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phone home

12/29/02
Best of, worst of, what’s in, what’s out…it’s that time of year again. Don’t worry, I won’t go there, but I do have a few year’s end observations. Why do 75% percent of Nerve personals (in the past month almost all my female friends have posed profiles) answer “Monster’s Ball” to the “Favorite on-screen sex scene?” So raw, so real…whatever. Halle Berry: not hot. However, Noah Taylor: incredibly freaky hot. Why did I never see this before? It’s not his recent role as Hitler that made me take notice, but seeing him in “Flirting” on cable last weekend. Check out some scary fan art. Observation: I’m getting lines, and it ain’t pretty. It’s the classic double standard, for instance the aforementioned Noah Taylor looks good craggy and liney. I do not. There’s a diagonal crease developing beteween my eyebrows and subtle lines are starting to show when I flare my nostrils (you know, because I do that so often). I’ve seen people much younger with much older looking skin than I have, but still. Do I see botox in my future? We’ll talk at the end of 2003. Observation: Whatever happened to the killer bees that were supposed to invade America like 20 years ago? I remember boys at the bus stop scaring the bejeezus out of me, talking about killer bees from Africa that would be here stinging away in a matter of months. I was thinking about them this morning (the bees, not the boys). Maybe the swarm will sweep the continent in 2003. So, yesterday I decided to go to Sunset Park’s Chinatown, then walk to Century 21 in Bay Ridge, which was stupid because it was much colder than I realized outside the merry jaunt I’d anticipated turned out to be a really long, bone-chilling 30 blocks. I’d also ambitiously planned to go to the gym in Bay Ridge, but by the time I made it to the neighborhood it was dark out, my face was covered in snot and I just felt like taking a nap. After buying some socks, bras, underwear (that’s all I ever end up buying at Century 21, but they’re always very cute versions of stapes like purple, glittery knee socks, slouchy leg warmers, yes, leg warmers, and bra and underwear sets, which I rarely go in for. I’m always amazed/amused by the still-expensive-at-a-discount, absurdly tiny Prada and Dolce & Gabbana bras and panties [I won’t call my own underwear panties, but it fits in this case]. Unless you’re in grade school or Asian, they seem pretty useless.) and a new pair of $4.99 gloves (perfect, just under my newly imposed $5 limit for sure-to-be-lost items) I headed back home (by subway). But after eating my Vietnamese sandwich I felt guilty and around 8pm decided to put back on my gym clothes and head up to the Park Slope location. After spending the afternoon braving the elements, I just wanted to catch a bus the 17 blocks. I got to my corner and saw one up the street, which seemed like a miracle, especially on a Sat. night when you’d think they’d be infrequent. I ran across the street, just in time to have the bus pass me by. I looked up and realized the bus stop sign was gone. It was just there a couple weeks ago. I was totally livid. There was still one on 33rd and 29th, but mine on 31st was AWOL. What gives? I’d be the first to get rid of half the bus stops, I mean it’s having one every other block that makes riding the bus so damn slow and excruciating. But I didn’t say that I wanted them to only remove my stop. So, I get to the gym by 8:30 and it turns out that they’re closing at 9pm instead of midnight because of the holidays. I’m really starting to get sick of the holidays. I have not celebrated the holidays. I did not eat a Christmas dinner. I did not exchange Christmas presents. I did not need to take Christmas Eve and Day off work. I just want to go about my normal business and everyone’s thwarting me with their imposed holiday schedules. Bah humbug. The up side is that since I don’t see anyone until New Year’s Eve, I can buy presents for cheap after Christmas and no one’s the wiser. That would be brilliant if I were actually buying presents for anyone this year – the joke’s on them.

12/27/02

Public piano playing is an odd thing. There is a grand piano in the lobby of the office where I work (yes, I went to work today. My 13.5 hour paycheck for this week is going to be sad, indeed). It's rarely in use, but this afternoon there was a portly gentleman with a ponytail playing that "It Might Be You" song (I hesitate to link because I recently did a link check on my site and a good number of the links in this section have gone bad over the years -- what do you expect? Flotsam and jetsam like that is fleeting, this is journaling, not journalism). Seeing this guy pounding out a forgettable '80s love song made me laugh out loud for the first time in days. I only wonder if he was being paid for his services or if it was as stranger who felt inspired to tickle the ivories. It reminded me of a story my friend Dassi, who used to work at Nordstrom (God, I originally typed in Nordstroms. That's been happening a lot to me lately, making things plural in that horrible white trash way) told me. She worked in the hosiery department, near the piano player by the escalator, and the guy was really, really loud, to the point of distraction. Her and another coworker complained to a manager. And apparently the manager must have said something because in the middle of belting out Billy Joel's "My Life," he suddenly got really quiet. The rest of the song was mock restrained and (unintentionally) hilarious, and through the whole thing he kept shooting Dassi angry, defeated looks. Cramping a performer's style is a harsh thing, I suppose.

12/26/02
Ack, I'm home today, but not really on purpose. This holiday season has gone from boring to sucking, mainly because I still feel crappy. I don't know if my bad mood is due the fact that I've been sick all week or because I stopped taking my Wellbutrin (at the doctor's last week I was so sweaty, shaky and my heart was racing so fast they made me do an EKG and it was all out of control so I immediately stopped taking the Wellbutrin. Heart stuff is scary. I mean, I'm already a hypochondriac, and not without reason. According to the Christmas card my sister received from my dad he was having "cardiac trouble," which could mean just about anything from someone who has had two heart attacks before the age of 60.) Everything's just on my nerves. I was making lime-vanilla marmalade for gifts and it totally didn't turn out, it was syrup instead of jelly-ish, then I was making fruitcakes and forgot my nuts in the oven so they charred and were ruined (trying to find almonds in a snowstorm on Christmas day in my neighborhood is no small feat. I ended up settling for walnuts.). Christmas Eve I woke up and my phone was out again. I seriously almost fucking killed somebody and they kept trying to tell me it was my phone and not the line, which is totally unbelievable since I just had someone out here two weeks ago working on my outside line and made me miss half a day of work. Oh, so I missed work today. I even got up, got dressed, put on make up, drank coffee, and trudged in the ice (that's another annoyance. You know you're in a shit neighborhood when your sidewalks aren't shoveled. I know for a fact that everyone in Manhattan was walking around no problem) like a retarded old lady (I have no balance, in fact old ladies were passing me for real) to the subway. No one was even out, I guess people still had work off. Working today and tomorrow are optional for me, but since I the office was closed the 24th and 25th I figured I'd better haul my ass in if I want to pay my rent (you totally get screwed temping from Nov.-Feb. because there are like a million holidays: Thanksgiving, Veteran's Day, Columbus Day, Christmas Eve and Day, New Year's Day [maybe Eve, I'm not sure], President's Day, Martin Luther King Jr, Day. If you're unemployed you at least still get your checks.) So, I get to City Hall, about half way to work, and I'm completely nauseous and have shooting pains in my head. I had to get off the train and was so mad I just went back home and slept till noon. Oh well. I'm so irritated because I'm not even making use of my time off, all I can do is lay on the couch. Everything is on my nerves, even stupid stuff like my gloves. Christmas Eve I had to go feed cats in Williamsburg and I noticed I was missing one of my brand new gloves I'd only worn once. Fine, so I dragged out my old pair. I wore that same old pair this morning. I only went to the subway, then turned around and came home, then this afternoon needed to go back out to mail late presents at the post office (and noticed that every single house on my side of the block had shoveled the snow and ice off the stairs and front walk way area except for mine. Now it could be argued that if it mattered that much to me, I could shovel it myself. It's just that the neighbors upstairs treat the front area as if its their exclusive yard, they sit on the stairs with their friends and smoke, their kids [and the rest of the neighborhood] play in front of my door, they keep items like their baby stroller permanently parked in front of my window. Therefore, they should clean up the crap. I don't know what I'm thinking because I'm the one who always ends up sweeping the garbage, leaves and cigarette butts, not out of civic pride, but because they end up blowing in my door whenever I open it.) and only one the old ratty gloves was in my bag. How the hell could I have lost it in such a short distance? That's two separate missing gloves in less than 48 hours. And no, I'm not going to wear a mismatched set (assuming I didn't lose the same hand of both -- I don't have the desire to go check). I actually had some relatively entertaining things to write about, but now I've gone and used up all my energy on complaining. Whew, dwelling on the negative takes a lot out of a person. I'm trying to think of what could make this holiday more unbearable...well, I suppose my power could've gone out. Oh shit, I shouldn't have even said that. Now I'm just asking for trouble. Next Christmas I really am going to go out of town. I don't even care if it involves hanging out in a motel in New Jersey by myself. Spending a week alone in a Brooklyn basement with a fever and a queasy stomach is surprisingly bleak. I wish 2003 would hurry up and get here already. P.S. I checked, and I am the proud owner of two right-handed gloves. And for the record, the landlord stopped by and shoveled up the yard this evening so I can mark one complaint off my list.

12/22/02
Blech, I've been sick the past couple days, all sweaty, unable to swallow or breathe with the left side of my face chronically running snot and tearing-up (though I just took my temperature and it's only 96.1, which can't be right). Just in time for the holidays, not that it really matters since I'll be home Mac Culkin-style for the fourth Christmas in a row. Every year I say that next year I'm going to find something exciting to do or someplace fun to go, but then I never do. However, this is the first year I was convinced to feed and watch cats for friends over the holidays. I've always refused out of principle, even if that makes me a rotten friend. I don't care what anyone says, I'll always be indignant over having to clean everyone else's cat boxes while their out of town celebrating. It'd be one thing if I asked favors in return, but I don't. Not ever. Besides the principle, it's the time and effort. To take a subway from my apt. to Jessica's it's at least an hour each way, and you know, even if it involves sitting home alone, I have better things to do than sit on a subway for two hours on Christmas (and two other days during the week). She said she'd pay for a car service, which is about $22 each way, which to me is insane. I mean, if you're willing to cough up $132 I'm sure you could afford I nice pet-sitter in your own neighborhood to come by and check on your animals. But I think it's some issue about not trusting strangers. I only fear for the future when and if my friends start having children. God, that's a scary thought. Don't your eggs start going rotten after 27? I refuse to even start thinking about marriage and families. It's not like I'm so caught up in climbing the corporate ladder, all oops I'm 40 and successful and now I'm all alone with no kids or husband. At the rate I'm going I may be financially stable by 50. I won't even be able to think about a family till I'm 65. Maybe I'll be ready to settle down come 2037. Jessica's New Year resolution is to make more native New Yorker Jewish friends so she'll have people to watch her cats over Christmas. I think I should do the same thing so next year I'll have people who don't go out of town or celebrate Christmas to hang out with.

12/16/02
I thought I'd stop by Broadway Panhandler on the way home from work because I need Mason jars (they're actually Ball jars, but Mason jars is one of those phrases like Kleenex or Xerox where you can't help but use it generically). I've never attempted canning before, it seems a little intimidating, but making my own marmalade (lime-vanilla bean) has been floating around in my head for a while. The trauma was in finding the canning jars. I think in the rest of the country you can just buy them at grocery and hardware stores. At least that's what many websites will lead you to believe, and James reported over Thanksgiving that supermarkets in VA carry them. I searched high and low in the city, I even scoured New Jersey, but no cigar. The only place I've found is Broadway Panhandler in Soho, which just seems ironic. Maybe ironic isn't the right word for homespun accessories only being available in a non-homey neighborhood. Is that irony or irritating? So, I was in a huge hurry because I had to go to the bathroom and figured, I'd pop in, pop out, catch the subway and be home in about 25 minutes. I could wait 25 minutes. I practically ran to the N train, avoiding Broadway because it's so dense with obstacles a.k.a people and when I get to the entrance to the station there's this guy with a baby stroller blocking the stairs, and it makes me huffy and I push by saying excuse me (hey, I'm not that rude). The guy seems bewildered, and about to say something, and I'm always torn in these circumstances because I actually like helping people, but the last couple times I acknowledged confused looking people I was bossed around by a blind man and asked to show my boobs by some young men. The guy had what sounded like a Dutch accent and wanted me to help him carry the stroller down the stairs. Oh boy, this is a huge pet peeve of mine. I know people can't help having children in the city, but it's a huge pain in the ass for everyone else, especially during rush hour. You're always seeing helpless looking women with strollers and like two toddlers in tow and often a macho man will offer his assistance. I'd never seen a lone man with the stroller dilemma, however. I'm not opposed to being a good Samaritan, but the issue here was stairs. I'm scared of stairs, I'm slow on stairs, I get dizzy and unbalanced on stairs, I have to hold the rail in all circumstances, and yes, I get poked fun at for this (by friends, not strangers...at least I think). I was torn. I explained that I had a bag of breakable jars on me and was afraid I'd drop them. He said he'd carry the jars for me. I had no excuse other than poor motor skills and strangers just don't understand these things. So, I grabbed the stroller front with my left hand and held the rail with my right, super slowly walking backwards down the stairs. It was a total nightmare. And he headed down the left side which is totally wrong. People kept trying to barrel into me, and I couldn't blame their annoyance because there's nothing worse than a painfully slow stroller in your way. It felt like it took ten minutes to make the two landings (I'm sure it was it was closer to 60 seconds). I kept apologizing for going so slowly, but beggars can't be choosers -- he should've picked on a more adept passer-by. The weirdest thing was what he said once we got into the station, "thank you, he's more breakable than glass." I'm assuming he was referring the preciousness of a baby over canning jars. Heck, I'd beg to differ. By the time I made it back to my neighborhood I was about ready to go to the bathroom in my pants. I literally had to start running home. I threw open the door, turned on the light, started high tailing it for the toilet and I had the shit scared out of me (ha, no pun intended) by a stiff, dead mouse in the middle of my living room. I totally freaked. I'd put poison out maybe a month ago and the box says something like "bodies will appear in four to five days" and that always creeped me out. I'm always nervous about nooks and crannies and lifting up bags because there might be a carcass underneath (once a long time ago I did find a flattened decomposed mouse under my laundry). But this was just blatant. The poor thing was laying on its side, legs stuck straight out and had its eyes closed. I couldn't get the nerve up to dispose of it. Once James' cat killed a mouse when I was apt. sitting and I had to just cover it with newspaper till he got back to deal with it. I was so disturbed that I seriously contemplated asking the neighbor upstairs to take it out, but that's so hideously girly. I couldn't touch the body, even with plastic bags on my hands. The idea of the softness of a little dead body makes me feel like puking. And that's crazy. It's a huge beef of mine where in movies they're constantly showing how stressed, scared or traumatized a character is by making them throw up. That's so unrealistic. I can't even think of an example now, it usually involves war or serial killing or who knows what, but it doesn't seem like the correct action. Very cliche. But this mouse made me start to puke. The only other thing that'll do it, even more really, is mold. Just thinking about mold (more on food than like mildew on walls) makes my throat tense up and icky juices come up (don't you love this talk?). Anyway, after about 30 minutes of deliberating I managed to lightly push the mouse into a paper bag with a piece of cardboard (it had to be two firm components to keep me from feeling sick about the whole thing). Now I'm jittery and am convinced I keep hearing rustling noises. I fear it's only a matter of time before another body shows up.

12/11/02
Don't you think "Maid in Manhattan" and "Two Weeks Notice" would make an incredibly heartwarming double feature? I don't think they do double features here (do they still anywhere?), but one can dream. I'm working at the same company I have been for the last month and a half, but this week I started in a different dept. where they're doing an annual survey of colleges for those phone book-sized guides for high school students. On Monday James wished me well, "Have fun at high school," and it's true. This sort of work, and temping in large groups in general, feels like high school. By the second day I could already tell the trouble maker, the class clown, the drama queen, the popular crowd, the dorks and the wallflowers. I'm not really a wallflower, but I usually stay in that group for the first 2-3 weeks to suss things out, or sometimes indefinitely if the company ultimately isn't worth talking to. Plus, I know I'm quitting in a month so I'm not feeling any strong loyalties. The job goes to April, possibly to August, and a handful of the crew of 20 (selectively culled from 300 applicants?! This economy is truly out of control. We were told every year there are people who don't return the second day [it's incredibly tedious work -- there were many under-the-breath complaints and laments] but I'm on day three and it's still a full house.) have been doing this seasonal job for years. I got seated in an isolated row of cubicles (good for goofing off like I am right now. Right now there's a group all sitting together in the lunch room and I'm like there's no way in hell. I got in, microwaved my fried rice from home and got the heck out) but bad for socializing since I'm next to two middle aged women, one quiet, the other easily the most obnoxious person in the entire group. I get to hear about her mother's health and hospital stay, her low-carb obsession (but she says carbos, I don't mind carbs, but carbos is heinous), how she doesn't eat dairy, and how she put her mom on a diet. Upon, leaving yesterday she said facetiously, "Stop talking so much." Ha, ha, it's all I can do to keep my mouth shut. Today's horoscope told me to keep my tongue in check (not cheek) and I'll oblige...for today. I'm not terribly crazy about anyone here, but it's human nature to seek out the most attractive (at least for me). Like my high school was full of useless, non-cute guys so you had to adjust your standards to keep from complete boredom. So, yesterday I targeted (in my mind) the most potentially interesting/attractive guy in the group, a sort of casual, quiet Asian guy with a Spanish last name (the Filipino give away) and a shaggy, mod hairdo. Because he never makes a peep and doesn't even let expressions cross his face during meetings, I Googled him to get the scoop, came up with lots of author/editor attributes, then went to Amazon to find he'd written a bunch of academic books on topics like capital punishment and the drug war. Hours later, during a meeting we had to go around the room and talk about ourselves and he mentioned he'd just moved from California and that he used to be a book editor, and that if you typed his name into Amazon you'd find about ten books. Er, he couldn't have been on to me unless he's psychic because even though we sit in the same row, he's way far down, and even if he did see me on Amazon, he wouldn't be able to make out his name, I don't think. That wasn't a very modest comment either, and he doesn't make good eye contact (this morning on the subway, I noticed a guy looking at me or in my direction or zoning out or whatever, and there wasn't anything remarkable about him, but I couldn't resist the urge to keep looking at him. It was really demented and every time I'd try to sneak a glance, he'd catch my eye and I'd get all freaked out and act like I was looking somewhere else. But 30 seconds later I couldn't help but peek again. It wasn't really flirtatious, I was just strangely drawn to him like he seemed familiar and really, if he kept catching me every time I peeked that means he was looking my way too. He wasn't even really my type, sort of like a sporty-hip, spiky, sandy-haired, pock-marked, Toby Maguire. God, it's probably some gross hormonal thing. Nature is weird. There will be weeks when I'll be strangely and strongly attracted to people I have no reason to be. A couple months ago, I developed a fondness for James Spader and Kiefer Sutherland, and was convinced I'd entered a new phase of liking 40-something (oops, Mr. Sutherland will only be 36, as of next week -- I could've sworn he was older. For the record, James Spader is 42), blonde, '80s actors that I was totally grossed out by in their heydays. But that completely dissipated after a week.) so I think I'm down on him already.

12/9/02
It seems like in the past week Adaptation has been given glowing reviews in every possible venue. That makes one nervous, but I saw it yesterday and it was amazingly good. Funny, full of meta this and meta that. And if the whole movie concept wasn't self-referential (is that the right term?), circular, in-the-know, whatever, you can take it one step further by looking at susanorlean.com described as "A weblog by a man about a film about a man writing a film about a book about a woman writing about a man." Alright. Speaking of books, but having nothing to do with the movies, a friend gave me a copy of "Class: A Guide Through the American Status System" by Paul Fussell when I was in Portland and I got addicted and ended up breezing through it in a couple days. It's very funny, very '80s. He breaks classes down into categories: Top Out of Sight, Upper Class, Upper Middle,Middle Class,High Prole (Proletarian), Middle Prole, Low Prole, and Bottom Out of Sight and analyzes them through preferences like cars -- upper middle prefer either a boring car like a Ford or a Dodge or a "good" car like a Jaguar or BMW, but never a Rolls, Cadillac or Mercedes, which are vulgar. Of course bumper stickers are lowbrow (he holds particular contempt for college and university stickers). Himalayas are upper-class while Siamese are middle (Siamese are my favorite). Of course the biggest determiner is speech and grammar. He addresses all my favorite peeves like adding apostrophes where unnecessary: He eats apple's by the cartload, and misusing quotes: Spaghetti and fish cakes served on "Thursday." My recent beef is people who spell Manhattan Manhatten. Bad enough in general, even worse if you live here. The thing about class is that it's not so much about money, but taste and aspirations (not that one is better than the other. Fussell, as well as I, would assert that they're all pretty atrocious). A lot of blue-collar workers make as much, if not more than many middle-class office drones, but they might not have the annoying aspirations of rising up and fitting in like the middles do. Middles are sort of the worst of the bunch. I certainly have plenty of prole tendencies, I definitely come from prole stock. Proles tend to be obsessed with cars their lawns and sports, eat dinner early, and play the lottery and I'm not really like that. But my taste is pretty poor, regardless. James has recently decided to pick apart my speech, my biggest gaffe being how I order food at restaurants. I say, "can I get..." instead of "may I have..." or "I'd like..." I can't help it, and I don't really care if it's gauche. My friend, Todd, who gave me the "Class" book seemed to have no problem with it. Neither do most West Coasters. I think class is one thing, but there's also a lot of regionality involved. Somehow N.E. academic style standards have been set for correctness, which is pretty insular. I know I get on people's cases about bad grammar, but I don't think calling a crayfish a crawdad hurts anyone (at least I don't say crick for creek or wrastling for wrestling [my dad does]). When I was eating a $5 Chinese lunch special at Silver Palace in Tigard (one of those hold-outs with words like sub gum, mar far and hamburger on the menu and a cocktail lounge in back with red upholstered walls) with my dad, who recommended the place because his Lion's Club (I didn't even know they still had Lion's Clubs), my fortune said, "Do not be intimidated by the eloquence of others." That struck me funny. Then my dad jumped in how he can fit into any social setting, it's just common sense, if you go to fancy party you wear a suit jacket (I don't know that he owns a suit jacket, or a tie), and he can talk to anyone. I don't think I'm intimidated by eloquence, but I don't presume to be acceptable in every social context. I worry about impression, appearance and presentation. You have to. It's so prole to just be so matter of fact about how you can get along with everyone everywhere, it cracked me up. Oh, I meant to write about this freaky housing development, Orenco Station out by my mom's, but I've got crap to do like wash dishes, try to find immunization records (for school) and put together a 600 word effervescent women's magazine style writing sample for a potential, super long-shot, freelance assignment.

Written 12/4/02, posted 12/5/02
So, my phone line is still dead, but complaining about that is so obvious. I think I'm still decompressing from my Thanksgiving excursion to Portland. And I'm starting to think that every time I leave town, the temperature in NYC drops twenty degrees. It was nearly balmy till I went to Canada in October, and when I returned it was chilly. Monday I get back into town and it's like 19 freakin' degrees, evil cold. Supposedly last night was the coldest in two years. Yeah, so my phone doesn't work, but at least my heat does I guess. My favorite quote of last week from my dad on how good his insurance is: "My first heart attack only cost me $1. $16, including prescriptions. My second one was only $1 because I already had the medication." It's good to look on the bright side, but that's a little demented. After the second heart attack (or the first for that matter), you'd think there'd be more to worry about than saving a buck. Oh, the strangeness of Portland. As this was only my second visit in four and a half years, it was easy to forget how things are. I've never quite felt like New York has been a perfect fit for me, but all it took was a trip back home to realize that I'm even more ill-suited for that lifestyle. Not that I had a bad time or anything, it was fun, but with such time between visits all the differences seemed stark. Or maybe Portland's changed. I remember after my sister had lived in England for maybe three years, her visiting me in Portland and how she couldn't get over how "hip" everyone was. I didn't see it at all, though I think I know what she meant now. It's like everyone was in a band, or making art, or opening up independent stores...or at least talking about doing it. People just kind of shut-up and do things here. What struck me over last week was how everyone is either white, liberal, upper middle class, natural fiber wearing, organic produce-obsessed, fish and white meat eating "vegetarian," SUV-driving, families who put their kids in schools where the teachers go by their first names, or white, liberal, upper middle class, natural fiber wearing, organic produce-obsessed, vegan, bicycle-riding, youngsters who really seem to care about causes. The day after Thanksgiving, I couldn't count how many protests there were. Anti-fur, Buy Nothing Day, Critical Mass, and some nebulous uprise I saw on the news with some hippy-goths and dreadlocked-punk teens caused mayhem in a mall. I'm not quite sure what they were against, but something terribly important I'm sure. Jessica and I have discussed this before, people in Portland just have too much time on their hands. Everybody's all concerned about whether their produce has been genetically modified or if there's estrogen in soap bubbles. Give them a 60-hour work week, shitty public transportation, no bike lanes, a tiny $1,200 room in an apt. at the end of a subway line, Tom's of Maine toothpaste that costs like half a day's pay, complete disinterest in their brilliant screenplay/novel/general bright ideas, and they'll snap out of it real quick. D.I.Y. spirit? Please. You can't do it yourself, you can't do it with the help of friends, you can't even do it with hard work and determination. No one really cares what you can do...unless it makes lots of money, of course. Too much nature, fresh air, and free time warps a person. Everybody should be beaten-down, downtrodden, and financially obligated, dammit.

Things about Oregon I'd forgotten: It's damp. My wet laundry never dried, even after three days of hanging in my room, moss and ferns are everywhere, though I did not see any slugs or mushrooms, thank goodness. Oil Can Henry's. Bulk food -- I was prepared to spend $30-$40 on baking ingredients and made it out of the most amazing new store to me, WinCo for under $13! They make you buy everything pre-packaged here, like you'll want a handful of mushrooms, but have to buy a large container, same with apples, chile peppers and who knows what else. How easy it is to drive, it's almost relaxing, it's by the book, no one honked once the entire week, no one double parks, everyone stays in their lanes and yields to pedestrians, I never heard the sound of squealing tires, (nor salsa music now that I think about it). How early people get up and go to bed and eat dinner. I found myself getting up at 9am and getting tired by 11pm, which might just have been a three-hour, time difference thing, reflecting my natural tendency to noon wake up, 2am bedtime if left alone. My dad starts work at 6am, my mom like 7am or so. People get home from work at like 3pm, it's just wrong. How people work part-time and live fine. How most people are paid hourly. How small light rail is. That there are drawbridges into downtown. That grade-schoolers don't call each other "motherfucker cocksucker bitch" (at least not in front of their parents). How everyone is polite to the point of freakishness. Customer service is taken seriously, eye contact is made, conversations initiated, no one's ignored while talking to friends and/or coworkers, even at convenience stores, gas stations and fast food joints. No one is bitter, they may be a little good-naturedly sarcastic if they're under 25, but they don't mind what they're doing, it doesn't kill them to laugh because the ones that do mind know something better will come along, and everyone's white and everyone speaks English. That "foreign" people like waitstaff in Chinese and Mexican restaurants are Asian and Hispanic, but don't have accents. It's like some lame '80s black comedian schtick where they're all "black people are like this, white people are like this," you know like they have no rhythm and dance funny. When Martin Lawrence or Eddie Murphy or Chris Rock (I know he's not really '80s) or whoever does their white person imitation it's always this exaggerated chipperness, unreal, unless you're in Portland (at least in the suburbs). The woman, who was probably about my age, at the Jack in the Box counter (hey, they don't have them here so I had to go) was really excited to tell me about the new curly garlic fries and how you could get them free for this week, and I appreciated her telling me because maybe I did want to try the new fries, it was kind of her to ask because here you'd never be informed of any special promotion (assuming they'd even do one in NYC), you might see some tiny sign advertising it somewhere, but no one would know what you were talking about if you asked, and undoubtedly you'd be overcharged. Then a kid spilled his soda and the dad made a point of telling this cashier and she thanked him because that was really considerate, and she'd have someone get on it right away, but in the mean time put a yellow caution sign around the spill and made sure to tell all the unaware customers who went near it to be careful. I am not being sarcastic. My fast food dining experience was very pleasant, I left feeling good about the world, and she made a point of saying goodbye when I left.

Things in Portland (and Beaverton, and Tigard, and Hillsboro) that struck me funny: Benches everywhere where no one would ever or does ever sit -- on bark dust mounds, on dead end streets, facing store windows. Morrissey and Smiths bumper stickers on new cars with absolutely no hint of irony. The weird specific Sydney Omarr horoscopes in The Oregonian "You receive good news concerning money; an article you submitted three weeks ago is accepted, check enclosed." That would be great...if I'd written an article three weeks ago. I remember some weird one years ago predicting "potato dish featured tonight." I don't recall eating any starchy tubers that evening.