feb 06

2/28/06
I must be paying the price for staying home Fri. when I was only mildly sick. Now I’m sick for real and already used up a valuable day. That’ll teach me. I’m sure you are all dying to know what I did for Valentine’s Day. James took me out to Pampano, which was perfectly nice (though I had issues because it’s just down the street from my office and I’m very anti-midtown east these days). But it was kind of overshadowed by our impromptu dinner at Blue Hill at Stone Barns, the Sunday before President’s Day. My short notice Tarrytown excursion was totally fun, and I took lots of pointless photos (I’m going to turn into one of those annoying photo bloggers, even worse foodie photo blogger, if I don’t watch it) but I haven’t had a chance to write it up (ha, but I did manage to find the time to blab about Cosmetic Show, this crazy mess of a store I just found. Priorities you know). I know that’s older than old now, but I’m just here on Tues. getting a chance to sort out what I did nearly a week and a half ago. I will say that I ate a shit load of Cuban food last week for an article I turned in today. Phew. I think I’m free to just write about minutiae and myself for now. Feb. was all like that. March had better not be or I’m going to end up doing something rash.
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2/24/06
I don’t know what the heck I was thinking last week. Now I’m back to being stressed, unsure and sick to my stomach about practically everything in my life. So stupid. In fact, I’m home sick today. And if I had it my way, I’d stay home sick for the next twenty years. I’m totally having job freak out. Mine sucks, a new potential one scares me. Realistically, I don’t know if I’m cut out for anything. And in the mean time I have a super time consuming article to write (it’s not just the writing, but researching, visiting, calling, etc.) and it’s too much to do on top of 40+ hours of day time work. If this one stupid story is making my panic, I don’t see how I could possibly do this sort of thing on a daily basis, and with topics that I’m less interested in. I’m a low key person, that’s why I’m a librarian, duh. Except that even my library job is over the top with deadlines and expectations. And no, I’m not being overly sensitive. The other day I saw an ad for government, NY state, librarian exams, and I actually considered it (you don’t actually take a test, they just call your application an exam). I mean, that’s pathetic because you know it’d mind-numbing and you’d totally work with freaks, not necessarily good freaks. But I know it’d be straightforward, all regimented with strict hours and scheduled raises and you’d never get fired. Stable and secure and boring, which part of me is really drawn to. It’s in my blood. I used to work at the county library in Portland. My dad was a county employee. I recall him saying “you’ll never get rich, but you’ll always have a job and benefits.” Bah, it’s really the route for underachievers, lazy asses and depressives, which is me in a nutshell. I’m tempted to just go back to bed and I just got up an hour ago.
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2/22/06
It’s so sad when the best part of your day is when (and if) the Popcorn song comes on. I only have around 1,200 songs on my iPod, but that still doesn’t seem so few that Popcorn would appear on shuffle about every three days. Just yesterday morning I was thinking about how great it makes my commute and wondered when it would appear next, and on the way home, just as I got on the G (yeah, I’ve been experimenting with the G from midtown which is retarded, I know. It seems silly if you live in Brooklyn to go from Manhattan into Queens and then into Brooklyn. But I’ve tested my normal route, the V to the F home or E to the A to the F, depending on if the V or E shows up first at my station, in comparison and it’s exactly the same, if not five minutes faster at times. So, now I’ve added excitement to my return commute [it only works Brooklyn-bound, in the morning, it’s a mess] and take whichever train comes first in either direction. I only have to take the E or V one stop to Long Island City and then it’s gamble because the G might sit there for ten minutes or move as soon as you sit down [yes, you almost always get a seat since it’s the end of the line—there’s something twisted about riding a train from end to end--Carroll Gardens is the southbound terminus] but it’s a chance I’m willing to take) it poked its jaunty head between Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah and Galaxie 500. I totally associate “Popcorn” with the G train. I like it when random crap I completely forgot I loaded like Limahl’s “Neverending Story” and Duran Duran’s “Hold Back the Rain” (very dramatic song when your standing on the subway, or anywhere else for that matter). Anybody--which seems to be everybody these days--who listens to portable music is aware of the happy accidents and incongruity of what you’re hearing and what you’re seeing. In the late ‘90s when NYC was fresh to me, I always got a kick out of super sappy songs from If You’re Feeling Sinister like “Fox in the Snow” while on the blue collar/Eastern European heavy M train (I’d venture to argue that the M is even more of a bastard child than the G). Which reminds me, I’ll be seeing Belle & Sebastian next week thanks to a kind friend who bought a ticket. I haven’t seen them since 1998 when I met Henry Thomas face to face, my dreams were dashed, and then my life began lacking purpose. Maybe seeing them seven years later will right all the wrongs of last near decade.
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2/18/06
Can you believe that I’ve already received my federal tax return? Is that anal (or desperate) filing online (free through H&R Block and lots of other companies if you make under $50,000—I might possibly be the only NYC’er who qualifies, maybe that’s why I’d never heard of anyone I know doing this. Actually, it’s probably because my taxes are boringly straightforward while lots of people I know are freelancers and/or all about itemizing and accounting tricks) the day I got my W2. I always do taxes asap to see what I’m up against. I only got $119 from the federal government, no whoop but welcome. However, I do owe a substantial amount (for me) to NY state, which let’s just say I’ll think on for a while…a long while. Maybe by 2010 I’ll be ready when they come after me.

It didn’t seem so last month, but now I’m starting to think that 2006 is going to be major. I’ve been waiting for something to give for an eternity, then yesterday I experienced an unexpected catalyst (which I’m not discussing for the time being). Why not do something totally different with myself? It seems like such an obvious choice. This morning I woke up early, full of ideas and bizarre clarity that I haven’t felt in probably a decade. I never naturally wake up at 8:30am on a Saturday (a cat jumping repeatedly on my head might’ve also had something to do with it). So, I think I’ll be making some changes in some small important ways (as well as a few totally insignificant ways). It’s weird how I view my stupid website as some extension of my thought patterns. I hate things being disorganized, static and jumbled in my life, despite often feeling that I have little control over it. And the same goes for all this web nonsense that I’ve been weaving for quite some time. I loathe convoluted messes, so if I’m going to revamp my future I need to overhaul what’s here too. Not that anyone gives a rat’s ass but me. I guess that’s the point. So, I hope to find the time (with this new job and a new writing assignment hovering over me, free time is frighteningly scarce) in the near future to implement my new plan of attack.

Tomorrow I’ll likely wake up dulled and aimless as ever, so today I need to take advantage of this possibly brief burst of vigor and enthusiasm. More details to come…
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2/13/06
Late Saturday night I was flipping through TV (I swear there’s never anything on except Chronicles of Riddick and Good Times reruns—oh, Psycho IV was on last night, and it tickled me to no end to see a younger than I ever remember him looking19-year-old Henry Thomas in action. I mean, I have the VHS tape somewhere in a box on the west coast, but it’s a rare treat to randomly catch a teenage boy dressed in a granny dress and bun wig at 1am on a Sunday. Now that I think about it, Valmont was on Saturday afternoon. H.T. 4 EVA!) and though I’d had a few drinks, I certainly wasn’t drunk. But my judgment must’ve been off because I got hooked on what I thought was a lame comedy sketch like from the last half hour of SNL or something. I was trying to figure out what exactly the joke was, there were these trashy office ladies (I don’t know, I work in a fairly conservative climate—maybe this is how women dress in companies around the country) one in a poly-spandex mini dress, oohing and ahhing over a teddy bear with a mask on who was supposed to be a bandit and came with a message about how she’d stolen someone’s heart. I thought they were spoofing Valentine’s gifts and this was some bad parody of office culture, but then I realized this was an actual ad for something called Vermont Teddy Bear. Is anyone familiar with this company? The commercial really freaked me out, it showed guys excitedly ordering these fur balls like they’d be a sure fire path to fur pie. Furries aside--do women really put out for stuffed animals? How did this myth get started? I get the candy or flowers concept, but where does the Red Hot Redneck fit in?

I honestly have no idea what I’ll be doing for Valentine’s Day. I trust that something is planned since in years past it always has been, but you never know. (Maybe it would serve me right to have nothing happen on Feb. 14. Do you ever feel like punishing yourself because things are too smooth and complacent? No, right? Well, I do. Like in the old days I’d be shocked when given gifts or taken out on a proper date, but now I expect traditional courtesies and I’m afraid that I’m forgetting how to appreciate little niceties. I’m talking about relationships here, not other aspects of a well-rounded life. I’m certainly not at a financial or career point where I feel like I need to punish myself to remember how bad it used to be because I still live it every day.) And I wouldn’t ask because a. I like surprises, and b. because James would probably want me to ask and by ignoring the holiday I’m thwarting him at trying to thwart me. If that makes any sense. Of course I want something for Valentine’s Day, but I’m not going to ask or seem eager. Is that any way to run a relationship? Don’t ask, don’t tell. Likely not, but it’s gotten me through six Valentine’s Days and will probably get me through my seventh tomorrow.

I took the snow blasted weekend as an excuse to stay in and catch up on the sorts of compulsive things that only I care about but still push on the small public forum here. I added restaurant write-ups (I hesitate to say review, as the level of critique is dubious to nonexistent) from the past couple weeks: Yemen Café, Chili’s, Pioneer BBQ, Outback Steakhouse and La Flor.
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2/10/06
I’ve been so horrifically bogged down that I’m now paralyzed and wordless. Well, almost. I did find the time to squeeze in some vaguely (and I do mean vaguely) food related blah blah on my blog (you know, I’m starting to get desensitized to that word and it really bothers me). Oh my goodness, I just intermittently watched the Olympic opening ceremonies. You don’t need me to tell you how not American that spectacle is. Total over the top, Cirque du Soleil style bodysuit, face paint nuttiness, ending with a Ferrari screeching around on a stage doing cookies (the most American part of the whole thing) It kind of scared me a little. You only need look at mascots Neve and Gliz to delve deeper into peculiar foreign aesthetics. At least they’re cuter than ‘04s Phevos and Athena.
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2/6/06
Today it dawned on me that I fucking hate library science (the word hate must’ve crossed my mind a hundred times today). I always figured that was the kind of conclusion you’d come to after, say, a decade into your career, not a year and a half post grad school. And to add total insult to injury I come home and my goddamn diploma that I never received despite finishing school in summer 2004 (I was even bitching about this last night) is sitting in a cardboard envelope in the foyer. What does this mean? Is it saying, hey, don’t give up, remember why you pursued me for a year and a half, or is it there to taunt me like you’ve finally received me and who cares now, you’re a sucker? I suppose it’s best not to imbue a piece of paper with so much meaning. I’m probably sour from my Super Bowl junk food binge. It’s just the little smokies talking.
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2/4/06
Almost nothing makes me happier than interspecies friends. A couple years ago there was a silly cable show on late at night with all sorts of stories of odd animal pairings. Like a dog and a crow who’d play together or a tiger mom who was nursing a puppy along with her own litter. Cute overload has some adorable photos, but I like the back story. When I was in Hong Kong there was a story in a local newspaper about a monkey who lived in a junkyard and how she befriended a chicken. I’m going nuts because I can’t remember where we stashed this paper (I know we brought it home and didn’t throw it out) and I can’t find mention of this tale anywhere. I’m pretty sure the monkey was named Myna or Mynah and there was a photo of her holding the hen by her side. It sparked a debate between James and I over whether the monkey thought it was actually a friend or her pet. I thought they were peers, but James insisted Mynah thought she owned the bird. Yes, these are the kinds of things I argue about. Anyway, I’ve found a few notables recently, and hope to dig up more. Here is the Japanese snake and hamster who peacefully coexist, for starters.
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2/1/06
Um, I’ll admit to having second thoughts about my new job (and so what if a coworker reads this because that’s a fair statement, no vitriol or hate or specifics, just that I’m not fully convinced of my decision yet) but what wasn’t expected was an informal job offer from the NY Post. I am a shameless master of puns and alliteration. Be thankful that I generally spare you from my purple prose (I totally used the phrase “libidinous libation” in the piece I turned in today—no lie—and no regrets). I don’t have a journalism background, there’s that tricky detail about how I don’t know Spanish or a thing about reggaeton (a.k.a. ass fucking music in my vernacular) which they love writing about and I’m pretty sure the pay would be less (I think with my new salary I might be lower middle class now, just like I was raised, can’t go messing with nature), but in an abstract way I’m loving the whole notion because it’s so bizarre. If I was younger and hadn’t spent a fortune on graduate school I would probably consider this seriously. Would a suburban biracial writer feel strange about working at Essence? I don’t know. I’m so not a textbook NYC Latina, I wouldn’t feel right about it, but I never feel right about anything. It’s just kind of sad about New York, that there’s so much media here, but so many publications, high brow, popular, revered, trendy, whatever, are so closed off to “regular” (no, not saying minorities—it’s not like I identify as one anyway) people, ambitious or not. Individuals who didn’t go to prestigious schools, or follow the correct path or befriend the right people, i.e. 90% of this country. I guess those are the losers that blogs (I wonder when spell check will start recognizing blog as a legitimate word and stop red underlining it) were created for. Back to off-putting work neighborhood. I just don’t get the upper east side (not sure if mid-50s are technically upper but it has that feeling) it makes me feel uneasy and sad inside like Victorian chimney sweeps, street urchins and anything Dickensian. Oliver! made me physically ill as a child (though Mark Lester is one hot child. Wow, what a sexy/dirty site fronting as a “Boy Choir & Soloist Directory”) which was probably enhanced by the period piece within a period piece, 1968 meets 1838 in a collision of eerie style and film stock. The Upper East Side isn’t quite like that, but reminds me of ‘70s sitcoms, where characters like Rhoda might live and The Jeffersons definitely did. Like ferns and chrome and revival of art deco fonts, doormen buildings with wall to wall carpet, Gloria Vanderbilt, pastrami on rye, Annie Hall-inspired vests and trousers, and restaurants with French maitre d’s and dance floors (I’ve never seen such a thing in my life, but they’re always used on tv to signify a fancy establishment. Even Roseanne and Dan went to one in Lanford—I saw that a couple months ago). It feels dusty and dated, I’d cry if I had to live here (isn’t it the new hipster zone, though?). Case in point, there’s a Wendy’s two blocks from my office. I’m no fan of Wendy’s, I go maybe once a week because they have a relatively cheap inoffensive salad, and it’s always a madhouse. I used to complain about the Grand Central area, lots of tourists and slow walkers, but this is totally the opposite, mean, nasty residents and office workers. People actually play chicken with me on the sidewalk, make eye contact and then speed walk into my path like I’m going to move. I don’t think so. The odds are that I’m heavier than the interloper and wearing flats so I have more stability. A smaller woman in heels will topple into a painful heap if they won’t get out of my way, and I don’t budge. So, I thought the old Wendy’s near Grand Central was bad, but oh my god, they were so this millennium. They had three separate lines and a register before you got to the cash register where they’d take your order and if it went smoothly (which it rarely did) your food would be ready by the time you made it to the front of the line. This semi-upper east side Wendy’s is totally analog. They have one enormous line and a girl (sometimes a guy) with a checklist pad who physically marks down your order and then rips off the piece of paper so you can hand it to the cashier after waiting in line some more, and then there’s a wall of customers standing around the registers for their food to be made and the cashiers are constantly yelling “next” but no one knows where to go because there’s no room to stand once you get out of line. My point is, how on earth does having a human write down your order so you can give it to another person, speed anything up? I do agree that the fewer words exchanged the better. Customer service people never understand my English because I don’t have an accent. I’m serious. But if you speak really bossy and belligerently and mumble and say “gimme” or “let me get” instead of “may I please have,” they totally respond. Even freaking Oliver Twist said please before asking for more.
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