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Lone Star Thomas
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3/29/01
It's frightening, but I've started to adopt all sorts of behavior that I abhor in others. For one, I've started napping/closing my eyes on the subway during rush hour. I remember at least a year ago, probably more, writing about how much I hate it when people sleep on the way to and from work (as well as going things like putting on their make-up and refusing to hold the poles so they knock all over the place). It just looks horrible and everyone has these haggard world-weary expressions on their faces even as they try to rest. And now I've fallen victim to the rush hour nap. I don't want to, but I'm so freakin' bored of my one hour each way commute, I could scream. Many would suggest reading and marvel at how much I could get done. This is true, and I'm a very fast reader. When I was doing this in Jan., I could easily read two books a week, but for some reason, I find it hard to concentrate on anything more than a fluffy magazine article while on the train. It's very frustrating, I wake up at 7 am, drink coffee, eat a banana, smoke a cigarette and feel fairly awake. I leave the house at 8 am and by 9 am when I reach my final destination without having budged an inch, my legs are all rubbery and I'm completely sleepy again. I swear it's the biggest waste of an hour, I get depressed if I start adding it up: 10 hours a week, 40 hours a month and on and on. I'm not getting any younger, and minutes are starting to mean more to me. So, I've decided to get semi-serious about looking for a new apt. and I won't even start to moan about that because it goes without saying. Pretty much anything in my price range puts me even farther out than I already am. My latest bright idea neighborhood-wise is Sunset Park, Brooklyn. It's right up there with Ridgewood, Queens as far as excitement level, convenience and name recognition. But what it does have going for it is a minor Chinatown and nearness to my current job. Yes, I use the word current because I have a hard time viewing it as a permanent situation. I can't say I'm too keen on it, but I need to show some sort of stability on my resume or I'll never get another job. An average person would advise at least a one year stick-out--I'm thinking more like six months. The longest job I've held here is eight months and that's not so good (as I was told by a nasty job recruiter). I don't know how wise it is to commit to an apt. because of it's closeness to a particular job, especially one you don't feel terribly bound to. And this job is starting to fall into a pattern I've noticed, a pattern of warning signs: No air conditioning (this is the third without), data entry and misc. work done by supervisors' mothers instead of hiring a new employee (second time), a raise promised after three months which doesn't materialize (second time again). It's all bad news. So, you don't want to expend time, energy and lots of money to move closer to bad job. But I'm still gung-ho on the idea. I'm supposed to look at an apt. tomorrow night (and another Sat. morning) and I'm crossing my fingers that it's not a dump. I'm not even asking for great or amazing, tolerable would be enough right now. I worked out the math subway-wise: Currently I take the M 22 stops to work, the potential apt. is 4 stops on the R. That's quite a difference, but as I said, you shouldn't base an apt. choice on an iffy job you don't plan on staying at forever. So, I also worked out the commute to midtown (the most likely place for a new job to be located), which is a real beast where I'm at right now. As it stands, to get to 42nd St., I can go two ways: The M 13 stops, then the F seven, for a total of 20, or take the M three stops, the L 11 and either the 5 (express) one or the 6 (local) four stops which is 15 or 18 depending. But the potential apt. is a mere six express stops on the B train. This is an insane difference, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since I worked the numbers out (and immediately started typing here like a mental patient). You don't even know how crazy I get with this stuff, trying to work out shortcuts, masterminding tricky transfers and the like. This apt. must work out for me. Unless it's completely rat infested, pee-stained and shag carpeted. O.k., forget the no shag carpet requirement, I can work with ugly if it's going to make my life easier. I'm feeling positive and more buoyant already. I think I'm actually in a good mood, though that's probably due to the fact that I know I don't have to be at work until 11 am tomorrow, and I'll be going out for a nice dinner and drinks within the hour, and I can stay out late and sleep in since I'll be staying in Manhattan tonight, therefore my commute will be short and I won't even have time to fall asleep on the subway and risk looking all gnarled and downtrodden like 80% of the car. Oh, things are looking up! Oops, I forgot to finish my original train of thought about doing things that have always been my pet peeves. In addition to now sleeping during rush hour (you notice how I specify rush hour, I've never had a problem with late-night drunk snoozers/passer-outers), I've also started sleeping past my alarm (I still don't and hope to never press the snooze bar, but I've started re-setting the alarm for 7:15 when it goes of at 7). And worst of all, I've started spitting in public. Well, sort of. I've had this nasty cold for almost three weeks now and I go into horrible embarrasing coughing fits. I still haven't completely given in to the the NY fun of hacking loogies all over the sidewalk (and subway platforms, and on stair rails...and on and on), I cough as a reflex, rather than forcing the phlegm up and I spit into garbage cans. Actually I did spit a foul piece of crap up on the Canal St. subway platform about a month ago, but I was in a rotten mood and as that's the filthiest station I've ever seen, I didn't feel so guilty. No one even batted an eye. Maybe I ought to embrace the city's unattractive tendencies more often.

3/26/01
I can't believe it's snowing again. It's nothing major, just a few flakes, but it's almost April, for crying out loud. At this rate, my cold will never go away. I'm supposed to be working, but it's hard to concentrate with all the construction going on outside. They've been tearing up the street and making a muddy mess for months now. Thurs. I was here all alone (much like I am right now) and through the crack in the curtains I could see all these firemen outside the front window (we're in a storefront on the bottom floor of an apt. building). They rang the bell, but I ignored it at first. Like two hours earlier the bell kept ringing and when I'd peek to see who it was, no one would be there. It started freaking me out because I can stand in the hall and watch the front door while keeping tabs on the office too and I could hear the bell ringing while I was staring at it about 3 feet away. No one was pushing it. It was probably just the batteries going haywire, but it annoyed me so I didn't answer when the firemen were ringing. I finally gave in when they came back about 10 min. later. They wanted to know if anyone was home (I had no idea) and told me to make sure the windows were closed (but wouldn't tell me why). I couldn't figure it out and was about ready to leave anyway so I didn’t give it much thought. About 20 min. later I had to run up to Mailboxes on Fifth (like 2 doors up) to pick up a package (Dr. Who birthday cards I'd gotten off Ebay--and just in the nick of time--the 22nd was James's birthday and this was 5pm on that very day) and I realized there were like 20 firemen and lots of fire trucks outside and that our block was fenced off so no one could enter or leave it, and I was like what the fuck. According to George who works at Mailboxes, the construction workers broke the gas main and the entire street (and office) reeked of gas, but I could barely smell it due to my cold. They were re-routing cars and it seemed like mild pandemonium and it freaked me out that I was just puttering about the office on the verge of being blown up and no one even told me. I guess it wasn't that big of a deal, but it bothered me a little bit. Anyway, Sat. I decided to have fine dining experience, and took James to this Spanish place, Meigas, I'd wanted to try for a while. I do eat out a lot, probably more than I should, but I rarely try the fancier places that I hear or read about. Maybe that's because I'm a cheapskate. Not that I want to be one, I'm not scroogish or miserly, but I can't really spend as freely as I'd like. I'd seen a prix fix tasting menu on their website and got all excited about crazy things like broccoli rabe gelato and veal flavored with charcoal oil. I mean, what exactly is charcoal oil, and should you really be eating it? This sounded right up my alley, and I wasn't disappointed. I'd also heard about a garish mural, so that was the first thing I looked for when I stepped inside. It was hard to miss. The entire wall was painted in this out of perspective, naïve style with a table of food coming out of the ocean as the main focus. The best part was the nebulous witch flying down out of the clouds on the upper right. I only regret being seated with the monstrosity to my back. We happened to get the intimidating half-man/half-beast waiter that's always in the photo accompanying Meigas reviews. He hands-down wins the award for freak-out factor. I'm not referring to his massive facial hair, he's simply intense and scary as hell. You can't understand a thing he says as he quietly mutters under his breath without making eye contact with anyone at the table. He bosses and yells as the other waiters in Spanish, and he lopes around in this beastly manner where he hunches and swings his left arm vigorously and with some unknown purpose. I cracked myself up trying to imagine if the guy ever loosens up. Would he ever do something mundane like ordering out Chinese and watching "The Sopranos" with friends? I asked about the tasting menu since it wasn't on the menu I was handed, and got nervous when he explained that the chef can specially make things and rattled some dishes off, which I could barely catch. I went in knowing I wanted the suckling pig and the baby squid served in its own ink, and I’m pretty sure those words crossed his lips, but I couldn't say. I wasn't sure what I was getting myself into, but I agreed to this arrangement. I was eager to see what delicacies would make their way to the table, and I love surprises, but at the same time, I was kind of scared because I had no idea what the price would be (though I was guessing somewhere near $60 since $59 was listed on the site. It was slightly more, but not by much). My big fear was spending over $200 on a meal that I would barely be able to chew or taste due to my wisdom tooth pain and stuffed up nose (ultimately, I managed alright. Only the coconut truffle gave me some trouble at the end and that was also a result of my cold medicine wearing off). Like I said, I hate to be a spendthrift--in a perfect world, I could throw money around on any meal I pleased. But in this case, I figured that my impromptu Saratoga Springs excursion and subsequent payment for the write-up would cover the expense (which it did with $30 to spare). I suffered the B&B lifestyle to eat a splurgy meal the following weekend. Life could be worse. I won't go on and on about the food here since this isn't the place really. But the meal was worthwhile, we were treated to a sweet glass of Valencian muscatel that I didn't realize was part of the deal, and the chef came out and spoke with us afterwards, which was nice. We met up with friends for drinks afterward, and I was reprimanded for eating baby pig and begged to never eat foie gras. People can be such party poopers. Note to self: remember to rain on people's parades more often. Unrelated…I saw "Memento" yesterday, which I guess was gimmicky on one hand, but suspenseful, sad and engaging too. I was still trying to figure things out while trying to fall asleep last night. The Oscars weren't terribly exciting, but then I guess you can't have guys flailing around and falling out of their wheelchairs every year. Oh my goodness, it's 1pm and I've done absolutely NO work yet.

3/20/01
I think I'm falling apart at a young age. Last Sun. I woke up with a horrible sore throat, which progressed into an annoying head cold. I tried to pep up since I knew I'd be out of town this weekend, and not really for pleasure, but doing research for work. This calls for alertness. And yet, I was still sick this weekend (I swear to God, James's mom put a curse on my since I was fine and dandy before I met her and sick as a dog the next day), had to take yesterday off work and now not only do my lungs hurt, but my wisdom tooth has decided to act up. The whole left side of my face feels puffy and painful (and I just realized that all week only my left nostril and left eye were running--that's creepy). But anyway, enough illness talk. I need to just sleep for a long time, but first I'll recount a little Saratoga Springs. This job is weird, I just discovered my boss is a year younger than me, which is whatever, but my issue is why she'd want to do a travel website with destinations suited for middle-aged couples. I mean, really none of the cities on our site are places I'd choose to visit on my own. Lots of historic sites, B&Bs and hiking and crap. Whatever. I guess S.S. is huge in the summer and lots of moneyed folks spend time there immersed in horse racing culture. I had to suffer the B&B trauma. I mean, why on earth would you want to get up at the crack of dawn to eat with strangers?! You always have to tip toe and keep quiet and worry about staying out too late. Fri. night we checked in at 10pm (which was super late for them--all the other guest's lights were already out) then stayed out til like midnight and had to sneak in all guilty like you were teenagers being bad. I also wonder why people think B&Bs are romantic or places fit for honeymoons--it's not like you could have sex without the other lodgers hearing. And who could have sex anyway, what with all the dried flowers, angels, frilly pillows and tacky Victoriana floating around. So Fri. we tried to have a drink while smoking at the same time (good luck, S.S. prides itself on all its smoke-free establishments), then poked around the snowy streets (no one told me how snowy it was up there, the weekend previous they'd gotten 31 inches of snow and it was still around). I got excited by this fried chicken place, Hattie's, and while James was busy peeking in the windows, I noticed this drunk girl yelling at a woman in a fur coat. She was ranting and telling her she was disgusting for wearing a dead animal. The older fur coat couple walked past us and started getting into their car while the drunk's friend and boyfriend tried to calm her down. The guy was telling her to shut up, and now my back was to all this, but next thing I knew I heard running and a giant thud. The guy had taken a running leap and had tackled the girl to the ground in the alley, basically body slamming her and she was out cold. She was limp and wouldn't wake up and the other girl started getting all hysterical and I was like what the fuck?! Was I supposed to do something? What if she was dead? It was really creepy and James wanted to get out of there. I did too, but do you have a moral obligation in these situations? The guy sacked the girl over his shoulder, cave man-style and started walking down the street with her. I'm assuming she lived, but maybe I should feel more guilty for not finding out. This is the kind of shit you only see when you're in small towns. People are so freaky about NY, but I've had very few moments where you actually feel danger. Sat. we checked out the local Irish bar, The Parting Glass, and it was pretty rollicking at 2 in the afternoon. I'm too tired to recount most of the weekend, but I do want to mention the nutty guy working at the Visitor's Center. He had "library employee" written all over him, and accordingly he took a shining to me. I only wish I'd caught his name. He was wearing a v-neck sweater with IRELAND embroidered on it, a shamrock tie and button, had closely buzzed hair, a wandering eye and was sexually ambiguous. We were the only visitors and spent a decent amount of time poking around the brochures and pumping him for information. When he started telling a story about some local congressman's wife who claimed during an interview that she kept her skin looking young by using vaginal cream, I knew we'd hit paydirt. I don't know what it is with these folks with solitary jobs that require knowledge of large amounts of useless information, but it certainly does nothing for their social skills. They're always a bit bitter and are almost always inappropriate, and I wouldn't have it any other way. James and I kept hoping we'd bump into him somewhere in the city. Like maybe he'd be hanging out at a bar (no, make that coffee house) with his fat Goth friend and they'd be bitching about someone who'd done them wrong. It'd be great to witness, but it never happened. Sunday we skipped town early (and I do mean early, I kept marvelling how by 9:30am on a weekend, I'd managed to shower, dress, put on make-up, do my hair and eat breakfast. Normally, it's 1pm and I'm still in pajamas trying to get it together to make a pot of coffee) and headed out to the horrible Exit 15 (everybody in town kept mentioning Exit 15 like it was the devil--that's where the mall and chain stores are) and went wild at Wal-Mart. Yesterday I called in sick and laid in bed all day watching TV. I swear, all that fresh air and early to bed, early to rise business can take a lot out of you.

3/14/01
Well, it seems that I'll be in Saratoga Springs for St. Patrick's Day. This wasn't exactly a planned affair. I shy away from work talk, just because...well, because it's not really all that exciting and I'm afraid I'll get myself in trouble for going off. But the short version is that I was having all this conflict with a writer and his schedule and he got all freaky on me and we'd already booked fri. and sat. night's at some nice B&B (I hate B&Bs. Actually, I've only stayed in one in Vancouver, B.C. and it was totally from hell. I felt 100 times better when we split and got a room at the Holiday Inn. I love chain hotels.) so to save things, I volunteered to go up and write about the town. But our revenue comes from getting lodgings to advertise with us, so that means I'll have to be nice and make lots of small talk, and take their advice on where to visit, and get up early and eat breakfast with the rest of the guests and I'm afraid I'll barf. O.k., o.k., not really, in fact I think I'll probably get a kick out the whole thing. I don't plan on bringing up James's mother a.k.a. mama ever again, but I heard something disturbing. I guess Mon. night his dad called to see if his mom had got on the train, then said that his mom had mentioned having a nice dinner with Krista (that really creeps me out that used my name). That's all fine, but here's the clincher--his dad says, "mama says Krista knows Emeril." How would I know Emeril?! I never said I knew Emeril. I did talk about how I used to work at a culinary website and that Emeril ("mama" and "papa" idolize Emeril--I could really do without the guy) had done a show where he visited the Western Beef in Ridgewood (the coolest store in all of New York, I swear. They have the cutest logo, and the largest walk-in meat locker I've ever seen, filled with everything from giant goat parts to entire sides of beef. They also have giant sized bottles of wing sauce and moderately obscure Hispanic produce. And it's all cheap!), but that's about it. It's all twisted, and to make matters worse, when James's dad asked if I knew Emeril he said YES. I mean, what the fuck. That's what I meant about hating lying. Not that I'm blunt and always tell it like it is to people, I'm a total conflict avoider, but I believe you should be honest in order to simplify your life. You know, don't create problems and potential traps for no good reason. Now I can never see these parents again (not that I'm complaining), that is, unless I befriend Emeril Lagasse in the near future. Bam! I'm going to get busted and it's not even my fault.

3/11/01
Whoo boy, well I survived last night's meeting the mom. Unfortunately, I'm still hung over and it's 9:55pm. You can't even imagine the quantity of alcohol that had to be consumed to deal with the situation. Before even leaving the house, I had received three emails from James (he couldn't phone me in front of her and she couldn't know he has a cell phone) with supposedly helpful bits of info. Here's a freaky example:

Subject:  here more more 
Date:  Sat, 10 Mar 2001 19:26:13 -0500 


She's dressed "hip conservative" if that makes sense.

You can probably complement her on either or all of :
1. a broach/pin she's wearing.
2. her coat ( an old 60's thing she
              picked out and others have
              complemented her on and was happy about
              so she'll probably like that )
3. her crucifix -- could be bonus points.

I think I'll try to call in a bit (10-15 mins.) and
"make arrangements"

Good luck.  You'll do fine.  Be charming/nice/confident.
Remember.  It's all about confidence.

Love,
James

p.s. Make me look good too.

Subject:  good job 
Date:  Sun, 11 Mar 2001 00:24:43 -0500 


Krista,

You did very well.  Mama said, "Maybe you'll want to take her over to
Virginia one of these days to see what it's all about."

She especially admires the fact that you are independent and live
alone because (as she put it) "that is so rare, like your miserable
sister... " (and it went on).

So you scored big.  I'd give it an "A" effort.  Not "A+" because she
didn't bring up grandchildren.  You remind her SO MUCH of that Elaine
Coronado.

She said something else weird, I'm not sure how to figure out, but
that can wait.

The main point is that I feel she has confidence, and that is good.
The seeds of positive Mama approval have been planted, and that is
a first positive step.

I'll call you Monday.

Love,
James

What an ordeal. And the fucked-up thing is that this is my own doing. I've always said that I think it's odd that I haven't met his family (and we've been going out over a year and half now). Don't get me wrong, I'm not getting all heavy and serious...marriage-minded, if you will. I just could never see what the big deal was why he could never mention me to his family. Meeting my mom simply entailed going out for pizza at Izzy's Buffet. I can smoke and swear in front of her as much as I feel like (those were James's two biggies--like I don't have enough common sense to not smoke or swear in front of someone else's parents). I kept scaring James by saying I was going to tell his mother that we slept in my mom's bed in her mobile home (which is the truth) on the WEST COAST. I did my duty, and I hope that's good enough for awhile. Enough of this high-maintenance parent stuff.

3/10/01
I always seem to miss "Blind Date" even though I know it's on channel 9 at 11pm. It's a beastly show, but I can't help watching it. Last night I was having a mellow evening just hanging out and happened to catch it. The first couple was this really bland black twosome. They both were from Portland (or "P.O." as the guy called it--I've never heard it referred to as that in my life) and the guy seemed disappointed because he wanted a big city girl. And she was all dumb and kept trying to be all provocative by bringing up sex every 2 seconds and he seemed sort of nervous and the whole thing was painful to watch. Then I realized the guy looked familiar, I waited for them to use his name and it was Nathan. I did know this guy, I went to school with him from third grade through high school. And he's not from P.O., he's from goddamned white-trash suburb, Gresham, OR. I remember Nathan Hamilton well. In fact, I remember his first day at Hollydale Elementary because he was new in the middle of the year, he was the only black boy so he stuck out like a sore thumb, and he asked me where the libary was so I corrected his bad pronunciation and he promptly punched me in the arm harder than I'd ever been punched before. What foreshadowing. Little did I know that later in life I'd spend years working in libaries and letting bad grammar get under my skin (you should check out his profile for a real doozy of a poorly constructed sentence). On a completely unrelated note, there's something very, very brewing tonight. I've never been allowed to meet James's family, but for some reason, he's decided that I should meet him and his mother for dinner this evening since she's in town. This is not an ordinary meet the parents situation and there most certainly won't be any Ben Stiller/Robert DeNiro ha ha antics. I've had the fear of God put into me regarding this woman. I'm not joking, I've heard nothing but horror stories. I've been prepared for an interrogation and prepped on things not to do or say or bring up. Crazy random things like not saying I was born in California. I can only wonder why that would be a topic of conversation. Because the sister lives in California and the mother is mad at her and the way she lives her life (living with a man before being married even though they were engaged), any mention of California will send her into a tirade. Even the fact that I'm from the west coast will piss her off. This is scary stuff. It's 5:39, our reservations are for 8:45 and I need to start getting ready now if I'm even going to be semi-presentable. Lord, how do I get talked into these things.

3/8/01
Ah, what a day. Due to random circumstances (temp employee needing my desk and phone), I was asked to work from home today. I didn't argue. I ended up at James's since that's where I was last night, and he has a better computer anyway, but I've discovered that I have a really bad attention span. Like I can't stick with anything for more than two hours. I'd work, then go out and get something to eat, then work a couple more hours then get sidetracked on the internet, then work a bit more, then I decided I should go to the gym since it was still early and there wouldn't be a bunch of annoying people hogging everything. That was the weird part because it entailed going to Ridgewood, about 15 min. from ,my apt., but essentially the same neighborhood. It seemed crazy to go all the way out to Queens from Manhattan, then come back in two hours when I could just go home. But I couldn't because I have James's apt. keys and I needed to be back between 7 and 8 to let him in. It's always about keys, it seems. Losing them, getting copies made, meeting people to get theirs...hmm, I think I do have ADD...I can't even seem to concentrate on writing this little bit of nothing. I think I've just go too much to do. When you know there's like 50 things you're supposed to be doing, it's hard to focus on any one thing. I still have work I should be finishing up and it's now 7:23pm, but I keep getting distracted by "Jeopardy" in the other room. At least tomorrow is Fri. and I can mellow out a bit.

3/5/01
Well, there's supposed to be this storm of the century going on, but it hasn't quite materialized yet. I think they overhyped it, though it is pretty slushy, cold and miserable out. I was just hoping to get a work-from-home day out of it, and I still might tomorrow. It seems like weekends just go faster and faster. I get off work Fri. night, go out for dinner, meet friends for drinks, then next thing I know it's midnight on Sun. and I dread going to bed, knowing that I have five work days ahead. I guess that's pretty typical. I do sometimes long for my old (as in three years ago plus) four-day work weeks. That's ideal, really. How can people think two days off a week is enough time to relax, have fun and get things done. Anyway, Sat. morning (well, around 1pm, which sounds so lazy, but I guess if you go to bed at 5am you're just getting your 8 hours sleep like you're supposed to) I was woken up by a phone call from Jessica insisting I had to go to this apt. sale under the Williamsburg Bridge that she'd been telling me about the night before. Now she's a good friend of mine (and I don't think she reads this) but I swear she's developed this nutty behavior where she just won't let up on an idea that she thinks you need to follow. It's extremely obsessive/compulsive, and I know it sounds like helpful stuff--things like seeing a lipstick she thinks I'd like or telling me about some investment/savings retirement type plan, but it's borderline aggressive and relentless the way she won't stop bringing it up until I'll look into it or follow the advice. So this sale started at noon and she was calling on her cell from it and I guess there were shelves there, which I did need and some cool table that someone seemed to be interested in so it was more urgent that I get down there. Fine. I got ready and James and I drove down there, and in the mean time she'd called like 3 more times. Cell phones are the devil's creation, I swear. People just do not need to be able to reach you every single second of the day. It was all crazy, the sale wasn't advertised like a garage sale, the door wasn't marked or anything, and I'm not really sure how Jessica heard about it (one of those things you only know about if you live in the "nabe" [ew, that's a gross word] or something) because when we finally did find it, it seemed like an insider sort of affair, like the people moving knew everyone who was there. The couple were quintessential Williamsburg, they worked at Razorfish, the guy had his dark-framed glasses and the girl was Asian with some funky afro. They seemed to have a lot of DJ equipment and snowboarding paraphernalia. I wanted the table, which was actually pretty cool and only $25. It was sort of '50s, but not one of those shiny, chrome diner types. It was like one I had in Portland, but better. Older than the flashy diner ones, more subtle, but with a stark, squiggly design on top that seemed more '40s. Plus it had two sides that flipped up to make it larger (though one was busted when I got it home and I'm not sure if it's something we did in transit or not). That was a score, but an ordeal to fit in the car. The main reason I went was for shelves and they had these big Ikea ones for $25 each (that I just looked up and cost $89 new), but it seemed impossible to fit those in the car. Jessica called again and started going on how we should just stick them out the window. We're not retarded, we tape measured them and the car with the seats down and it didn't look promising. I thought I'd take two or three, but this was going to involve more than one trip (and possibly with me not fitting in the car, and I didn't want to hang out with the hipsters waiting for James to take them to my apt.) and it wasn't like we were zipping around the corner like everyone else seemed to be doing. We'd have to cart one load to Queens then come back, assuming they'd even fit. By the time we'd measured and unscrewed and walked up and down stairs a few times it was already 4:30 and they were closing up at 5. The whole thing stressed me out in a dumb way. It turns out the couple was moving to Iceland, like you can just pick up and do that if you feel like it, and had previously lived Tokyo. Who are these people? You know? You just decide to move to the next cool expensive city and sell all your stuff, then just get an apt. in the fashionable area, get high paying jobs and buy new stuff, then move again when it strikes your fancy. It boggles the mind. I'm creeping up on three years here, and I'm just now buying shelves, and some young oblivious hipsters' cast-offs, at that. This other couple they knew also bought shelves and while we dragged our pieces two blocks down to the rusted '84 Toyota, they were placing theirs into their double parked spanking new Jeep SUV thing (not that I'd want a Jeep SUV thing) right out front. It just seemed so wrong. What world is this, they live in? Is it genetic, like you're programmed at birth to live in a loft, travel the world and always have nice shiny gadgets while others will never even move from the town they're born in. And it's not like these are horrible people or anything, the Iceland bound couple was friendly enough, chit-chatted, offered me a beer and the like, but they still get under my skin. There's just such an overwhelmingly self-absorbed (yeah, and who's doing an online journal?) vibe that comes from these communities of young successful, faux artistic kids. When all was said and done and I had my nuts, bolts and planks of disassembled wood stacked all over my sad apt. I just got overwhelmed. I mean, why bother even putting them together and attempting to make things all nice when it's not nice and I don't even want to be here. I didn't renew my lease in July thinking I'd be moving in the fall and here it is already March and I'm stuck as I ever was. I look at apt. ads, and I don't see anything under $1,000 even in the shittiest of neighborhoods. By putting those shelves together I'm throwing in the towel. I can't do that. They're going to sit there taking up space, looking ugly, making me mad until I get so sick that I am forced to take some action (what, I don't know). Or maybe I'll just let them sit in my kitchen for another six months.