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7/31/02
So, July's just about over. It's probably for the best. I don't think a single good thing has happened since I turned 30. Not that it should, I guess. But everything shouldn't go to hell either. Monday I came home from work to have no phone service. Not a dead line, this time it was because my phone was turned off. I haven't received statements since like Feb. because they have my address wrong, and it doesn't occur to me to find out how much my bill is and when it's due during my daily routine. I've told them my correct address at least twice, which apparently they can't get right. I didn't notice this turn-off until 6:30, their customer service obligation ends at 6:00, so I couldn't call, get calls or go online Monday night and it totally infuriated me. This is the third time they've turned off my phone, mailed statements I never see, sending my warnings to a different apt. Both previous times, they didn't charge a reconnect fee because it was their error, but this time the guy I got said I "broke a promise" to pay some $151 and odd cents on June 7. I don't remember making any promises to anyone (he obviously liked using that Verizon jargon because he must've told me I broke a promise like ten times) and recall blindly sending around $100 in hopes of appeasing them. So, since I broke a promise they wouldn't turn my phone back on until I paid them $121.91 right then over the phone, giving them my check number. I don't carry my checkbook around with me. Who writes checks like that anymore? I mean, I write checks when I sit down to pay bills (or inaccurately pay bills and break promises) but I wouldn't even dare trying to use a personal check anywhere in NYC (or anyplace else, for that matter). My only other option if I wanted my service turned on would be to go to a "pay station" do this money order thing and show them my statement, which is a laugh since I don't have a statement. I was told to tell them my account # then, which is also a joke because who knows their account # by heart? Duh, I don't have any statements to look at because they can't send them properly, and even if they did, why would I happen to have one on me at work? They gave me my account # and at lunch I went to a pay station (I had to call another person to ask for locations--I spoke with at least five different people), which is just a check cashing joint, you know with fake wood paneling and Plexiglass shields for the cashiers. And, of course the account # they gave me over the phone didn't work. I lost my shit like twenty times over yesterday. I eventually got the correct account #, and called back Verizon to make sure they'd credited my account. They had. But then last night when I got home (once again, after hours) my phone service had still not been turned on. Why the fuck did I pay them $121.91 and waste my afternoon if they weren't going to do what they said they were going to do. They broke a fucking promise. That's what I was going to tell the collections prick this morning when I got to work and immediately called them up to ask what they hell is wrong with them, but realized I wasn't likely to get the same guy who used "you broke a promise" like a broken record and the point would be totally lost. I feel just nasty and full of vile, like being twenties and crass can be cute in certain circumstances, but once you're 30 the same behavior marks you a jaded bitch. The guy had a slight drawl and when they put me on hold, country music was playing. I seriously almost pulled the I'm a New Yorker and you're a $5/hour hick fuck routine like I'm some hack Lizzie Grubman. So unattractive. But jeez, what if someone actually called me for a job yesterday (hypothetically, alright?) and gave up because there wasn't an answer? Thoughts of, "I'm going to sue your asses" flitted through my mind. Yeah, yeah, frivolous law suits, but at least I'm not suing McDonald's for making me fat. Urgh, so my phone is now back on, no more complaining...at least about that topic...so, you're supposed to cultivate relationships with editors and all that so they'll let you write more and more for them and really I've only received one bite, writing-wise lately, at the Village Voice, and I hadn't heard anything about the second thing that was supposed to run this month, and I hadn't gotten paid for the thing I'd written in June so I emailed. The intern responded, I popped in last night to hand him my research for fact-checking, asked to get paid (he was horrified that I hadn't been already) and I also asked about the editor, chit-chat-wise like if they were getting along. The intern said he was "sick, very sick" seemed uncomfortable and said he didn't know if the editor would be returning. What the fuck? Only I would get the go ahead from a terminally ill editor. Yes, I know, the man could be dying and that's much more grave than my getting more assignments. But c'mon, I can't take stuff like this much longer.

30 for a full three hours. Not a pretty sight.

7/26/02
I feel like today's more my birthday than yesterday was. Maybe it's the weather: gray, drizzly, 70 degrees and un-humid, tolerable, very Portland-like. It's what I would expect on my birthday. So, 30 hasn't been terribly eventful so far.I didn't go to work yesterday, originally I thought I'd call in sick just because I felt like celebrating by sleeping in and watching TV like I like to do, but then it became a necessity. Wed. night I came home and my phone line was dead, not turned off from not paying (even though I don't think I've paid in a long time), just dead. Even when they cut off your service they leave you a dial tone if you need to call 911. I had nothing, and I was hopping mad. There's always the pay phone ordeal, my usual phone on the corner has been removed for no reason, and there's only one other 25 cent one nearby, but with really bad reception. So, they said they'd send someone Thurs. between 8am and 6pm. Uh, jokes about cable companies, utilities and the like quoting broad, unreasonable times are old hat, but you have to admit that's quite a range. That clinched it, I was staying home on my birthday. Plus, I was supposed to be Fed Exed a fact checking test for a job (which never showed up, and still isn't here, which is really irksome and is going to bother me all weekend, and I should've just called them today to confirm it'd actually been sent, but no, I didn't want to seem too pushy and now there are probably all these retards in the city taking their tests, while I'm here fretting). So, I went to dinner at Annisa last night. It's funny because that's where I wanted to go last year, but never dropped hard enough hints. A year older and a little wiser, I now know how to finagle these things without being explicit. It's one of those restaurants that makes you wish you had a better wine education--I'm totally ignorant in matters of the vine. You know, and how to get across that you'd like to stay in the $40 range, rather than the triple digits without sounding cheap. I think we ended up with a $58 bottle of a French red that I can't even remember the name of, it was purported that it would "open up" as we drank it. Er, OK. We did the seven course tasting menu, which was kind of impressive, though I doubt I can remember all the details. The lacquered squab with foie gras and long beans was my favorite. What's always distressing about these $200+ meal restaurants is that for me, they're special occasion places, but you can tell that for all the other 20-somethings (talking to hideous loud mouth girls about their MBA programs) eating, it's an ordinary thurs. night out. I would like to say that that's not fair, but if there's one thing I should know by 30 is that duh, life's not fair. I went to work all haggard and hungover this morning, which hasn't happened in eons. I guess it used to happen more when I worked Saturdays and Sundays. In my early 20s I never used to believe older friends when they'd say they couldn't drink like they used to or how crappy they'd feel if they drank as much as I did. I am now one of those older friends. Work was so ridiculously boring, no one was there, I couldn't keep my eyes open, I managed to hold out for four hours and just left at 12:30. I figured a half-day was good enough. Whether I indicate my short day on my time card is another issue. It's not like anyone notices if I'm there or not. I could've stayed till 5pm for all they know. On the opposite end of last night's dining spectrum, I finally went to that crazy Super Torta store front with the giant sandwich painted on the window and tried the Hawaiiana torta. The thing is insane beyond my wildest dreams. OK, the sandwich contains ham, pineapple, lettuce, tomato, jalepeno, avocado, refried beans and Oaxacan cheese all melded together on a roll/bun. Totally amazing, it met all my expectations and then some. Tomorrow night I plan on doing birthday stuff and having people go to my favorite over-the-top all-you-can-eat joint, East Buffet. It may take some convincing to get people out to Queens, but it will be done.

7/22/02
First off, I can't believe my birthday is in three days. That's incredibly scary. Secondly, I've decided I'm a really bad real writer who has no attention span, isn't very sharp and has no fresh ideas. I just don't get stuff, I'm very simple minded. I didn't do my assignment for my class tomorrow night, it's a profile and I can't do profiles very well, I've discovered. I'm still going to write mine (I didn't contact anyone till it was too late because I'm scared to talk to strangers, then I got annoyed with myself, then the subject responded today. I mean, it will get written, just not by tomorrow), but it takes a while for me to get in serious journalist mode. We're supposed to write every day, at least for 30 minutes, but I always end up mucking around here instead, which is still writing, but not disciplined, thoughtful, descriptive, non-cliched, well-crafted, marketable writing. The kind of writing I'm trying to learn, but can't quite get the hang of. I like sloppy, silly, though not wholly stupid writing. So, if the entries get sparse in the next few weeks, it's not because I've gone all nuts into some deep funk after turning 30, it's because I'm being a really good student who's trying to get her money's worth out of her writing workshop. This is mildly amusing: A couple weeks ago I just started emailing out blind resumes and letters touting my freelance research/fact-checking abilities to magazines with subject matter I might be considered to have expertise in (travel and food). It wasn't totally blind, I tracked down names of Research Editors and tried to deduce their email addresses. It was blind because I wasn't answering any specific job ads, I guess. All messages went through except one, to an editor at "Food & Wine," and it made me nuts because I knew from having a different editor's email at that magazine that they use middle initials (probably to avoid annoying mail from people like me). And I was so freakin' bored at my job (they've been having work for me lately, and I've decided I like that even less than doing nothing) that I started sending out batches of emails (using blind copy) using every possible middle initial starting A-E, F-J, etc. and waiting to see if one didn't come back so I could confirm the right email address. M. never came back. Two editors from other magazines immediately responded saying they had no work, and that was it, no one else replied...until today. It turns out M. was the right middle initial, there's a staff research position (I was just digging for any available freelance nuggets) that just became available and they want to speak to me Wed. So crazy. The person I spoke with said I may have "too much experience" (too much experience translates to too much money demanded for salary) but you know, it can't possibly pay less or be more detrimental to my soul than typing memos for grown men who don't know how to type. So, cross your fingers, OK? I've always been told how you're not supposed to burn bridges, and always stay in contact with people in the publishing world because it's small, and I guess that's true because in my research for appropriate staff names I found this girl who used to write me in the mid-late '90s and who let me stay at her apt. in NYC when I visited in '97 and we ended up being totally different types and I didn't hang out with her and went out drinking with other people instead, and we never corresponded after I got back to Portland, and now I see she's working at "Bon Appetit." Funny. Also, I had like the shortest interview ever at "Paper" in '98, the woman I spoke with thought she was all downtown style-y (I didn't think she was) and immediately sussed out that I was not of her ilk and I was in and out of there in like ten minutes. Well, it appears from the masthead she's now at "Food & Wine" and if I happen to actually get this job and she ever reads this, I'm probably dead meat. Ha, dead meat, you hear that phrase about as much as "full of baloney." I'm both.

7/16/02 NYC has no notions. I need a simple pair of pinking shears and would like to find them without trekking all over to specialty stores. I think this may be an impossible feat. I thought I was just missing the section with yarn, thread, needles and the like when I was recently at Target, but a clerk informed me that they don't carry that stuff. The last Wal-Mart I was at, about a year ago, somewhere outside of Saratoga Springs, had a giant notions section that took up an entire corner of the store. Iron-ons, patterns, needlepoint hoops, bolts of fabric, the whole nine yards. But then, Target has gotten pretty darn design-y, trendy lately. I've been singing their praises for years. Harumph, now they've gone all Stephen Sprouse and Philippe Starck, and think they're above stocking gauche items like pinking shears. What's a crafty girl to do? Clear contact paper is also causing a bit of a problem. Granted, I've only looked at Duane Reade and Rite Aid type places, but it shouldn't be an ordeal. Completely unrelated: The Bohemian Beer Hall and Garden is one of those places I've heard about, but have never bothered to visit since it's in Astoria and I don't know anyone who lives there (until now), and it's not on the way to anything. If I lived in Astoria people would probably visit me about as much as they do now, maybe once or twice a year. So, this beer garden is crazy huge, disorientingly un-New York, relaxed and fun with a tortoise cat who wanders the premises. The best part was the downstairs disco where Czech girls were dancing to Bon Jovi. So, I've decided that outdoor dining and drinking is OK, as long as it's dark and in back or on the side of an establishment, never right out front on a sidewalk. Before the beer garden, we went to my favorite Thai restaurant, also in Queens, Sripraphai, and were seated in their back garden. I didn't even know they had a garden so that was a pleasant surprise. The night before James and I ate at Cornbread Cafe in Park Slope, and were once again seated in the back garden. Afterward, we headed to Prospect Park where Yo La Tengo were playing. I think that's the most fresh air I've gotten in a weekend. Really. I plan on sitting inside all next weekend. OK, so I send out ten million resumes over the last eight months and get like two responses that went nowhere at all. Then today I see this job, I don't really want to do this job, but I'm qualified for this job, at this point I'd do almost anything rather this temp job, and I'm also 99% sure I'll get a response because it's for an unsexy website genre. I mean if you're an associate producer (the job title) you're probably (well) under 30, that combined with living in NYC most likely means you don't have and aren't interested in children. Yes, children. It's a freakin' parenting site and they emailed me back like two hours after I sent my resume. Is there no God? Almost exactly four years ago I temped at a construction firm (for the same hourly rate I'm currently getting) until I got a job at a parenting website. So retro, it's 1998 all over again (well, it's just an interview, I don't have the job. Technically it's not even an interview. They're calling it an "informational meeting," removing all promise of anything like people love to do these days). I may as well be turning 26 next week instead of than 30. If someone told me four years ago that, "Guess what? When you're 30, you're going to repeat this entire disappointing chapter of your life all over again!" I would've asphyxiated myself. What kind of cruel life lesson is this supposed to be? Babies and me just aren't a match made in heaven. Well, I have a friend who's been working on a maternity show for The Learning Channel, and it hasn't killed her yet, but then again it's just a freelance project for her and she doesn't have anything against poor, defenseless babies like I do. If I'm really lucky, I'll be able to repeat all these same mistakes at age 34! Can't a back to the future version of myself come and warn me, give advice or something?

7/16/02
This temp job is starting to get beyond bizarre. Not interesting bizarre, beyond boring bizarre. I know I've said it before, but I sit at a make shift desk in a little room where everyone can see me (so I can't goof off too extremely) with a computer and phone, at least, but I don't have a single thing to do, and this has been going on for what? Like three weeks now. I don't have a problem with doing nothing, but I'm still can't figure out what I'm supposed to be doing, or rather what they think I'm doing. Maybe each person thinks the other has given me something to do? I've decided to view it as a rented office space. Freelancers pay good money to rent desks in offices, to break up the monotony of working isolated at home, usually to be around like-minded media types, mingle, network, and feel a part of something. Yes, this may be a structural engineering firm, not the ideal creative environment, but if you put a positive spin on the situation they're actually paying me to use their space. Instead of laying in bed till noon and watching lots of TV, I'm now forced to get up at 7am, get dressed, function like a normal member of society and in the process have a lot of extra hours in the morning to get things done like my writing assignments for class/composing sparkling cover letters for low paying jobs I'm more than qualified for and can't even get interviews for/pathetic babbling for this here journal/returning emails/reading all the daily newspapers online--you'd think I'd be up on current events, unfortunately, I just end up reading dining, lifestyle and entertainment sections. OK, this sucks, it's nothing like renting a desk in a hip, yet collegial office. But jeez, if you don't lie to yourself sometimes you could go off the deep edge. Oh my god, I just went outside to sit and read and eat the horribly dry turkey sandwich I made myself so I have no one else to blame. And as I walked back towards the office I noticed that annoying "hi" in the face guy from this floor. As I quickly walked past, he was on the curb, plaintively wailing, "But I did say hi" to this accusatory girl smoking next to the front doors. So, while his hi saying makes me want to puke, there are girls out there getting upset because he's not greeting them properly. You know, I'd never been shit on by a bird in my entire life, and now it has happened three times in as many weeks. Twice at that horrible Dag Hammarskjold Plaza park place where I persist in eating my lunch since it has (poop-covered) benches, then yesterday glob of crap plopped on my arm on my very own block. Is it not enough to just be constantly shit on metaphorically?

7/12/02
Do you know what's depressing? Working 40 hours/week, getting up at 7am five freaking days a week, and still not being able to pay your bills. I borrowed my second $1,000 from James last week, deposited it a full week ago, then discovered today that it just cleared. Meaning every check I wrote (including rent) in the last week or so has bounced, garnering fees over $120. Why should it take a week for a check to clear? That seems totally outrageous. All the woman on the customer service phone could say was, "sorry, ma'am" and if she was face-to-face I could've punched her, and I'm not a physically violent person (verbally violent, maybe). Am I the only one who doesn't know that it takes personal checks up to seven days to clear? I swear, shit like this is going to give me an aneurysm. Ha, what foreshadowing, immediately after writing the above (around 10am), I started getting that loss of vision/headache/nausea crap again. So annoying, and while I'm like 95% sure it's a migraine-esque thing, not life threatening, I still felt really sick for the last few hours, couldn't look at a computer screen, write in a notebook or keep my eyes open really, but had to look like I was busy. The fact that I've never had these episodes and now have had two in five days does make me a little nervous. It so happens that James's (I know the s's irritates some people and they claim it's a no-no, but I've never known the definitive answer on apostrophes with names ending in "s" and I think Chicago Manual of Style says either is correct with a preference for the s's) health insurance is having an open enrollment period this month, but I know I don't legally qualify as anyone eligible. To be a domestic partner you need to have been together for at least 12 months with the intention of staying together and provide proof of a joint bank account and a lease with both names on it. That's a bit much, really. You could be together for 20 years, or even married, and not necessarily share checking or live in the same house if you didn't want to. I don't think I would have a joint account if I were married. So, if you're rational and independent, you are penalized, yet if you shack-up with someone you hardly know and start banking together, you're welcome to each other's health benefits? Judge Judy would have something to say about that, she's always getting on peoples' cases who stupidly/naively trust others with leases, credit cards, checks, etc. But then, she'd also probably have something to say about people who try to fraudulently get health benefits. So, it's now 3pm. I didn't start feeling semi-normal till around 1:30pm when I decided to go out and take my lunch. My head still hurt, I didn't feel like I was going to puke until I saw someone with a cigarette and almost hurled, I was slightly dizzy and off-kilter when this guy waved his hand in my face and sharply said, "HI" giving me the total heebie jeebies. Initially, I was like "who the hell?" then I recognized the little bastard who asked me how I was doing in front of the elevator the other day like we were pals. This violation of personal space was equally flagrant. I briefly squinted at him, then flippantly said "hi" back. I can't figure out his motivation. The way he said that one word was at once smart-assy like when you kill the nasty old lady in your building who scowls at everyone with kindness just to get her goat, and simultaneously irked like you'd seen a friend and not acknowledged them. Either way, it makes no sense because those are reactions for someone you have some sort of history with. This is a stranger. And he's definitely not from NYC, that's such white person, suburban behavior. It reminds me of jock/stoner type guys in high school who would give me shit over my Manic Panic fuchsia hair (give me a break, it was the '80s, when you couldn't buy unnatural colors at malls and grocery stores. Heck, you couldn't buy those colors in the state of Oregon, we used to give friends with cars money to buy the stuff in Seattle. Oh, it was so rough in the old days). They were more friendly/tease-y than mean-spirited, but I never understood why they just couldn't mind their own business. At lunch I noticed a Washington Mutual bank. They've been showing up everywhere the past couple months. Four years too late, as they were my Portland bank, the best bank because Fred Meyer store had one inside. I don't think I ever had them hold a check for a full week, and I never bounced any checks, that's for sure.

7/10/02
July 15, 2002 New Yorker cartoon: One 38-ish, stylish intellectual (because she's wearing glasses) woman to another, in an elevator with two bespectacled men minding their business (though probably eavesdropping) in the background: "More and more of my evenings seem to be ending at some stupid little place in Brooklyn." What does that mean, other than the obvious, of course. I'm hardly the first person to point out the un-funniness of New Yorker cartoons, but sometimes I really don't get it. What's humorous about ending up at stupid little Brooklyn places with increased frequency? She says place, not places now that I re-read, is it the same stupid place over and over, and even if it's not, why doesn't she just stop going there. Oh my god, it's driving me nuts. I never read the New Yorker, but people seem to cite it so often when they talk about writing (like in my class last night, which seemed OK), then today a copy was laying around at the gym so I figured I should brush up on culture and study the Talk of the Town section. The only thing that moved me in the entire magazine was that cartoon. Speaking of inane elevator banter, I'm having weird feelings about the office that shares our floor. First there was that guy who buddied up and wanted to walk to the subway with me, then today I was going to lunch, waiting for the elevator, examining my nails, deciding what color I should do them, and if I should coordinate the toenail polish even though it hadn't chipped yet when a sort of handsome for that genre, groomed yet messy-haired rascal, crossed my path and said "What's goin' on?" with a casual air that makes no sense with strangers. Uh, do I know you? "Nothing," I wanly replied, and I really meant it. "Oh, I don't believe that," as he headed to the bathroom. Freak. I think it's a cult under the guise of a legitimate company. The door reads BCM, Business Communications Management, all generic and nebulous. It's not on the level. It seems like a million different people work there, and I rarely see the same person twice. They employ this weird crew of mostly under-25, traditional high-school popular style good-looking types, girls who hang out in the bathroom putting on make up and talking about self-tanners. On more than one occasion, I've heard raucous noise (laughter, near-yelling) coming from the men's room, three overgrown, forty-something frat boys emerging. Creepy. Maybe it's not a cult, but merely a bunch of bathroom-hiding coke addicts. Their mysterious jobs must be personality rather than skill driven, as they don't seem terribly smart. More like team player, opportunity for growth, people persons. Eew. Saturday we tried a new Trader Joe's in Westchester that was a nice change of pace. On the way through one of the toll booths (I swear, making people pay to drive on roads is the biggest East Coast scam), I remembered how my old landlord's son told me how Manhattan was a "ten pound shit in a five pound bag" the day I moved in and how that cracked me up at the time. The reason I thought of it this time was because I was trying to figure out why New Yorkers (or any U.S. region, for that matter) have the accents they do. This guy's parents had heavy Polish accents, but he still ended up sounding like a Brooklyn (or Queens, in this case--I can't differentiate between borough inflections, though I'm sure natives can) thug. Then later that night I was semi-watching, "All the Pretty Horse" even though it's not that great and I can't Penelope Cruz and I'd already seen it on cable, and there was this scene where Henry (Thomas, do I need to explain?) and Matt Damon ran into this kid whose last name was Blevins. Henry thought he said Blivins, seemed relieved when he repeated otherwise, then asked the youth if he knew what a blivins was. According to Henry (or his character) blivins is "a ten pound shit in a five pound bag!" What the heck? I tried various spellings, looking up the term, but it's nowhere to be found, slang or cowboy dictionaries. I hope I wasn't hallucinating.

7/8/02
I don't know what's going on, but I became freakishly ill today and had to leave work (not that I have a strong work ethic, but I didn't work Thurs. or Fri. due to the holiday and now I'm going to be really poor when I get my paycheck). I felt mildly weird on the subway, I got that creepy excessive sweating on my head under my hair thing and my left eye felt like it had something in it no matter how much I rubbed it. Granted, it was hot out today, but the head sweat thing is abnormal. I spent the next couple hours pretending to look busy, researching crap on the internet (I'm writing this short thing on kaffir lime trees for a class that starts tomorrow, that's making me really nervous for no good reason. I just hate newness) like I always do when my vision went crazy. It's been hinting at this for a while now, at least a year, my eyes will hurt from looking at the computer, my head will feel buzzy and I'll get dizzy. Sometimes I get it from looking at the TV and sometimes I get it from nothing at all. I looked at the clock and it read 1:06 when I knew it was 11:06, I was in the middle of typing the word Rajbhog and I couldn't see the R, just ajbhog. Everything I looked at directly was white, then my whole field of vision went white and floaty (especially in the left eye), I felt nauseous, I couldn't swallow my throat was swollen up, a pain went through my head and I couldn't stand up or see properly and I felt like passing out. It was the scariest thing ever, and I know a dr. would say it's anxiety induced or a panic attack or whatever, as it fits lots of the classic symptoms (You notice they don't mention headache or blurred vision. Also my heart never beats fast and I don't feel like I'm going to die or have a heart attack. I could possibly faint, throw up or go blind, but I don't think I'm going to croak). It lasted intensely for at least 45 minutes, passed a bit where I could see more normally, then I just had a splitting headache and was extremely nauseous. I had to leave, and managed to hold in my vomit the three trains home. There's nothing worse than being sick on a subway in humid 90+ degree weather. After barfing I slept for three hours. The only thing I'd eaten all day was a round yellow Indian sweet, but I don't think that would induce illness. I still feel weird like I don't have enough blood in my brain, I have to squint so my eyes don't hurt and my stomach is queasy. I guess I'd rather have a mental induced panic disorder (despite not knowing how to remedy it) than a brain tumor or aneurysm or stroke or AIDS or whatever it feels like I'm having, but then at least it would be more concrete and action could be taken. I can't really go to the dr. anyway, but like I said, I know they would tell me it was psychological. And that's crazy because it's very dysfunctional to feel dizzy, queasy and have a hard time seeing and swallowing on a frequent basis. Actually, it could be migraine-related, look at the symptoms, but that would be odd because the medicine I'm on for high blood pressure is the same thing they give people for migraines. I need to get this first assignment for that class done by tomorrow and I can barely focus. I don't want to be one of those freaky women (and they're always women) who get those mysterious debilitating illnesses like chronic fatigue syndrome, fibromyalgia, lupus and the like who lay in bed all day and can't act like a normal member of society. Well, at least I would have an excuse for not being able to get or hold down a job. Hmm...a legitimate reason for being irritable and lazy...yeah, maybe I could work this.

7/3/02
I hate sounding like an old lady with nothing better to talk about than the weather, but damn, it's really hot out. Walking around in (or sitting or standing or breathing) near 100 degree heat can't be healthy. It's too hot to eat my lunch outside, but it's unbearable (despite the crisp air conditioning) to stay in this office for an extra hour. Such a dilemma. I'd been avoiding "Thirteen Conversations About One Thing" since the reviews had been so-so (though I just read a mild rave in The New York Times), but after recent "Spiderman," "Star Wars," "Bourne Identity" and "Insomnia" (hey, when you're treated to ten dollar movies you can't always make a fuss about what you see, though I have given a not-in-a-million-years to "The Sum of All Fears" and "Minority Report"). It was about time for a little more talk and less action. Anyway, I really enjoyed it. Sort of bleak, pessimistic, yet bright at moments. All about fate, little gestures, crossed paths and engrossing crap like that. It was good on a Sunday after having tapas for breakfast (no sangria though, just coffee). That night "Clockwatchers" was on IFC, and then Monday it was on again when I got home from work. I know it's not unusual for a cable channel to go nuts repeating the same film over and over, but it's from the same director Jill Sprecher, as "Thirteen Conversations..." and I took it as a sign, a bad sign, being reminded of what mundane, brain numbing torture temping is, like I need to be told. I swear someone's trying to give me a complex. The weed pulling party was a surprising success. Surprising because twice as many people showed up and the yard was cleared clean to the dirt in short order. It's not impressive unless you've actually seen my jungle of a yard. I should've taken before and after shots for full effect. I think the secret to enticing friends, acquaintances and near strangers is massive quantities of fried food. But that's just my opinion. I went crazy making spring rolls, Thai fish cakes and grilled wings, but the real trauma was trying to find green papaya for a salad. You don't know how many stores I went to, Hispanic and Asian, and came up empty handed. I was tortured by people selling papayas by the case across from Hong Kong Supermarket. They were all yellow and ripe and juicy and totally wrong for my recipe. I bought the two greenest I could find from the Puerto Rican (?) folks who sell produce and sugar cane and juice on the street up from me. They thought I was crazy wanting unripe fruit and they still ended up being all orange and soft in the middle. I almost cried. A half hour before people were supposed to show up I threw in the towel and ran up to the nearest (not so near) grocery store and bought a bunch of green apples instead. They actually work pretty well if you're ever making som tum and are in a pinch. Hmm...4th of July tomorrow. I'm not sure what I'm doing. It's not the most exciting holiday. I do know I we have reservations at Peter Luger tomorrow night. There's nothing like eating huge porterhouses in a heatwave, right?