feb 04

2004
january

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

phone home

2/28/04
OK, I swear I don’t really give a rat’s ass one way or the other about Sex and the City. The only reason I’m mentioning it again is because I didn’t have time to finish my train of thought from the last post, and I hate loose ends. I don’t know if it was a hormonal thing, fleeting fancy or what, because it’s already faded, but at the end of that final episode when they coyly revealed that the big schlub’s name was John I felt this sudden inexplicable attraction to him. Not Chris Noth the actor, I don’t think, but the character. The boring, simpleness of that name totally got me. There’s no explaining irrational warm feelings towards imaginary characters. The most bizarre example is how a few months back I found myself feeling crushy over Jodene Sparks on Sealab 2021, and he’s not even a human being. Could this be a fetish like those freaky “furries”? I will say that my earliest memory of feeling warm, fuzzy and enamored towards the opposite sex was seeing Disney’s Peter Pan at a drive-in when I was probably three years old. Who knows what goes on in toddlers’ minds anyway, why not Peter Pan as an object of affection. Maybe these random attractions have something to do with Sunday nights, maybe I’m more vulnerable to fictional men at the end of the week. When I start getting hot for Larry David, Hank Hill, or Andy Rooney, I will know something’s definitely up. So, it’s Saturday and I’m unexpectedly at my 90% empty, sad sack apartment. Moving is a hassle in the best of circumstances, but I’m being pushed to my limit. I had a truck rented for tomorrow and promised my landlord I would be out by Sunday, since that is the last day of the month. All that’s left is the big stuff like my bed, desk, computer, stereo and shelves, it can go fast. But as I think I might have mentioned James’s mom decided to come into town tonight and to stay with him till who knows when (Mon. morning, it absolutely can’t go beyond that). So of all the days in the year someone like that who can’t deal with my moving in in the first place, has to pick the weekend I have plans set in stone. I’m here till Monday now, which is irritating to say the least because I have no food, clothes or general amenities, though I do have my computer and internet connection, thankfully. Now I’ve got to figure out what to do with my Sat. night. I have plenty of homework to do, but that’s pretty lame. Of course I can go out, in fact I’ve been invited to a variety parties, clubs, whatever, but I am a crank and have issues with the way that weekend entertainment inevitably unfolds. I’m not exaggerating when I say that the only way I can participate in anything social with friends is if it takes place walking distance from where they live, which must be God’s most annoying neighborhood, not to mention a three-subway, one-hour trip away. Of course, I’m usually spoiled by having a boyfriend with a car. The trauma only arises when I’m solo and subject to the whims of public transportation. I don’t mean to be a crybaby, I used to routinely ride the subway all hours when I was naïve, crazy and didn’t know any better, but I have higher standards now. Staying in, doing homework and being annoyed or going out, traveling to the ends of the earth to mingle with hipsters and being annoyed—these are serious life decisions.

2/24/04
Ick, I just woke up from a nap, which is totally something I never do because I just end up feeling groggy and worse for the wear the rest of the day, and there’s at least five hours left till my proper bedtime. But I’m old and creaky and easily tired, and skipped out on my internship today to wake up at 7am and spontaneously move 90% of my apartment. I have a Uhaul lined up for Sunday, very D.I.Y. style because I’m too poor to afford mover, even those cheapy, sketchy, man-with-a-vans on Craigslist. But sort of coincidentally, James went home this weekend (meaning to his parents, a coworker thought it was creepy and misguided that home isn’t NYC, but Virginia for a grown man. I don’t disagree.) to do who knows what, partially to discuss this whole stupid move thing with his mom, and primarily to cart back a bunch of scary furniture from his parents’ house. So, Sunday he rented a Uhaul in Virginia for a decent rate and had it until this afternoon (Tues.). We figured we should move as much of my stuff as humanly possible this morning while the truck was still in our possession. It was pretty miraculous how much and how fast we got it all packed and schlepped. Of course it had to start snowing (just lightly, but wetly) and the street conveniently located next to the apt. has no parking only once a week from 11am to 2pm, which is exactly when we were trying to unload. I always thought it was bullshit that they actually used the days posted on the signs to clean the streets, that it was really just a ticket-writing revenue-increasing ploy, but a street sweeper vehicle actually did make the rounds and we had to out-stealth it (and the traffic cops) by periodically driving around the block, then coming back. It was all very exciting. Oh, but the fucked-up part…I honestly don’t know what James told his mother to convince her it was OK to move in with him, but I know there had to have been some white lies (for instance, according to him, she is now convinced I am a “career woman” whatever the heck that is. Basically that I’m an independent, non-mooch, which I’m not really, but whatever.). He was also vague about when I’d actually move in, and this is where the problem lies. She has some meeting in NYC this weekend, and a separate one next week (I don’t get why the woman just can’t stay home). James thinks she thinks she’s going to come up Sunday. I am moving Sunday. These two events cannot crossover. I am homeless as of Sunday night, and there’s no way I’m camping out in my ratty abandoned apt. to appease his mom. Never mind that we need the day to move more stuff. All I know is that the three of us cannot be here at this apt. together any time in the near future, and especially not Sunday. Ridiculous, the way behave. Hmm, I wasn’t going to mention anything about the Sex and the City because Lord, why bother, what hasn’t been said. I’m not even a huge fan, but I do watch the show, and I was so completely irritated by the ending they gave Miranda. Everyone was having these warm, fuzzy epiphanies, like let’s adopt a baby from China, you don’t have to always mindless fuck strangers, love is OK, and with a younger man, all the better. Then Miranda, who I guess is like the cold, bitchy, ugly (I don’t think she’s ugly, but I know some people view her character that way) one, softens and shows she’s capable of love because she lets her husband’s crazy, beer-swilling, newly dementia-ridden mother move in with them in their huge, but second-rate Brooklyn house (I’m not the first person to point out the inanity of the whole moving to Brooklyn plot. I mean, maybe, just possibly, that white, successful, stylish people were moving to the boroughs was big news in ’94—but in ’04?! I mean, there’s already been a Brooklyn hype, backlash, and return to Manhattan—you know it’s true because it was in the NY Times not so long ago. Oh yeah, and Time Out NY, remember that Manhattan: The New Brooklyn issue? I was going to say that no one in their right mind [except James, who has decided he hates Brooklyn] still thinks Brooklyn is sketched-out, but then I remembered my cousins, aunts and uncles at Christmas, totally incredulous that I lived in Brooklyn, like it was still all ’70, vigilante justice, bombed-out, fires in metal barrels for heat, Welcome Back Kotter style here. For all I know, I’m stereotyping since obviously I didn’t live here in the ‘70s, though I’m positive the city had gentrified a thousand times over in the past thirty years.). Of course, Miranda finding lost and wandering stroke-victim mother-in-law eating pizza out of the garbage (in Brooklyn, the horror) and Miranda bathing the old bat, made for some much needed humor in this over-blown episode. So, remember if you’re the common-sense, got-your-shit-together member in a circle of friends (Miranda is the only one who told Carrie what a mistake she was making in moving to Paris), you will only be made likeable by strife and hardship striking. Tragedy is so humanizing, right? But if you’re frivolous, shortsighted and made poor life choices, you will be rewarded by finding true love (with a big schlub). Ick, good riddance to that show.

2/16/04
After reading Gawker.com (which I never really mean to do, but at some point during my day, it always happens), I often wonder why I never sight celebs, even c-list ones. I’m not sure if it has something to do with the fact that I never go out, at least in the right neighborhoods, or that I just don’t pay attention. It’s probably a little of both. But Friday I was actually early to work, 8:30am when I only need be there at 8:45am (this is only a Fridays, I work at 10am the rest of the week), so I decided to get a bagel and coffee from Murray’s even though there was a line out the door. And on the way from the F train to 6th ave. I saw Anna Sui, who isn’t much of a celebrity really, but I had to count it because I’m so deficient in that department. I have a couple of her eye shadows, which smell like roses, so that was alright. I never go out in Manhattan after work on Friday, but I was assigned this place in SoHo (is that SoHo? Maybe it's Nolita), Café Colonial, to write-up for Time Out NY’s Eating and Drinking Guide, so I was forced to do an early dinner in an area I wouldn’t normally frequent. While James and I were hanging out front, sharing a cigarette, debating whether or not to go in yet (I’m spastic about restaurants where there’s only one other group of people or worse yet, it’s empty), a midget-y Vincent Gallo walked past us. He wasn’t quite Littlest Groom (I think it’s pretty lame that the show doesn’t have its own website within the fox.com site) short, but almost. The funny thing was that today I noted a Gawker Stalker sighting from the same day, with him in the same outfit (a fedora and white leather jacket with a little face scrawled towards the bottom. I guess it was George Bush and said, “hero,” though this detail couldn’t be discerned during his brief walk-by). Could this Fri. the 13th/Valentine’s Day/President’s Day weekend extravaganza get any more exciting? Not to get off on a Vincent Gallo tangent, but I totally can't figure out this Vincent Gallo Chocolate Collection from Vosges. Like since when has he become thought of in conjunction with fine chocolates? I'm all for adventurous flavor combinations, but something about taleggio cheese and Kalamata olives and chocolate makes me shudder. Maybe that's the effect they were going for with this very special V. Gallo collection?

2/11/04
Ok, here’s the dumbest question ever. Does anyone know what font is being used for the title GOODIES on my own so named webpage? Duh, I should know, I made the graphic, but that was a some time ago and a few hard drives back. I found an old folder with over 2,000 fonts in it, but for the life of me I can’t remember this particular one’s name. This isn’t life or death, but it’s going to make me crazy, I do need to find it again, and there’s no way I’ll be able to track it down on the internet.

2/10/04
I realize this really isn’t worth fussing about because it barely affects me, but I feel the need to point out how the MTA is messing up a tidy commute by reinstating all those weirdo B and D lines and taking away the W (well, in Brooklyn—Queens gets to keep the express) and Q. Like I said, this goes into effect Feb. 22 and I technically move March 1, so that’s only one week (though to be a stickler, one extra day than usual since it’s a leap year) of annoyance. All I can say is that for once my timing has been perfect. I only lived in this apt. for two months before they started the Manhattan Bridge construction, which as a by-product created the super-express W where I could get to Manhattan in two stops and Union Sq. in three (now to get to work/Union Sq., I’ll have to transfer someplace or take the local the entire way, which is a lame 16 stops). And now I’m getting out while the getting is good. I’m very pleased with myself to be bailing in the nick of time. If there is a better sign from the heavens that it’s time for me to move, I can’t think of one. Though nothing remarkable has happened, I have the feeling February is shaping up much better than January. I think the year should just start with February and January could be limited altogether. It only occurred to me the other day that Valentine’s was coming up and I had no idea what I would be doing, if anything. I could deduce from years past that I would be taken out to dinner, traditional boyfriends are good that way, but where? So far, all I’ve been given is that the restaurant is in Manhattan, isn’t Italian and that I probably haven’t heard of it. The last characteristic makes me very nervous. It’s not like I know every place in town (though I like to pretend I do) but I’d imagine that anyplace I wasn’t familiar with would be for a good reason…like because it sucks. But one shouldn’t look Valentine’s gift horses in the mouth, I suppose. Ok, I now need to whip up a brilliant cover letter for a job I’m not sure I actually want.

2/3/04
Some things I take with a grain of salt and others drive me nuts even though they don’t mean much of anything. Like last week, out of the blue, James said, “that hat looks stupid. It’s like a Flash Gordon helmet.” I swear he also said he hated it, I’m pretty sure he used the word ugly, though he now denies both. As for the Flash Gordon reference, I can’t even picture what he’s describing. The weird thing about that cursory comment was how atypical it was. He just about never ever says anything derogatory about my appearance (ages ago there was some disagreement over wearing skirts over pants). The unusualness of the remark made me think maybe the hat was atrocious after all, though I was determined to now wear it until the yarn unraveled, out of principle. I have no opinion on the hat one way or the other. It’s a non-descript gray knit stocking cap with silver metallic threads interspersed throughout the weave. It was one of the cheaper, less-offensive hats at H&M last winter when I needed one in a pinch. I don’t love it, but I haven’t found anything that’s knocked my socks off since. Friday my boss spontaneously mentioned, “I really like your hat,” so I felt mildly vindicated. Who knew my glory would be so short-lived. Sat. after a bunch of non-necessary errand running (I picked up my heinous reading glasses. Like I said, I don’t need glasses, but was told reading glasses could possibly help my eye pain/headaches, but the only ones in the free case at the optometrist were beyond appalling. Cheapness and vanity are a tough balance. If they were “real” glasses, ones I’d wear on a regular basis, I’d certainly cough up the $200 for something jazzy on the left side of the office [eyeglasses went right to left, increasing in price] but for computer and book glasses, I didn’t feel the need. But all the freebies were giant ‘80s-style Tootsie frames. The least offensive were these pretty offensive green numbers, which I didn’t realize until I picked them up the other day, have mini Egyptian-esque hieroglyphics on the sides. Yeah, these glasses will not be leaving my home.), we decided to visit this Bangladeshi restaurant, Mina, in Queens that I keep hearing raves about (well, with reservation. I had also heard it could take over an hour to get your food and they forget half your dishes and that you could order the same thing ten times and each time it will be prepared differently. But that it’s all good because the woman who cooks is amazing and it’s worth the wait and the gaffes.) Whenever I check out talked about places, it rarely goes well, so I was wary. It seemed a little on the late side for a hole in the wall experience (8pm isn’t late, but these restaurants always close earlier than posted. And with the bad weather it was possible that there wouldn’t be enough customers to merit staying open later. I’m very weird and paranoid about restaurant closing times), especially if they really do have a timing problem with food prep. We left at 8pm, but it took us till around 9pm to finally find parking. In the mean time, my head has started to kill me. Not one of those weird eye pain/headaches I get all the time, but a tension headache mixed with a dull mallet pounding in the back of my brain. I figured I was just hungry since all I’d eaten was a piece of pizza, and that had been around noon. I got very nervous when I realized people who had been waiting a long time had not received their food yet. We finally ordered. Both things I wanted, an eggplant pickle and shrimp dopiaza, were a no go because they were out of eggplant and shrimp. I’m not clear if they ran out (see, we should’ve gone earlier) or if they never had them on that day. There were four tables other than ours, two had come in after us, one was finishing up. At least thirty minutes went by and no one had food on their tables. Another half hour passed and a few people received bread they’d ordered (we got samosas) but no food, food. I was determined not to spazz out, and I didn’t, though I was starting to fade. As it turned out, the usual chef wasn’t in, which I’m not sure had anything to do with the missing in action dishes and general chaos or not. A little after 10pm our dishes started rolling out in starts and fits. I do have to admit the food was very good, the palak paneer definitely the best I’ve had, the cheese was sweet and cinnamony almost like a firm blintz filling. We also had a goat curry and a lamb steak, which was sour, spicy from lime pickle, I’m guessing (in college I engaged in an impromptu lime pickle eating contest with a friend. It was all twisted and we kept trying to one up each other. We were always trying to out-do ourselves with pointless pursuits. I later found out she had a crush on me, which made sense later because when I like a guy I always try to impress them with ridiculous feats, like say…eating large quantities of lime pickle). By this point I was ravenous, and in the throes of a crazy headache. We ate in minutes and ended up leaving around 11pm on the dot. I was totally dying and had to stop at a convenience store for Advil. When we got to the car, it was discovered that we’d received a nice little $115 parking ticket. It never occurred to me to look at the signs on the metered block since it was 9pm when we’d parked and I’d never heard of meters applying later than that. Well, in Sunnyside, Queens they do. Meters must be fed until 10pm and our ticket was stealthily written at 9:57pm. I would’ve been pissed if I hadn’t felt so ill. I mean for $140 (ticket plus $26 dinner) we could’ve had a pretty nice fucking dinner someplace. Anyway, I just wanted to get home, but we had to weave all through Long Island City, Greenpoint and Williamsburg to get the BQE, we got lost and started sweating profusely and gagging. The second I got into the car I knew I wasn’t going to make it all the way home before needing to throw up. I was still coherent and good spirited at this point that I was able to joke about throwing up in my hat if I had to (of course I didn’t really mean it). I hate throwing up. I never throw up. I’ll hold it in until it comes out the other end the next day (which is equally gross. The grossest is when it comes out both ends at the same time, but I’ll spare you that story for now.) But this was almost worse than any queasiness I’d ever experienced. My head was on fire, it felt like it was hemorrhaging. Seriously, I started worrying that I was suffering some freak brain illness and was going to die on the spot. But I can’t puke on command, so every time I’d make James pull over, I would just lean out the car door and nothing would happen. We made it all the way to our neighborhood, that weird not really Red Hook, not really Carroll Gardens strip along Columbia St. when I started losing it. James was scrambling around for a plastic bag while trying to drive and I couldn’t keep it down. I was so mad, so ill, so delirious, and then I did it…I puked full on into my hat. Not once, but twice. The bulging knit sack was now warm and hefty like a soft water balloon (filled with vomit, of course). Usually after finally throwing up, you feel better, but I didn’t (after running in the house, I threw up hard enough into the toilet that it splashed back up in my face and all over my shoes and the yucky bathroom rugs. I’m secretly happy about the bathroom rugs because I hate that old lady style. I really can’t stand fluffy rugs in bathrooms, it’s bacteria-ish.) However, I was still able to laugh because it was pretty fucking funny that my hat met its demise in that manner. I have no idea what made me sick, I don’t think food poisoning would kick in in a matter of minutes, and I was getting a headache before I ate the food, though I wouldn’t doubt that James is somehow responsible, seeing as how he wanted that hat gone and all. He has these hideous buckle boots, which I can’t stand, they’re very eighties Doc Marten-esque and I won’t go for that. My feelings about those boots are known, but I’d never do anything to harm them. But when he first moved into the new apt. he was throwing garbage into this huge cardboard box in the middle of the living room. Crap accumulated in it for weeks, it was disgusting because he’d been ashing into it and had tossed chicken bones in. But he decided to be a good citizen and separate the garbage from the recycling in the trash box, and at the bottom he found his buckle boots. I had absolutely nothing to do with it, I swear. He was all, “nice try,” and still insists I put them in there. So, it’s only natural that I’m suspicious about my poor goner of a hat.