2005
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10/28/05
I love this morning’s minor hubbub about the city mysteriously smelling like maple syrup. The NY Times headline is priceless enough, “Good Smell Perplexes New Yorkers.” Yes, good smells in the city can be baffling. I’m just irked that I didn’t smell any maple, but then I have a very bad sense of smell, plus my entire head has been filled with snot all week. How can no one know the source of the sweet scent? Definitely sinister. Not any way related, but when I as in 8th grade I (and like eight others) for some reason got to be bussed to high school for the first two periods of the day. You only could take math, science or a foreign language, so I had algebra first thing (and I really sucked at math, and missed/skipped what they were teaching in 8th grade so I never learned percents and now don’t understand them at all. I got all As and one C+ or B- all throughout high school because of math. Me and math is like kids who somehow make it all the way through high school without being able to read) and almost every single day when I was in that class I had a maple syrup smell in my nose. It was uncanny. I don’t think the room smelled like syrup, it was in my nasal passages. This was around the same time period that I developed my first real person crush/obsession (as opposed to musician/celebrity/cartoon characters) with that horrible Abby character I was talking about last month (whom I swear I’m not fixated on, but I did recently see a job ad for a librarian where his wife works. That would be a weird, pointless scheme, and besides, I don’t even know Spanish, let alone Hebrew) and so I often associate the smell of maple syrup with that gross early teens manic/sick I love you feeling. I never even like maple syrup until I was an adult. As a youngster I’d put crap like peanut butter and powdered sugar on pancakes and french toast. Ew, I just discovered something called maple syrup urinary disease (I just got back from the dr. and am waiting on a urinary tract infection diagnosis [it didn’t seem typical U.T.I., maybe it’s syphilis or something exciting] so I have urinary problems on the brain—but then, don’t I always?) that is rare, but more common in Mennonites from Eastern Pennsylvania. It sounds made up to me.

10/26/05
Ah, the bomb scare scoop (I like the unnecessary detail about the mysterious box being the size for carrot cake—not angel food or crumb?). That’s what you get for working next door to a Starbucks. What I find scary is how a blast of water can explode something and create such a racket. I’m sure that if I looked back at Oct. archives from the past, I’d discover this same annual complaint: people overdressed for the season. I’ve always said there’s no fall in NYC, despite what everyone else protests. It’s hot, then it’s cold. There was a bit of 60s, and then yesterday it got down to 40 by evening. It was the first time I can recall being able to see my breath in ages and ages. But I think we’re settling into a brief 50s spell, which I happen to enjoy (I was still gushing sweat this morning on the subway, but that could’ve been because I have a head cold). It’s not that cold, though chilly enough to finally put all the flip flop wearing, midriff exposing folks out of commission. I still haven’t turned the heat on in our apt. and am comfortably wearing a short sleeved sweater and jean jacket. You can still go bare legged with boots. But I’m seeing people everywhere in heavy wool winter coats, hats, scarfs, mittens, snow boots. What the fuck? What are these nuts going to put on when it’s genuinely freezing? Each to their own, I suppose. Maybe people are just jumping the gun because they want to wear new sweaters, coats and such. Believe me, there’ll be plenty of time for that. I’m irked because I have half a closet full of blazers and light jackets that aren’t even going to get a chance—there’s probably only a few weeks left for them.

10/25/05
I’m beginning to get a little tired and suspicious of all the “conditions” lately. Last week there was that morning commute where I had to take four different trains (technically five, if you count the F spontaneously turning into a G after I got on) due to a “smoke condition.” Why couldn’t they just say fire and be done with it? This morning at work, out of the blue, this loud amplified voice (like when a cop tells a car to pull over) outside bellowed something like “get out of the way.” I was like what the fuck was that?! I’m on the tenth floor of a skyscraper, external noise has to be fairly loud to penetrate the windows. Seconds later a huge BOOM blasts somewhere and then everything went silent (I was exaggerating about nothing passing through the window—there’s always a faint dull traffic roar). Was it a bomb? Falling scaffolding? Verizon fucking up (just a few weeks ago they blew power on a nearby block—they’ve been digging around in holes outside for months)? I was half-hoping someone had jumped out a window, but couldn’t imagine it creating that much racket. We’re on the side of the building, sandwiched next to another, so there’s only a sliver of a view to Madison Ave. but you could see that our block had been police taped off and pedestrians were looking towards the front of our building. I’m still not clear what transpired, but a few minutes later the fire marshal or whoever, got on the PA usually reserved for fire drills and announced that everything was fine, it was merely a “condition” being taken care of on the corner. Rumor is that there was a suspicious package (are there any other kind?) on the street so they exploded it. Why would you blow up a potentially explosive package in the first place? And if it’s like an empty box, blowing it up seems even sillier. Anyway, I’m sure I’ll never find out what actually happened because these are the things that happen so often they aren’t even newsworthy. I’ve totally been jumping on the blog bandwagon. Not really, I’ve just been taking stuff that already existed and repurposing it in accessible formats because clearly I have way too much free time (sort of, I was legitimately home sick yesterday). I do wonder what would happen if I was productive instead of piddling. Probably nothing, because even at my most ambitious I’m still rinky-dink and ineffectual. Coincidentally, I noticed an article in yesterday’s NY Times about brand and store bloggers. It’s hardly uncharted territory, there’s no original thought in my head, yet I still can’t stop writing about this crap.

10/19/05
“Bur bo.” Bur bo? It took me a moment to decipher purple, as in “you must really like purple.” I like to believe that I have a knack for understanding heavily accented English, but I’m being foolish because practically everywhere in Asia I’ve traveled has been former British colonies (Kuala Lumpur was still very tough language-wise, but weirdly not Penang, despite both being Malaysian). I have zero knack, however, for communicating with ESLs. Last night my waitress/bartender in Corona looked at me like I was insane when attempting to order a michelada. I hate not being able to speak other languages convincingly, or at all. Some debate whether the ability to fly or being able to make yourself invisible, would be the better super power. I’ve always thought being able to understand, speak and write any language in the world would be the best. I did attempt Mandarin lessons last year, exactly at this time, but when I ended up missing classes when I had to go to Portland on emergency and I hate being behind so much that I became a quitter. At least that $500 mistake was free because I still had tuition perks from the former job. Now I’m cheap and lamed out by actually ordering Behind the Wheel Spanish, despite not owning any wheeled transport. So, the counter guy at Yagura, the Japanese deli/take out joint around the corner where I get chicken udon to go maybe once or twice a week, asked me if I really liked purple because I’m always wearing it. That’s really not true, and was odd because despite going to this place weekly for a year, he’s only ever spoken to me twice before, once to show his sister my Hello Kitty tattoo and once to ask me why I was smiling (that’s even odder because I fear that I’m always sour-looking, and apparently have had that same fear for many years. Right before lunch I was randomly looking at super old entries from Nov. ’98 and there was a bit about how I was surprised that the corner deli guy in Ridgewood had told me he called me “the smiley girl,” and I was like you’re a freak [he also thought I was still in high school at 26]. Despite the seeming pointlessness of documenting life’s flotsam and jetsam, it does preserve memories that would otherwise be forgotten. I did remember this smiley girl exchange, but I had absolutely no recollection of my dad ever giving me Wet ‘n’ Wild make up as a gift [also mentioned in Nov. ’98]. Certainly, not an earth-shattering revelation, but it’s kind of entertaining to read things you’ve written about yourself that are brand new [do it, wait seven years, and you’ll see]). I’m not the kind of person who makes small talk with cashiers or bartenders or waiters or anybody, and that can be a problem when reporting for “real” articles because I don’t want to chat with anyone. I do like purple, but don’t think that I’m always wearing it. Today, I only had this classy quilted Target bag in purple, no clothing. I don’t want to be one of those zany when I’m old I will wear purple gals (or god forbid, part of the Red Hat Society). Besides, green has been my favorite color since I was like a zygote.

10/17/05
There are so many more annoying grooming related things a person could be doing on the subway (nail clipping, nail polishing, hair brushing—I don’t know why that last one bugs me so much) besides putting on make up, yet it has irritated me since the day I set foot on the east coast. I’ve softened on many things like closing your eyes on the subway or using a snooze alarm (seven years can change your perspective on exhaustion) but there’s something about doing your face from scratch on public transportation that seems lazy like sweats or wearing pajama bottoms like pants. Couldn’t you just get up five minutes earlier? This morning, I witnessed two women doing the full on regimen, from foundation and whipping out a big blush brush (never mind that you’re squashed on both sides by fellow passengers and completely invading their space. Not mine even, I was standing feet away) to lipliner, eyeliner and mascara. I kept sending mental vibes that one of them would poke herself in the eye and was rewarded when one jabbed the end of the mascara wand between her eye and nose (when the subway was stopped, no less) and left a big wet black blob that she smeared around trying to wipe off and made it look like she had a dark circle under her eye. Victory. If I could only use my projected mental powers for good. I can’t wait until (or if) riders actually start using these portable straps. This is also one of those things that doesn’t really hurt me in any way, yet still bugs the heck out of me. Despite not wanting strangers’ hairs brushed onto me, I’m not a crazy germ-phobe like the occasional person I’ll see holding poles with napkins. During rush hour, the train gets so packed (last week, the girl next to me started hyperventilating and breathing into a paper bag, and instead of being sympathetic because it was nearly 100 degrees inside and too many bodies were involuntarily pressing up against other bodies, I was filled with contempt. Someone gave her their seat, and she didn’t say thank you or acknowledge their concern for her safety. She just had this bored, bitchy NYU student blank stare, like why are you talking to me?) I’d just like to see someone try and attach their handy little strap to an available surface. I’m going to start bringing a folding chair with me during my commute and see how that goes over. Maybe I’ll floss my teeth, shave and use a Biore pore cleansing strip while atop my portable perch. Hmm, I’m not much of a multitasker. I’ve been goofing off, writing pointless bits on my food-ish blog (I’m really not sure why I created it, other than to organize old content, because it’s not like writing about myself here and writing about food are necessarily mutually exclusive) and scribbling about Uniqlo, a new Japanese chain store I visited this weekend. I’m also in the midst of researching/writing an article for the NY Post about micheladas, a Mexican spicy beer drink. Which all means I haven’t been saying as much here, plus recently I’ve become nervous because I see Krista Garcia being used as a search term maybe once or twice a week and I wonder who in the world would even Google such a thing. Are they seeking amusement or vengeance?

10/6/05
I don’t really watch Medium, but I do know what Patricia Arquette looks like (yes, yes, bad Emmy hair, aside) and I didn’t realize it was overweight. Is she supposed to be fat on that show? Really? Or is the author of this underrated actresses bit on msn completely off kilter. I think people should start harping on how Jennifer Garner is overweight. Never mind that she’s pregnant, celebrities should be held to higher standards. The girl’s gotten fat, plain and simple. Really, I think all pregnant people should be treated no differently than fat folks, at least on mass transit. I mean, it’s a lifestyle choice, why should I give my subway seat up to someone who consciously chose to get knocked up and ride public transportation. No one gets up for anyone who has decided to overeat and sprout a gut. It’s not like I ever get a seat on the subway anyway, but I have been known to offer my seat to the elderly because that’s not a choice. We’re all going to get old (unless we die first, of course) and decrepit and tired out at some point (I think I’m already 75% of the way there), and that must suck. So seniors and (some) cripples should get seats, but fat and pregnant individuals ought to fend for themselves. I think I’m going to post that somewhere inside a subway car and see how well that goes over.

10/5/05
Other peoples’ dreams are boring, don’t worry, I won’t share any with you. I can’t really remember the details anyway, just that guys from my past keep appearing in them recently. Guys I never really went out with, as well as guys that were simply friends. (Maybe my hormones are going screwy—I recently stopped taking birth control pills, not because I’m playing Russian roulette or have softened my stance on infants, but because my refills ran out and they couldn’t get filled in time and I didn’t have the energy to keep hounding the pharmacy and doctor’s office.) Twice in the past month, this guy, my first irrational obsession from way back in ’85 has shown up in dreams and I don’t know why. He was the first person I ever messed around with (that term is kind of ick, now that I think about it) but it never went anywhere, besides he was really gross and sleazy and the strong stench of Polo (is Polo ever applied lightly?) still conjures up crushed dreams. Well, I’m exaggerating a bit. But Abby (I know I’ve mentioned him at least once before and used a last name because some guy who knew him as an adult emailed me ages ago after finding my website) popping up in my dreams has been bothering me, enough that I’ve been giving him the ol’ Google treatment, but there’s not much dirt. I hate Oregonians that way, they have zero web presence. I went on a similar nostalgia bender a few months ago and tried cyber spying on John Holdeman (damn the whole not using full names thing—I’ve only used his tens of times previously, oh, and also received an email regarding this guy, from a childhood friend. There are a lot of memory lane googlers out there) which was also pretty dead end. I did note that his girlfriend (whom he lived with in the house she’d just bought in ‘94) from over a decade ago still lives at the same freaking address, whether or not with him, I don’t know. But Abby, I figured he’d be using his proper name, Absalom, as a grownup, and did come up with some hits, mainly because his wife mentioned on a Jewish website (what’s up with all my googling strangers leading to Jewish websites? Ok, not all, just the woman whose prenatal vitamins were given to me instead of beta blockers) how he called her on 9/11 when he saw a plane hit the World Trade Center. So, he lives here, or did four years ago. His wife appears to still work at the Jewish Theological Seminary. That’s weird. I never thought of him as being Jewish. But then, no one in the NW is really anything, even if they are. Everyone is essentially white, regardless of race or ethnicity. I’m probably as Mexican as he is Jewish. Now that I think about it, Abby resembled a kid my sister went to high school with that I randomly hooked up with (that’s an ickier phrase than messing around) a few times in my early twenties. It was hot because it was so wrong, but his last name was Drescher, which is totally Jewish, but this kid wasn’t Jewish to my knowledge. Very Portland. Now I’m wondering where this Abby/Absalom character is living, I want to see what he looks like because the image in my head is of this skinny, long haired, kind of hatchet-faced 15-year-old who occasionally wore mascara and lipstick. There was an NYC white pages hit with his last name and their first initial (they’re both A’s) but it was in Fresh Meadows, Queens, which doesn’t seem right at all. I only know the neighborhood, which is beyond the subway, at all because it contains a good Indian-Chinese restaurant and one of the city’s only Kohl’s (which turned out to be really boring). It’s very Queens-y, transplants wouldn’t ever think or choose to live there. It’s really frustrating, not being able to drive, because I would totally do a drive by. And James is out of town and the car is right outside our apt. but I can’t drive a stick and don’t have the keys anyway. He’s the only person I know with a car, and there’s no way he’d indulge my snooping. I hate not being able to act on my impulses. While on my irrational mission, I also poked around Friendster (and was smart enough to make myself anonymous—I can’t let these freaks from the past know I viewed their profiles), which I never do because I’m not so into that whole social networking thing. But no cigar, like I said, Portland people=zero web presence. I did, however, find a brief, photo-less profile of an old friend (no messing around, no hooking up), Chris, the guy who coined the phrase “Project Me.” We weren’t really in touch anymore even before I left Portland, I’m not sure why, partially because he married a lesbian and was preoccupied, perhaps. He was the male me. Do people like to date themselves? I don’t actually think so. In theory, it sounds good because you’d always get each other, but who says you’d be attracted to yourself. Like neither of us had that urge, at least I don’t think so, but we got along really well. You know people where you can just talk and talk and you get all the jokes, you’re coming from the same place and same background (I can’t always make references with James. Like he won’t understand what Tevas are or who some stupid member from The Strokes is. Ok, that’s really dumb, but last night I mentioned pointless gossip about how one of the band member’s was rumored to have bought a place in South Slope. But if you aren’t aware of who I’m talking about then the tidbit, which was lame in the first place becomes lamer because you have to explain it. And on the other hand, I don’t know shit about sports and drive James up the wall because he has to explain coding and web design very explicitly to me, using visual examples or I don’t understand). It’s kind of rare, or maybe it’s just lacking in NYC. I can’t think of anyone I’ve met since moving here that fits that description (well, there was one, who was also from Oregon, but he had a girlfriend and was the ex of one of the girls I was staying the first month I moved here. And let’s just say it caused a lot of trauma and that I’m no longer in contact with any of these folks). It’s weird that I value that easy conversation, funny as heck type, but have never ever dated guys like that at all. (Hmm, I just realized another not-so-positive common denominator—these witty, chatty guys usually had/have a drinking problem, oh, and they usually have dead end jobs that make them miserable. Ok, so there’s probably a downside) Is that the kind of person I should be with? I’ve have very simple criteria for how to tell if a guy is “it.” I created the guidelines years ago, but it still holds true. 1. Do they make you laugh? 2. Do you want to touch them? Easy as that, but nearly impossible to find. Just because someone’s hot doesn’t mean they’re going to make you laugh and vice versa. I always unintentionally end up with very dry, serious types, and lately I’ve been wondering if that’s right or if I’m misguided. Don’t forget that making you laugh and being funny aren’t the same. I wouldn’t date a guy that doesn’t make me laugh, but like I said, I’ve never dated an easy going story teller type who is overtly funny. I knew the profile I’d found was Chris’s because it succinctly described him as “aries, big talker, sensitive.” All my boyfriends have been men of few words and completely insensitive (though I do always go out with Aries and fire signs). Yet, they do/did make me laugh and want to touch them. It’s not like I’m married so I’m not really obligated to anyone, at least not officially, but I worry about what would happen if I ever met someone that was rip roaring hilarious and they were super good looking (which is pretty subjective)? I’m not trying to fool myself, but I just know it wouldn’t happen, and if it did, it wouldn’t work. I then looked on Friendster to see if we had friends in common, and this message appeared “There is no direct connection between you and Chris.” It kind of summed things up. I don’t think you’re supposed to be with the mirror image of yourself.