august 04

++++++++++++

phone home

8/30/04
I don’t know, but I think I might’ve been offered a job today. It’s a little random because I only interviewed for the first time this morning. I think the last time I mentioned jobs (I’m always a little wary of job and/or work talk because it seems like it has the potential to cause trouble, especially since everyone’s so Google crazy these days) I thought I was going to be offered one, which I was, and then turned it down for the nebulous prospect. Well, the one I wanted but hadn’t even interviewed for yet called me the day after I applied, and today I met with the director. It all went well, and she wanted to know when I’d be able to start if I was offered the position. This afternoon I received an email asking if I was still interested and confirming my start date could be Sept. 14. Sure yeah. But of course there’s a catch because there always is. One of the main reasons I didn’t take the other job was because the pay was pretty low, and there wasn’t any way the number would increase any higher because they’d already gone a little higher than their range. Today’s job wanted someone with a few years experience, and I’m a recent grad, so they offered a slightly lower salary than I’d seen in the ad. This is tricky because it puts the salary only a couple thousand dollars more than the job I rejected last week. I mean, of course it’s considerably more than the sad $15,000 or so I earned in 2003. No one said library work was lucrative, and I was aiming for an advertising research job, which this is. Whatever. I do have the feeling I might be giving my two-week’s notice tomorrow, though. Oh, and I just decided to go to Montreal this weekend. Why not.

8/26/04
Jesus fucking christ, this story totally busts my chops. I've always had my own beefs the overly amorous F train (did I ever write about how a few weeks ago there was this young, 19-20ish couple sitting directly across from me who kept making out while she was seated sideways, her peculiarly short legs in his lap. They were talking cryptically about telling people something or another, then a doctor was mentioned. It could've been my overactive imagination, but I deduced that she recently found out she was pregnant and they were all gooey-eyed over it. But the part that made me seriously think I'd lost my mind or was being played a trick on, was when the girl started talking about how she can't stand all the couples making out on the F train, and how there's this annoying twosome she sees every morning and how retarded it is that couples have to go to work together. My thoughts exactly. I was like is she trying to get my goat, and I'm on some hidden camera show. I mean, she had just spent the last 15 minutes cooing and kissing and groping with her soon-to-be baby's daddy and now she's boldly bemoaning lovebirds on the F train? I'm still disturbed by the whole scene) but now apparently, it's a bona fide trend. Well, at least according to the New York Post (this actually isn't the first I've heard of this asinine excuse for a pick-up scene. Some time ago it was written about on The Black Table, but I dismissed it as Craigslist nonsense.) Really, this story is the opposite of what I've been complaining about, they're not talking much about PDAs between established twosomes, but hookups and how the F train is a prime meet market (I'm dumb because I've never figured out if that phrase is meet market or meat market). The clincher is how supposedly the front car is where all the action. Um, I always ride the front car (when returning home. I ride in the last car when going to work--is the back car for riders who want to get fucked up the ass? I can't keep track of all the subway symbolism), not because I'm trying to get laid by some creepy commuter, but because it lets me off closest to the exit I want. Ick. Speaking of subways, this morning it occurred to me that the trouble with the impending Republican Convention isn't going to be the Republicans. Oh no, they're hideous in their own ways, but the real problem is all the podunk protesters who are starting to show up. Briefly allow me to be an NYC snob. This morning, this young (non-kissing) couple got on the train and they both had on long hippie skirts, t shirts with nutty sayings, ratty backpacks and horrible lug soled oxford shoes. They were so not from here, and honestly, I don't know if they were in town to oppose the convention, but they reeked of political activism. Kooky guys in skirts tend to give that impression. There's going to be a lot of bad, bad style breezing through this town. I don't even want to think about all the sandals, backpacks, natural fibers, buttons, stickers…women with Monchichi haircuts. That's the peacefully irate contingent, obviously they don't represent all that is anti-Republican. Anarchy is fun too, but isn't targeting employees of McDonald's and Starbucks kind of lame? Like hourly service workers have control over the policies of global behemoths. Why didn't I plan to go out of town next week like every other sensible New Yorker?

8/25/04
Just for the record, yesterday on the way to work, another woman tormented me with her public make up application, and she was sitting in the exact same spot as the offender from the previous day. To be fair, she was pretty quick with her whole regimen, she didn't linger on the mascara for more than a minute or so. However, she got a little fixated with the under eye concealer and patted and rubbed way more than necessary. It made me a little twitchy, but I couldn't look away. That's when I realized this iPod wearing, Peter Garrett looking guy sitting next to her thought I was stealing glances at him. Consequently, he wouldn't stop staring back at me. Minding your business is really the best remedy. I'm all stressed out because I just got a message from the HR dept. of this job I recently went on two interviews for. All of a sudden I've decided I don't want this job, I don't know, it's just not right, so-so chemistry. Maybe I'm being overly positive (pretty unusual for me, though) but I think they're going to offer it to me, that's why I'm scared to call back. It should be like dating (which isn't really a good analogy for me since I tend to either be in long term relationships or sleeping with strangers, I don't really properly date), you can be choosy, just because someone asks you out, even if they're nice, it doesn't mean you have to go out with them. You don't have to settle for lukewarm where there should be fireworks, right? There's another job that I'm much more into, but they haven't even started interviewing yet, and who's to say they're even going to want to interview me (but see, I'm being positive again, and I should be job-wise because I'm totally qualified for this position). I think I'm just going to have to take my chances with this nebulous not-a-sure-thing job. You don't go out with the pleasant but boring guy just because you're afraid of being alone and having nothing, do you? Well, you shouldn't. And I don't know which is worse, being emotionally or financially needy. I guess I'd better go call this HR person back.

8/23/04
It may appear that I'm overly concerned with the beauty habits of strangers, particularly on the subway, but that’s really not true. Long French pedicured toenails freak me out, and over zealous make up appliers (well, really most people who do their make up on the subway) bother me. I never thought I'd live to see a mascara-crazed subway rider like I witnessed a few years ago. This woman just wouldn't stop brushing on mascara, and I don't know how long it actually went on for because I had to get off the train first. This morning I met her match. I also can't say exactly how long it went on for because the trauma was already in progress when I boarded. I got on at Carroll St. and immediately noticed a very brown (she didn’t appear to be of any Hispanic or African origins), very platinum young lady sitting diagonally across from me. I really couldn’t figure out what look she was going for, her age, or what sort of job she might be going to. Her yellow-white hair was slicked into a ponytail, but a frazzled one due to all the chemical processing. She was very tan, had nude lipstick and insane black-rimmed eyes. I know what a smoky eye is, duh, and I personally like dramatic eye shadow, but this was something else altogether. I probably wouldn’t have paid her any mind if she hadn’t been so relentlessly applying mascara. She swept it on her top lashes, over and over and over. Kept dipping in, then brushing some more. Every so often, she’d hold the brush vertically and paint the lower lashes like she was trying to reach each one individually. I was half waiting for the train to lurch and for her to gouge her eye. With each passing station, it became more eerie, the woman just wouldn’t stop. Isn’t there a limit to how much mascara an eyelash can hold? I couldn’t help but keep tabs on her, until an Asian woman reading The Invisible Man blocked my view, so I can only deduce she stopped with the make up somewhere between Delancey and 2nd Ave. because that’s when she finally sat still and pulled out a copy of Assembling My Father Her reading choice being the only clue to her oddball personality. So, that's at least five to six stops worth of mascara, including the long part under water between Brooklyn and Manhattan. Easily twenty minutes. If it takes her that long just to finish one component of her beauty regimen, I don’t even want to think about the time spent on her total look. And I feel self-conscious just fixing powder or lipstick in public. Clearly, I’m the one with issues.

8/18/04
I've started noticing a frightening side effect of drinking too much. Well, not that frightening, just peculiar. The day after over doing it, I can't always remember numbers I've memorized. Last month I was being super lazy and trying to call James downstairs when I was upstairs, and for the life of me, couldn't remember his phone number, cell or regular one. Like I could get the first few digits because it's an auto pilot type of action where you don't normally think about the actual numbers, but couldn't remember the whole ten digits. I thought this was some weird fluke, but the other day, Friday, I was at the gym trying to detox from a celebratory Thurs. (I'm totally not binge drinking, we had champagne at work around 4pm, I went home, then I went back out around 8pm and drank about one drink an hour till midnight) and I couldn't get my combination lock open. I repeatedly tried 18-34-10 to the point where I was feeling violent. I had to get the locker open to leave because my house keys were inside. I left the room for a while, then came back and tried to open the lock without thinking, like I normally would, and finally got it open. It was 18-36-10. I've had that lock for over three years and have never had a problem before. Now, an even odder side effect, is that if I feel hung over and work out despite feeling like crap, I can do cardio type things for ever without getting tired. I first noticed this a couple years ago. I might normally do 30 min. on a treadmill or elliptical trainer, and I definitely feel tired before my 30 min. are up. But if I'm hung over I can easily do an hour and not even feel winded. Where's the medical explanation in this? Could there be an excessive drinking/higher physical endurance connection? This should be exploited somehow. Forget Gatorade, gin's the way to go.

8/12/04
The other day on my lunch break, I ran to Duane Reade for coffee filters and pantiliners (don’t ask, I already get made fun of because of my fondness for superfluous feminine hygiene products) and the total was $4.43. Then I popped into Garden of Eden to get a salad (I’m no huge fan of Garden of Eden, but as far as salad bars go, they have seemingly tastier and marginally healthier options than the two delis closer to work) and my total was also $4.43. What are the odds of spending exactly $4.43 at two places in a row? Who knows, and it probably meant nothing. My only logic was that maybe I should leave work at 4:43, which didn’t mean a whole lot since during the summer I can leave at 4:45 on the days I open at 8:45 anyway. So, I left at 4:15 just to mess it all up. I’m trying to figure out why I keep seeing commercials for Sonic all of a sudden. I’m easily influenced and now am all eager to eat drive-in burgers, but I don’t even think Sonic exists in the N.E. I went to their website and they nearest location appears to be in W. Virginia, which is pretty darn inconvenient. What gives with this new poorly targeted ad campaign, anyway?

8/9/04
Do you know what one of the most pointless things on earth is? A French manicured, pardon, French pedicured pinky toe. I saw this on the train the other day, and there was something very wrong about it. It doesn’t really seem worth the bother. In fact, it’s insane. Pinky toenails can’t even hold a quarter inch of color, like the tip of the nail polish brush is the size of the entire toenail, so putting a white tip on the end of the nail is pretty freaking stupid. Well, at least mine can’t, they’re barely even existent, but then I’m a little obsessive about trimmed toenails (fingernails, not so much). I’m not foot fixated, in fact quite the opposite, but I can’t stand seeing toenails sticking out over the toe flesh. Not even a little bit. It’s not supposed to be like an eyelash awning over your eyeball. Toenails need to be flush with the edge of the toe or even a bit shorter. It’s horrible and rampant and this is sandal season so there are all sorts of too long painted toenails staring at me during my commute. Do note, that the illustrated foot in the above link has flesh above the nails, that is exactly the toenail length I’m talking about (also note that they never show the pencil-sketched brush touching the pinky toenail…because it would be too big). More than half of the women I see with open toe shoes have long, overhanging and curling nails, and almost all of them have taken the time to polish or have them polished, so why aren’t they cutting them? These are the kinds of unimportant issues that can bog you down on a Monday.

8/7/04
Granted, I was only half paying attention, and I’d had a few drinks, but I swear there was just some commercial on TV with all these little girls saying empowering things, and I was like what is this bullshit. Then one of them said something about not letting a 250-pound man molest her (I really, really wish it would replay because I know I’m mangling the exact wording though “250 pounds” and “child molester” were definitely uttered) then they showed an Applebee’s logo. What the hell is up with that? It’s weird enough on its own, but are they saying only fat men are dangerous molesters? Just the other night a woman in Greenpoint was accosted and raped by two guys described as being 5’7 and 150 pounds. What struck me about that story was that no mention of weapons was made, but that they overpowered and dragged her off the street. I’m taller and heavier than 5’7, 150, all I could think was good luck pulling me into a car like that. Everyone knows sex offenders come in all shapes and sizes, which brings me to my favorite molester ever, Mary Kay LeTourneau. C’mon, give some props to the little ladies. I’m so glad she’s back in the news, I’d almost forgotten all about her. I guess I have a soft spot for baby-loving, born and bred Northwesterners. I was totally obsessed with her in the mid-‘90s. Sure, she’s completely mentally disturbed, but she was doing it for love, dammit. And Vili Fualaau, who’s now a consenting adult, still wants to be with her, so what can you do? What I find most disturbing is that she spent over seven years in prison, while that Staten Island ferry captain, who is responsible for killing 11 people just pleaded guilty and has agreed to serve up to 46 months in jail, but is working on a deal to serve zero prison time. Humping a willing pre-teen is more than twice as bad as killing 11 people? Applebee’s needs to do something about this injustice. So, today I stuck with my plan of being a weekend recluse and spent a good portion of my day in front of this computer. But my idea of being a hermit mostly means just not heading into Manhattan or Williasmburg, so that freed me up for a lovely Sunset Park excursion. It’s funny how when I lived there I complained nearly non-stop, but now I find myself missing it from time to time. Maybe it’s just that Carroll Gardens is wretched in other ways. My tolerance for P.C. crap like Ikea protests is very, very low indeed. That’s the kind of good-for-you shit that makes me violent, not pushy, in your face people (that’s the difference I’ve decided that separates obnoxious Carroll Gardens/Cobble Hill/Park Slope/Brooklyn Heights residents from the rest of obnoxious Brooklyn. I get annoyed by rude inconsiderate louts, but at least you can take them at face value, they’re not all wholesome and passive-aggressive and offended by every little thing that doesn’t fit into their idea of community). I strolled around Fifth Ave. and took some photos because I love the concept of the “the shopping strip.” It’s so quintessentially New York, and oddly absent from this neighborhood. Sure, we have Smith St. but it’s pretty boutiquey and Court St., which is still pretty Old World, i.e. Italian, but I long for all the ratty chains like Dee & Dee, Petland, Rainbow, Jimmy Jazz, and the like. I can get seriously good ravioli, sausage and cannoli in these parts, but it’s my least favorite food genre. I much prefer all the street tamales, empanadas and super good Vietnamese food in Sunset Park. (Well, I was a little sad when I heard that House of Pizza and Calzone was closing. I ran over there last week and got a couple of their insane deep-fried calzones and took photos to remember them by.) I told myself that I was going to be nice today and not get irked by things like slow walkers, affectionate couples and bratty kids. And I did a pretty good job of keeping my cool. My last stop before heading home was picking up a few items at the local Key Foods. It’s always crowded and the aisles are ridiculous because you can’t fit two carts side by side (I know, that’s typical of most NYC stores, but it still irritates me). I had all my stuff and just wanted to get to the register when I started bolting down an aisle only to be blocked by a weird little man that looked like a short pre-op Al Roker, with a giant homegrown cart. I started to bust a gasket, but stopped, calmed down, put a smile on my face, and politely waited for him to reach the end of the row so I could head down. He stops, looks at me, then says, “I like your hairstyle. Did you go to the beauty shop recently?” He totally caught me off guard and instead of indignantly huffing off I answered truthfully, “well, about a month ago” to which he added “you’re a very pretty lady.” Ha, that was a good one. But weirdo complement or not, it totally cracked me up. I thanked him, and headed home, deciding that being nice isn’t all that bad.

8/6/04
It’s hard to believe that at 5pm today I became officially finished with school. And in usual fashion, it was pretty anti-climatic. Being a Friday evening, you might think I’d do something celebratory, but so far all I’ve managed is eating semi-healthy nachos (baked chips, ground turkey, black beans, low fat cheese and sour cream—gross, right?) and watching a Lifetime movie with Brooke Shields being stalked by that guy from the Waltons with that big facial mole. I suppose I should be excited that I have two interviews next week, one at a public relations association and another at “a global business consulting firm,” which frankly sounds scary. The class I just finished, Competitive Intelligence, was all about cost benefit analysis, return on investment and lots of other MBA mush. It’s not really me, but then what is? Half-assed nachos, I guess.

8/3/04
Ikea is really little more than the adult Chuck E. Cheese’s. I know, because I experienced the terror of both in less than 24 hours. Sunday morning I was bombarded by bargain hunters in New Jersey. Saturday night my sensibilities were pushed to their limits at Chuck E. Cheese's. I knew C.E.C.’s would be traumatizing, but I couldn't let that stop me from celebrating my birthday in style. I give media too much credit. Despite my dismay at the NY Post's bit on C.E.C.'s hipster, nostalgia factor, there was nary an ironic twentysomething in the house. In fact, there weren't any white people at all. Except the manager, and us, of course. This was their first Saturday doing business so I could credit the mayhem with opening weekend bugs, but I have the feeling it'll be riddled with chaos on a regular basis. There was a line out the door, snaking around the escalators. I'd heard there was a Red Lobster in the mall (which upon closer inspection hasn't appeared to have opened yet) so I kept this as a mental Plan B. But anyone who knows chain restaurants knows there's always an inexplicably long wait on weekends. I've waited over an hour for a New Jersey Outback Steakhouse (yeah, yeah, no one forced me--I'm my own glutton for punishment). So, I figured C.E.C.'s wait wouldn't be any worse than anywhere else. It was about 45 minutes to get in, then another 30 or so just to order food. And I was at least sated by the prospect of Chablis and blush wine on tap, but was informed when we finally got to the counter that they didn't have a liquor license yet. Jesus, and I'd decided against sneaking a flask at the last second. Fine. And I'm not an idiot, just because my group was the only childless party didn't mean I was expecting mannered, mature evening. But these kids were completely out of control. Members of my party had to pop anti-anxiety meds. I've never seen humans so wound up, it was like a room filled with spazzy little cats and dogs, but less cute. I figure every classroom has a few bad apples, loud, aggressive kids who make life hell, but this entire establishment was filled with the wild, jumpy types. Now, I get why people don't want their kids in NYC public schools. I'd expect high energy levels in the games section, but what really disturbed me was how when the animatronic Chuck E. Cheese (I don't think they had any of the other Pizzatime Players, so low budget) would start doing his thing, the curtain would open, he'd start moving and singing, mobs of kids would jump on the stage and grab and hang off the mechanized mouse. That's so not cool. Am I totally off base or are you not supposed to just watch Chuck E. perform? Like you couldn't go into a theatre production and run around on stage and harass the actors, right? At one point, Chuck's arm snapped down from being jerked by a kid and an employee had to come out and put his arm back into place. Even after the curtain would close, kids would run around inside the little stage area. Is it just futile for parents to tell them to get out of there or? Are childless folks just totally out of touch and politeness isn't even a trait worth bothering to cultivate anymore? I don't even want to think about the E. coli factor in the place, you'd be insane to do the salad bar. Babies in diapers and nothing else were crawling all over tables, the air conditioning appeared to be nonexistent. I'm not a germ freak at all, but this was a serious breeding ground. I could imagine the strep and pink eye brewing in the already filthy kiddie habitrail (it had only been open seven days and already looked sticky and worn out). I didn't dare brave the bathrooms (though I entertained the notion of leaving a big, messy dump somewhere inside it and preferably not in the toilet). The fact that adults with children are given a different hand stamp than the childless grown ups is telling. I couldn't figure out the logic at first, how would that keep anyone from kidnapping? I don't think nabbing kids is the fear so much as parents will taking off without their children. I'd certainly be tempted. But to be fair, I have to admit that despite the madhouse atmosphere, both kids and parents were in surprisingly good spirits. It was kind of shocking. I didn't witness any yelling, spanking, threatening to spank, or general rudeness from any grown ups, and I while I saw lots of wrestling, kicking and hitting, I didn't see or hear a single crying child, which is pretty miraculous. I guess they were having a good fucking time, and who can blame them? The tagline is "where a kid can be a kid," after all. What strikes me about experiences like this is the demographics, and how uniquely NYC it all is. I don't understand how white people know not to go there, and why black people do. There’s always been a bit of the same at NYC area Red Lobsters too. Certainly, there aren’t any hard and fast rules, anyone can go anywhere, they just don't. It’s not so much of a race thing as a culture issue, like there’s a strata of people who think they're above chain restaurants (I'm fascinated by Trading Spouses. So far they're only swapped two moms, but both of the richer families eat out at Japanese restaurants, and shun carbs, of course. The lower income moms are freaked out by sushi [this has also been recently employed as a look-at-the-differences device on Amish in the City. The Amish, and of course, the one non-Amish black girl have never eaten sushi.] Low fat and exotic equal classy, didn't you know? Lowbrow people love fried food and starch! Heck, I do.) and taste tends to align with income and perceived notions about what they’re supposed to enjoy and disdain. And high taste people have strong ideas about what's good for children, and Chuck E. Cheese's probably doesn't align with their values. Ideas about what’s good for kids and what’s suitable dining for the adults. And it’s not a simple matter of people living closest to this Chuck E. Cheese's being black because that's not true at all. The Atlantic Terminal mall is in a part of Brooklyn that falls under Community District 2. That district includes a variety of neighborhoods: Brooklyn Heights, Fulton Mall, Boerum Hill, Fort Greene, Brooklyn Navy Yard, Fulton Ferry, Clinton Hill (I have no idea what Fulton Ferry is, I'm just going by what NYC Gov tells me). The composition of that district is: 34. 4% white, 40.5% black, and 16.8% Hispanic. The minor 6% white/black difference certainly isn't reflected by Chuck E. Cheese's clientele. So, where are all the white families going on Saturday nights? Probably somewhere precocious in my neighborhood. When it comes down to it, I think I prefer my children penned-up and concentrated in mall spaces.