all that. I don't want to say that I'm not much better off than four years ago, but it would seem that way if you analyzed it. I wasn't working then or now, but at least in '98 I had savings and was totally fresh and willing to do anything for work and was naive enough to think I'd land something great. Now I don't have enough money to pay my rent on Sat. and zero illusions. Heck I'm back to prospects of office admin. for a construction company, but now it's not temp, it's for real. I don't really have any more friends than I did in '98, in fact I may have even less, but I do have a better than average boyfriend that I went through a lot of trauma to acquire and that's no small feat. My apt. is moderately better (though it costs more), I have a backyard (that's a disgusting jungle) and I'm only two express stops from Manhattan (if you want to gauge success by proximity to "the city"). Healthwise, I now don't smoke (much), drink lots less than I used to and exercise regularly. I think I have better clothes, eat at better restaurants (Obviously. I've gained 15 pounds since I first moved here, despite losing 10 after my first month in NYC, meaning I've gained 25 from July '98, which is totally disturbing), have more ambition and lots more gray hair than I used to. But that's about it. My only real improvement is having a real bed to sleep in and a table and chair for my computer instead of using that godawful Gatorade box for a desk, while perched on the edge of the left-behind, curry, baby pee mattress. Oh, and I have that laptop too. My only complaint would be that I'm still using dial-up, rather than a cable modem. So, I don't know what the verdict is. The main difference between '98 and '02 is that I was hopeful back then, not starry-eyed delusional, but ready for the unknown, and now I'm just tired. How often do you hear the term "jaded New Yorker"? Yuck, that's not me, not because I'm not but because I don't want to be a cliche. A cliche would've thrown in the towel ages ago, and here I am still plugging away like an idiot. So, I was supposed to report back to the agency, to the woman that never showed up yesterday, about this interview, but when I get to the office she's busy with another client. I briefly speak with the other woman, who's not supposed to be my "counselor," the one who I called at home last night and said I was so-so on the job. She said to wait in the lobby, explicitly no to leave, so I could talk to my counselor. By this point I realize that I've been inadvertently thrown into their placement division, not their temp area, which is all I wanted in the first place, but since I'm already there, I would like to speak to my counselor about other job opportunities and what I'm looking for. It's no big surprise that I sat in that waiting area for an eternity. After a good 30 minutes, I totally lost my shit and, no didn't throw a fit, in my perpetually dejected way, I just left, really, really mad. It was a total waste of two days. What's an unemployed person got to do with their time anyway, you ask? You know what? Anything, anything that doesn't involve wearing ugly suit-y jackets in 95% humidity and running all over midtown, taking tests, filling out forms, smiling and acting like you care just so you can piece together enough money to pay your phone bill (I've been informed that my service will be turned off next week if I don't cough up $151). I had a borderline nervous breakdown on the subway home, and subsequently began sussing out rents and jobs accross the eastern seaboard. So yeah, they're crazy, not me.

5/29/02
Ick, I feel like I'm living in an Amazon rain forest (not that I've ever been to S. America). I don't think it's super hot, but it's sticky as heck, there are about ten varieties of bird squawks coming from my backyard (I peeked out yesterday and the whole yard was full of big black birds--creepy), and I woke up covered in bug bites, 13 on my left arm alone. I never go away for Memorial Day weekend, but that's OK. For some reason I get a lot of satisfaction from doing things like spending an hour in a car to head to New Jersey hot spots like Trader Joe's and Target like I did Monday. It's sort of scary to be addicted to soothing suburban icons, but I don't worry too much. With the economy so bad, there's lots of talk about moving. I don't know where I'd move, but it almost couldn't be somewhere with easy access to stores like IKEA and the above mentioned faves or else the novelty would wear off. Friday I saw "CQ" opening night, it was alright but I didn't love it. Saturday night I drank too much. The reason I know is because I ended up dancing at some Latin club (not Baraza--I didn't notice a name anywhere) on Ave. C after attending a party across the street, and I never dance. Not unless I'm drunk, that is. Urgh, I have to get ready to go to temp interview thing. I hope they don't make me do a bunch of typing and computer tests because I always fail miserably. I just got up the nerve to call this Village Voice editor about a small piece I was doing on spec (i.e. no guarantee of payment unless they like it). He was the one who said to have it done by the Tues., the 28th (yesterday, though I turned it in last Thurs. to be good), and gave me his home number if I had questions. But I hate strangers on the phone and I think I woke him up (that's a first, I usually get up around noon [it's 11:53am] but today I forced myself up at 9:30am to get more done with my day) and he was vague and didn't say yes or no, that he was still thinking. But you know what? It didn't kill me to call even though I didn't want to and it made my stomach hurt (though that could be a result of coffee overdose). If you don't bug people (at least in NYC), they'll never give you the time of day. I also think it's a good idea to believe that other people are the crazy ones. He's the one who said to have it done by Tues., I was normal to call and check, so he's crazy. The temp lady called me last night to schedule an appt. today, then first thing this morning she called (I didn't answer the phone, it was a message just saying to call back) and I was like, "what now?" were they canceling, changing time, etc. and it turned out when I called back that she didn't remember already calling me yesterday and thought she was calling fresh this morning. See? She's the crazy one, not me. Yesterday I answered in ad in the NY Times for an editorial assistant to the Marilyn vos Savant (you know, the highest I.Q. woman who's had that "Ask Marilyn" column in "Parade" [amusingly, the only paper in NYC that carries it is the "Staten Island Advance"] for years) and actually got a (generic) response, saying they'd received hundreds of resumes, were only responding to 7%, and needed extra information: whether you were looking for full or part-time, salary requirements, and how long it would take you to get to the Upper West Side. I understand the first two questions, but what is it to them how long your commute is? I mean, if you want to spend 3 hours each way to get to a job, that's you're prerogative. It's basically discrimination against non-Manhattanites, who won't be at beck and call, able to pop in for some task at moment's notice. Anyway, I haven't received a second response, so either I want too much money (please) or I live too far for their taste. Either way, that makes them crazy, not me, alright?

5/22/02
God damn it, I just got jury duty again. Well, it shouldn't be a surprise since I'm the one who postponed it till June back in Feb. when I got it the first time. It's one of those things where the date sounds so far off that you don't take it seriously. I guess the future is now. Yesterday I got a Brooklyn library card. It's weird how rarely I use the library here. I hardly ever read a book either (though I did pick up Dan Chaon's "Among the Missing" a few weeks ago, which is very engaging and worthwhile). I suppose the amount of time you spend in a library differs from when you work in one to when you don't even live walking distance to one (though I did walk home yesterday, it wasn't an every day stroll at 39 blocks). I was struck by this public art project in conjunction with the library, "Pies for a Passerby." There's a mini cottage on the front steps (that's only open weekends--I didn't actually see it in action) where the artist bakes pies one by one, then leaves them on the little windowsill with the intent of someone walking by and swiping them like you used to see in cartoons. It's the sort of thing I see myself doing if I seriously pursued art after college. It's sad because I can't seem to find a mention of it anywhere on the web at all (it got a tiny write-up in last week's "Time Out NY"). I got to thinking about other suburban myths (not that pie-swiping is necessarily a myth, but I've never actually seen a pie on a ledge, nor someone attempt to steal one). A couple weeks ago the notion of a boss coming over for dinner absolutely cracked me up while watching that horrible, "30 Minute Meals" (I seriously can't stand the host, she looks like she was one gene away from being born a dwarf, and her personality is like nails on a chalkboard. I'd better be careful here--the only time I ever really received a disturbingly hateful message in my guestbook was from some anonymous freak who was all upset that I called another Food TV personality, Jacqui Malouf a "tan, red-headed beast." Sorry, but she's hideous, and just got some million dollar book deal, I hear.). It had never occurred to me that people still entertained like that, having the wife make meals to impress corporate mucky mucks. Other suburban myths worth pondering: swimming holes, club houses, tree houses, dog houses, walking to school with neighbors/classmates, eating breakfast together as a family with the sun shining through a curtained back door, lovers lanes, double dates, soda jerks, dogs who bring newspapers and slippers, shotgun weddings, Mr. Moms who put too much detergent in washing machines, chaperones, trousseaus, turning va va voom just by removing glasses and letting hair down, dinner and dancing at the same venue, snooty French waiters, wedding night jitters, meddling mother-in-laws, nosy neighbors, the girl next door, bullies (actually, they're alive and well and living on my block) and twin beds after marriage.

5/20/02
I'm such a sucker for pretension. I just turned the channel over from chile rellenos on "Food 911" to IFC (it's just one click from channel 78 to 80 on my remote) and got drawn into a stagey scene in a movie with a sheriff, smoking and giving a heavy monologue about love. The film ended about 40 seconds later, and while I'd never seen it before, it totally reeked of Hal Hartley. I'm still not sure what the film was (I don't legally have cable so I don't have one of those remotes you click and get info about shows on the screen) but I saw the words "Mr. Hartley" in the credits, so I guess I was right. Don't you think it's weird how you can watch less than one minute of a movie, the ending no less, and can guess the director just by mood, music and style? Not really, I guess. I always get drawn into Hal Hartley movies on IFC, not knowing that they're his immediately (in the past: "Henry Fool," "Amateur," "Trust" and now "Simple Men" [I just looked tonight's up]). I don't know if that makes me a fan or a sucker. I saw the new Star Wars Thurs. night (was that opening night? I don't know, I'm not a fanboy, in fact I never even saw the last one, a friend just happened to have tickets for this). It was silly and full of immature, stilted sexual innuendo, which caused me to bust a gut (hey, I wasn't the only one laughing out loud). The thing is I thought Anakin (sp?) was going to be played by Thomas Haden Church ("Ned & Stacey," "Wings") because I swore I read that somewhere, but it's really Hayden Christensen, and they're nothing alike. I was all excited because Thomas Haden Church is unappreciated, hot, gravelly voiced and craggy and I really thought it was perfect casting for a future Darth Vader, and even told people he had the role, but I was totally stupid and wrong. I knew in this movie Anakin was a teen so I kept waiting for a chunk of time to pass, but it never did, then thought that maybe I'd read wrong and he was going to be in the next episode, but then I read reviews and realized I was altogether misguided. Duh, this is the sort of mix up I'd totally give someone else shit over. Don't tell anyone, alright? Maybe by the time Episode 3 comes out, everyone I told this falsehood to will have forgotten.

5/15/02
I was surprised that when push came to shove, vanity beat out laziness. Somehow I managed to leave my makeup bag in the glove compartment of a car twice this weekend. It wasn't so bad Sunday morning because the car was right out front if I needed to get in, and who's really going to see me on a Sunday, anyway. Stupidly, I forgot to take it out Sunday night, James took the car up to the parking lot way over on 60th and West End and I was left sans makeup and tweezers for Monday (and the rest of the week). I almost never wear makeup around my neighborhood during the week, but I have a psychological thing about needing it in Manhattan, plus I had my last writing class Monday night and I didn't want to leave anyone with the impression that I am a hag. I really didn't want to take two subways up to the parking lot in a rain storm (the news was predicting a tornado, though I don't think it turned that dramatic in actuality). I wanted to sit inside in pajamas watching TV and reading, but it turned out I wanted my tweezers even more (plucking is a horrible addiction) so I made the trek. I guess it was worth it, though I seriously doubt anyone other than myself cares about the state of my face. Speaking of vanity, if you want to be weirded out you should visit Land's End. Jeez, not for the clothes (unless you subscribe to the kindergarten teacher/mommy/NW librarian school of dress) but for the Virtual Model. Despite not having swam (is that proper tense?) in over 12 years, the odd bug to buy a bathing suit struck me this morning. I haven't worn one of those things since I was a teen, and while I'm not an ack-not-swimsuit-season-again Cathy about the whole affair, I can't just throw on any ol' bikini and expect a pretty sight. I went to Land's End because they have sensible, though not wholly matronly suits like the "tankini," a two-piece that doesn't expose the midriff (I know, why not just buy a one-piece, then). While poking around, I found the Virtual Model feature. You get to try clothes on a virtual version of yourself, crafted from physical information you feed it. I mean, it doesn't really look exactly like you, but you input things like height, weight, whether or not you're busty, if you have a defined waist or not, if you're hourglass, pear or inverted triangle, then you pick facial features like thickness of lips, then hair color and style. It's very PC, they manage to get you to pick out features without ever using the words "black," "Asian," "fat" or "old." The result is really freakin' scary. Mine was practically as wide as it was tall. After my initial offense, I put the swim suit on it, and it did look very close to how I imagine it would fit. The model (just like the real me) looked one hundred times better with clothes on (they're not naked to begin with, they have on this unitard thing). Then I went crazy trying on hideous outfits composed of pleated khakis, baggy tucked-in tee shirts (I've never worn shirts tucked-in, and after seeing my virtual self, I know why) and moccasin flats. It was a total hoot. As all their dresses are of the unconstructed, jumper, long polo persuasion, they ended up looking suspiciously like maternity wear on virtual me. Not good, but like I said, Land's End isn't exactly number one on my apparel list. However, it takes top billing in the time-wasting yet fun, how-would-I-look-in-frumpy-clothes category.

5/9/02
It always seems like things go out all at once. A few years ago it was like all the bulbs, circuits and electric appliances gave out in the same week. Now it's batteries. I went to take a photo last week, and realized the battery was dead, my watch has been stopped for about two weeks now (it's irritating because I can't change it myself, it has one of those backs that needs to be removed with some specific instrument) and my TV remote is getting extremely sluggish. That's the odd one, really. I opened the back and realized it still had the same Fred Meyer AA's from when my mom gave me the TV back in '96. Fred Meyer makes a quality product, dammit. I'm always baffled by the short lives of the batteries here (though it could me my own fault for buying them at 99 cent stores. I distinctly recall being told the very first week I moved here not to buy them at discount stores. I never have purchased the $1 variety on the subway at least. Not that I wouldn't, but they don't seem to do that "battery $1!" bit in this neighborhood). A mildly used walkman (like 30 min., three-four times a week) runs out in less than two weeks. That doesn't seem right. I had a cheapy so I bought a slightly more reputable brand, thinking the discount walkman was using too much power, but it's exactly the same with the newer version. What gives? I need to buy a cd walkman anyway. You know, now that it's 2002 and all and no one uses cassettes. I was glad to see that the corner store that briefly opened, then closed seems to be getting ready to re-open. I felt guilty for never patronizing the place. Up farther on Fifth Ave., there's this Mexican deli where for months there was a funny painting of a giant sandwich on the facade. It amused me because the sandwich is like 3 ft. long, but the jalepenos dotting the filling are normal size. I was never sure if it was supposed to portray an unusually large french roll, in which case the peppers could be that small in relation, or if it was representing a blown-up version which would make the chiles ridiculously tiny. I think the latter, and it's stupid, but always cracked me up. I suck at painting, and imagine this is how my own rendition of a sandwich would turn out.I totally have no grasp of shadow and scale (yes, I have a B.F.A.). Anyway, I recently noticed they'd added sandwich varieties on both sides of the giant stuffed roll. As the text is in Spanish, I'm not sure if they're advertising tortas or American sandwiches. I see pastor, jamon and the like. I understand those, but today I did a double-take when I saw Hawaiana. Sweet Jesus, a Hawaiian sandwich?! Much to the chagrin of any self-respecting New Yorker, I'm a huge champion of the Hawaiian pizza. Pineapple and ham is a match made in heaven. Now I have to muster up the courage to break the language barrier and ask the counter guy about this concoction. Tasks like this aren't always as easy as they appear at first glance. English speakers never understand me here, ESL's are more baffled. The West Coast accent thing, I sort of understand (James just came back from Santa Cruz all horrified by affectations of speech like righteous, stoked, gnarly, dude, catching some rays. I don't talk like that though I used to say rad) since I think they mean I say like and oh my god a lot, but that's not really an accent. But I also get people who think I'm British from time to time, and that's just weird. These comments are always from people with heavy, heavy foreign accents. Heck, I'm the born and bred American here. I've earned the right to talk however I want. Duh. Whatever. Like, you know?

5/8/02
Like an alcoholic shouldn't be allowed a drink, I shouldn't be let anywhere near a cigarette. Sat. I broke down and bought my first pack of cigarettes since Christmas Eve., my second pack since "quitting" in Nov. I let myself smoke when I'm out drinking on weekends, telling myself that as long as I don't buy them, it's OK (yeah, I've become one of those annoying people who says they don't smoke, but constantly bum them from friends, the kind of person I'd refuse to give a cigarette to when I had them on me regularly). But once I bought this pack this weekend, I went nuts on a binge and I can't stop. My throat and chest is all sore and raspy and I can't stop smoking them. When my weekend ends, I go home, never smoke, exercise and eat reasonable food, but this has been an extended weekend, I'm still in Manhattan at the moment, so psychologically I feel I can still smoke (and eat copious amounts of candy). I'll put a stop to it this afternoon when I return home, but jeez, Fri. is just around the corner and it'll start up all over again. I need to get some self-control. My mom called Mon. night to tell me my cat that she's been watching for the past four years has been diagnosed with diabetes. This is really bad. Not only do I have diabetes on both sides of my family, but even my cat is afflicted with insulin deficiency. Many would be happy that it's not cancer or feline HIV or whatever, but this is more hopeless in a sense. I'm poor and my mom is cheap. I'm surprised they took her to the vet at all (which leads me to believe she must've have looked horribly ill) because my family doesn't do that sort of stuff, and made a point of telling me it cost $90. The cat will need to be on insulin for the rest of her life, which will cost $200/month and injections will have to be given 1-2 times a day forever. This isn't going to happen. They're not going to do it. I can't do it. And I don't know what to do. The vet wanted her brought in yesterday to spend a whole day testing insulins. This is going to be out of control expensive and no one I know is going to pay for it. It's not like Lil' Smokey (named after the cocktail sausages) is that old (it freaks me out to think I got her in '94, at a young 22. Sure, it makes her 7, but damn that puts me nearly at 30, which I know, but hits me harder every now and then. I hate time) and she's not decrepit, so it's not like you can with conscious put her to sleep. My friend Pat's cat died a few weeks ago after going into a diabetic seizure, and it sounded horrible. He didn't even know the cat was diabetic, and the animal was 16 years old so it wasn't exactly a total shock. It makes me really angry. I hate to be bitchy, but I know people who make big obnoxious deals over their pets and relentlessly subject me to their overblown traumas and spend thousands of dollars on surgeries and crap. I hate people who make their moderately serious problems your problems, and then you end up being the one with a real problem and are helpless. Not that there's a my problem is bigger than your problem contest, but I swear on all counts, mine always do seem to be more severe and yet I never boo hoo to friends making them feel insensitive (I'll just rant about them here, of course). It's a real pet peeve of mine, how everyone's depressed, full of anxiety, in need of constant reassurance, therapy and medication when their lives don't seem terribly trying. Isn't that life? Doesn't everyone have hard stuff to deal with? If I wanted to air all my current stresses, there'd be plenty: my cat's going to die unless someone takes financial responsibility, my dad's going to die no matter what, I'll have a premature heart attack or stroke of my own with my abnormal for my age high blood pressure (and can't go to the dr. since I have no health insurance and can't afford an outright visit), I'm going to be homeless any day since I can't live on the $259/week unemployment, which runs out soon anyway. I'd say I'm a prime candidate for therapy and anti-depressants, but poor, uninsured people don't have those luxuries, so I trudge on. Maybe my cat will go into a coma, maybe I'll be able to figure something out, maybe my dad won't kick the bucket for a few more years, maybe I'll start temping for $10/hr (which is slightly more than $259/week) and I'll continue to scrimp until something better turns up, maybe when my blood pressure prescription runs out in a few months I'll borrow money for a return dr. appt. Regardless, I'll deal. Yesterday I was woken up by scuffling, a squeal and a horrifying view of Caesar (Little Caesar--I'm a sucker for the little prefix in cat names, though James just calls him Caesar), James's cat running next to the bed with a mouse in his mouth. Sure, it's nature at work, but it makes me sick to my stomach. He didn't kill the mouse, I don't think he knows how, he just plays, then the rodent escapes and Caesar spends the next hour fervently guarding all the nooks and crannies in the apt. In my half-asleep state I got angry at Caesar. How dare he run around all frisky and self-assured when there are dying cats in the world. He jumped on the bed and I knocked him down. I didn't want his mouse germs on me anyway. I know it's not his fault. My anger and frustration with the world isn't his or anyone else's issue.

5/6/02
It's a little after noon, and I just got back from having breakfast with Todd and his friend Julie at the oddly paired "French Malaysian Bistro" Franklin Station Cafe before his heading to JFK. That's not weird, what is was this kid in the subway station. I was on the uptown ACE platform at Canal St., walked towards the end and noticed this muttering Hispanic(?) boy with a backpack who's really small so maybe he looks younger than he is. He could be anywhere from 11 to 17 in a twisted way. I don't think I've ever caught a train at this station in my life, there he was though tailing me. I'm 100% sure he was also at the 25th St. N station in Sunset Park Sat. at midnight with me too. He made me nervous because he was talking aloud in Spanish and I pegged him for a rowdy (pre?)teen, so I steered clear of him. It did strike me as odd that he was out by himself, not with family or a group of equally hyped-up boys. I transferred to the Manhattan-bound F at 9th St., another station I've never caught a train at (oops, well once a couple years ago) and he did too. He said something to an old guy who answered back, so I figured he was making sense, not just rambling to himself. If he wasn't so clean cut, I'd swear he was some feral child. What's his deal and why have I ran into him twice in less than 48 hours, at totally different times in totally different parts of the city at stops I never frequent? I made eye contact with him today and wasn't sure if he recognized me or was addressing me (he was talking aloud, as I already pointed out). As the C train approached, I said, "I saw you last night" then remembered it was two nights ago, but whatever and I don't know if this registered, but he said something back that sounded like "segundo" which may or may not have been directed at me, and doesn't mean much anyway (though it was the second time I'd seen him), but I got creeped out and made sure to get on a different car from him. Twice is random I suppose, but if I run into him a third time, I'm going to get freaked out. He just looks like a school kid (but why wasn't he in school then?) but there's something ominous about him. I hope this urban urchin isn't a figment of my imagination because that would really suck.