nov 03

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

phone home

11/26/03
I’ve been busy prepping and cooking up a storm for tomorrow. Not that I really need to, I’m only doing a small get together, to my knowledge only three people are coming over, but I’ve gone gung ho nonetheless. It’s just because I’m a huge procrastinator. I have two final projects due for school and I’d rather do anything but work on them. Cooking is a distraction. So is writing here. In the scheme of things, those are fairly healthy outlets, I suppose. As it stands, the menu will be Jalepeno Cornbread, Garlic, White Cheddar and Chipotle Mashed Potatoes, Molasses Horseradish Sweet Potato Spears, Bourbon Cranberry Sauce, Shredded Brussels Sprouts With Maple Hickory Nuts, Poblano Chile and Pumpkin Seed Stuffing, Citrus-Glazed Turkey With Chipotle Gravy, and Pumpkin Cheesecake With Bourbon Sour Cream Topping. It was all really an excuse to use Fresh Direct and take advantage of the free $50 food offer now that I can with this new address. I’ve borrowed liberally from this year’s Gourmet Thanksgiving issue (well, if three recipes constitutes liberally). I’m not even an avid Gourmet reader, but a couple months ago I went nuts and subscribed to all these magazines through a cheap service, and got Gourmet, Conde Nast Traveler, and Elle for myself. I really got Esquire and GQ for myself too, but had them sent to James’s address so I didn’t feel like a total magazine hog. It’s odd that started receiving Gourmet when I did because it totally triggered weird memories, scary because they seem not so distant, but really are. The Pumpkin Cheesecake With Bourbon Sour Cream Topping recipe in the recent 2003 issue caught my attention because I’ve only ever made pumpkin cheesecake once, back when I was a freshman in college. I was inspired by a recipe in a 1990 Gourmet, which turns out is the same exact recipe they reprinted this year. I guess it’s a classic. I’ve never made a pumpkin cheesecake since because in my head it seems like I’d recently made one, but clearly that was 13 years ago. I was talking to my sister last week and what struck me was how many details over the years I couldn’t remember. I’ve always prided myself on a sharp memory and I’ve totally been fooling myself. Like I couldn’t remember what house we lived in when I started high school. There was this period of time when my mom kept leaving my dad (well, twice, I don’t know if twice constitutes kept leaving) and it seemed like we lived alone with her for long stretches of time, but when we were piecing it together last week, there was only a couple month period when I was in 6th grade and once again when I was in 8th. It seemed like we lived in those temporary apartments much longer. My mom left my dad for good the summer I graduated high school, 1990, and frankly, she went a little nutty (I don’t know if she reads this, though I know she did briefly after getting a computer last year and got into a tizzy because I called her cheap. Heck, I’m cheap and unashamed, it’s not a crime…it’s a lifestyle. So, nutty isn’t meant to be offensive, alright?). I can’t even figure out why she subscribed to Gourmet because she didn’t and still doesn’t cook (last Thanksgiving I spent the holiday at home for the first time in the many years I’ve been here and she didn’t have measuring spoons, pie pans, or basics like vanilla. It freaked me out.), but I do remember the magazine being in the house. I got in my head to make the cheesecake for Thanksgiving and it felt like a major project. It seems funny now that I had to have my mom buy the whiskey for me because I was 18 (the following holiday season I did fruitcakes and had to have her purchase rum, which was missing from the cupboard when I went looking for it. This was during the era when she had started dating the 27 year old neighbor, who ended up moving in, who ended up becoming my “step-dude.” Apparently, he had drank my fruitcake rum. That was a serious annoyance, yet only the most minor of infractions. How my car was crashed drunk driving [not by me] is a whole other wholesome tale from those halcyon days.). I can’t remember why, but we (my mom, sister and myself) decided to spend Thanksgiving that year with my boyfriend’s mom. We weren’t close to her, I think I’d maybe met her once, she was freaky, mousey, didn’t eat, exercised compulsively, and lived in these drab apartments in Gresham next to Mt. Hood Community College. She must’ve cooked, though I can’t recall any of it. I do remember having to cut the cheesecake. And I remember bringing Trivial Pursuit over, and how she wouldn’t play. That’s the worst kind of person, playing games comes up and they are all, “oh, I’ll just watch.” What kind of freak just wants to watch a board game being played?! Brian’s (the boyfriend) mom was depressing. He was depressing. I don’t know how we went out for three years, but that’s the age when you’re dumb. I wasn’t dumb, in fact I was aware we had a soul-crushing, go-nowhere relationship, I just didn’t have anything better do, and that’s ultimately more depressing. He never had money, couldn’t keep a job, was a year behind me in school though we were the same age, and was always getting beat up because he looked tough, sort of like a skinhead, though he was very mellow, probably too mellow. I paid for all his things, my mom even bought bus passes for him (see, not cheap), when I moved out at 19, he moved in with me and I paid the rent and all the bills. It wasn’t until I was a junior in college that I met another guy, and dumped Brian in a matter of 24 hours. I didn’t care. I was like you need to move out immediately, and I never saw him again. My mom used to see him hanging around with street kids downtown and he had long hair and hippy clothes. It made me feel kind of sick. Later I found out he’d been stealing and writing checks from me. To this day I’ll occasionally have dreams that he’s my boyfriend and I’m really mad because it doesn’t seem right, and when I wake up and think that’s my life for a few seconds before I acclimate to reality, and I don’t even want to get out of bed because I feel so shitty. Clearly, I have issues, not that I intend to work though them. The early ‘90s were really godawful now that I think about it. But that was thirteen years ago. Now, I’m sitting here alone in a pretty darn nice apartment in Brooklyn paid for by overly-responsible boyfriend, drinking my $3 Trader Joes wine (that “Two Buck Chuck” isn’t two dollars here), listening to the new Mates of State cd and reminiscing needlessly about Gourmet’s bourbon pumpkin cheesecake. I don’t imagine that tomorrow’s Thanksgiving will be anything like 1990’s, but I can’t help but dwell on it. What happens between 18 and 31? Things I should be thankful for, maybe.

11/21/03
One of the tricky things about having an online journal for a substantial amount of time is that you start to forget what you’ve already said and tend to forget what people might and might not know. I swear I’m not one of those people who in conversation always end up telling the same damn story, not at all. My point being that I don’t recall whether I’ve ever proclaimed my extreme disdain for New Yorker cartoons (and the magazine in general). I know I have to some degree because I remember being horrified by a cartoon the summer before last that I saw at the gym, and I know I mentioned it. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I’ve been told that the cartoons (this one in particular) are meant to be ironic, like they’re poking fun at people with borough-phobic attitudes. Maybe, and I’m just so gauche and undereducated that I incorrectly take them literally. But that interpretation doesn’t quite seem right, either. Michael Crawford is the artist of that Brooklyn cartoon, and he’s a particular thorn in my side, look at his whole oeuvre. It’s subtle, yes? Funny? That’s debatable. I don’t know, is this hilarious? I clearly lack the necessary discerning skills. A woman at work recently said, “those New Yorker cartoons are always so witty” and I wanted to ask why on earth she thought so because I must be totally missing something (I know I’m not alone in my not understanding of New Yorker cartoon, there was that whole Seinfeld episode about the phenomena). I have such a love/hate obsession with them that at one point I was going to do a side website devoted to them. I’ve been trying to figure out some art project around the house for them, so far, I just have Xeroxed cartoons on my refrigerator (the sort of project I’ll eventually come up with will certainly be the sort of thing James won’t want put up in the new apt. We’re polar opposites, serious vs. silly, when it comes to home décor. It’s starting to look very manly in here, so I’d better start putting my touch on things pronto.) The first time I ever saw The New Yorker was in a doctor’s waiting room when I was about eight and I didn’t get it then, either. There weren’t a lot of photos, just a lot of words, and about events and openings and things in New York (hence, the name, duh). I didn’t live there, why should I care about what’s going on with these people (now I live here and I still feel that way)? It was a very disappointing waiting room magazine for a child (it was my mom’s appt., not a pediatrician). So, yesterday I get an email from the person in charge of internships at school about one at The New Yorker. I almost shit my pants because the primary duty is “Performing subject indexing on cartoons from each week's issue.” Oh god, could I create new categories: Stupid, Insulting, Elitist, Facile…there could be a whole subcategory of Unfunny: Baffling and Unfunny, Ironic and Unfunny, Yeah, I Get the Joke and It’s Still Unfunny. So many options. But the best part of the ad came at the end, “It should be stressed that this internship is not an opportunity to contribute writing or art work to the magazine.” Oh really, because I thought maintaining their prestigious cartoon collection would be a great foray into the New York City literary world. Needless to say, I will not be interning at The New Yorker’s library.

11/19/03
Almost nothing makes me crazier than when my phone and internet aren’t working. This was the case when I woke up this morning, which was really only a big deal because I had an internship interview/appt. scheduled for 11am at HarperCollins and I was too stupid to think to write the address and contact info on paper. That’s a lesson, don’t always save everything in email or on the computer (maybe that’s why I’m distrustful of all those handheld gadgets—despite not liking piles of post its and piles of paper and notes scattered all over the place, I think little wonder devices are just inviting more trouble). After seeing there was a rainstorm pounding (apparently, there’s another one occurring right now, it’s so loud on my back door that I’m semi-convinced water might be pouring into my room) and having an internship meeting at an advertising agency yesterday that is pretty much a done deal, I had no desire to go to HarperCollins anyway. But couldn’t even phone or email to cancel (not to mention that it’s rude to cancel last minute, I take engagements very seriously). Luckily, I was able to reach James on a payphone and have him get into my email. What did people do without computers, anyway? I’m trying to picture desks with just papers and phones on them like the weird old guys in charge always had on the temp assignments I was given. On the way to the subway, I saw a guy ahead of me using some contraption to remove the change from the meters (I’d never seen someone actually performing this function before). I was sort of in a bad mood because I was running late, and couldn’t check my email and was being simultaneously rained on and sweating (I don’t know what it is with raincoats that don’t breathe) and I could tell that this guy and his contraption were going be in my way on the sidewalk (they’ve been doing construction on the block with the subway and cemetery entrance for an eternity and I’m not bothered so much by the guys who always stand around drinking coffee and smoking, but by the makeshift path they’ve created with barricades. I’m totally convinced a speeding car on Fourth Ave. is going to barrel through them [I’ve seen a vehicle knock into one of them] and flatten me). I was prepared to give him an annoyed look, but he politely moved out of my way before I got to him and said “morning,” and I was like Ok, that’s odd and said good morning back. His buddy who was hanging off the back of the Dept. of Transportation truck also smiled and said hello to me. My first reaction was to try and decipher if they were being smart asses or genuine. I’m not that suspicious, I swear, but city workers are generally unpleasant people. I decided they were being nice, maybe they were imported from another city. Later I was at the Bay Ridge location of my gym (which I need to get rid off since I’ll be changing neighborhoods at the end of the year. My big problem is price, gyms are totally ridiculous. There’s one “real” gym near the new apt. but the name Body Elite scares me because what kind of person claims to have an elite body, right? I’m not elite. I was trying to think of the opposite of elite and fittingly came up with the masses. Body Mass, now that’s a gym for me. The other nearby option, which is even scarier, is Curves. I wasn’t really familiar with the concept until recently, and if I’m correct it’s a women’s only gym (creepy, I was already traumatized by Lucille Roberts) and it’s all weight loss focused (gross). They have some streamlined concept where you get in and out in 30 minutes, and I think it’s cheaper that other gyms because they don’t have locker rooms, saunas, childcare or any of that crap I never use anyway. But I don’t want to go to a you-go-girl, female bonding, fat women’s gym in Carroll Gardens, that’s just beyond frightening. With all the affluent, healthy, scrubbed white young women in the neighborhood, it’s hard to imagine what dregs must end up at Curves.), which is so not like the Park Slope Harbor Fitness. There are more dudes and senior citizens and they always play rock instead of top 40 hip hop. No one ever bugs you at the Park Slope location, and I like being anonymous, doing my routine, and getting out fast. Today I was on one of those elliptical things and a staff guy came over and asked how my workout was going, and totally freaked me out. He was being friendly, everyone seemed to know him, and was strolling around checking on people. They don’t do that in Park Slope, and I kind of like that they don’t. But then I softened, and decided that it was nice to ask how someone’s workout is going. And then I tried to figure out why everyone was being so damn friendly and pleasant today. Even the women working at Century 21 (yeah, I know I was just complaining about them and how I never go there) weren’t wholly unpleasant. I never know why I even go there because the only things I end up with are socks, tights and underwear. I think I was hoping to find a pair of pointy flats for under $40, but there was nothing I wanted in my size (clothing, I realize is tricky if you’re larger than a 12, but I don’t have gigantic feet, there’s nothing specialty-sized about them). There were all sorts of crazy colored Dolce & Gabanna shoes. There was even a pair of aquamarine patent leather pointy flats that I almost would’ve bought, despite being out of my price range even at the knocked down price of $159, but they didn’t have anything bigger than an 8. Bastards. It’s all for the best, I’m sure they are already hopelessly out of season to anyone in the know. So, I made it to my interview, even though my heart wasn’t in it. I don’t have high expectations regarding publishing libraries, and was disheartened by Fairchild last week (which I was offered and had to turn down). I should’ve been tipped off by the fact that I was told the library was on level “C” instead of being given a floor number, because you guessed it…the library is in the basement. Heck no, I’m not doing that. I already live in a freakin’ basement, I can’t spend all my waking and sleeping hours like some eyeless, albino cave creature. It’s like when I didn’t have air conditioning, and every goddamn job I got (three in a row) didn’t have air conditioning either. It was obscene, and no way to live. It was pretty much as expected. There were only two staff members, the director about my age, the librarian a good five years younger (I’m starting realize I have age/authority issues. I really should’ve gotten my degree about five years ago. I’m so not a confident horn-tooter, but I feel way overqualified for entry level work), and I was almost flat out told that there would be minimal reference work for interns (and that this has bothered some past interns), which is what I want to learn. Why would I index and organize and do routine library work for free when I already do that at my paid job? My impression of an internship is that you’re supposed to learn things you don’t already know. I wasn’t sold on the seemingly soulless and dull position, but on the other extreme I was told at the advertising agency that it’s high stress and there are “a lot of tears.” I didn’t want to ask if that was meant figuratively or literally, and that should certainly scare me, but it doesn’t because I’d rather be driven to tears from being pushed and demanded of than driven to tears by mind numbing boredom. Their library wasn’t in the basement, the women I met were upbeat (though considerably older than myself), weren’t wearing the typical poor librarian Old Navy/Lerner (the only two stores I have credit cards for) ensemble (though jewel toned suits with scarves are equally scary). I don’t know, things were shiny and well-kept (there was a flood in the HarperCollins library this morning) and everyone seemed professional and sharp. So, the ad agency it is. I just hope I don’t start longing for the slow pace and easy living that a basement job provides.

11/13/03
Funny, this week's "Time Out NY" has a feature about 118 things that make you a true New Yorker. Whatever, most of it I have to take issue with like Having Someone Else Wash Your Clothes (I've always taken sick pride in never having dropped off my laundry, not even once) and Strip to Your Underwear to Try on Discounted Clothes in the Middle of Century 21 (Century 21 is a heinous joke--I've never ever once purchased an item of clothing there). But what did catch my eye was Having Your Coffee-Cart Guy Noticing When You Miss Work, or in my case, vice versa. He was back today so I guess there wasn't some mad terrorist plot being hatched. This past weekend I saw one of the Queer Eye guys who'd been made over at Home Depot. He was the funniest episode I ever saw because he was a total fuck up, cheapskate and broke everything and made horrible, nearly all alcohol cocktails for his girlfriend's parents and called himself stupid out loud. It was a trainwreck. He totally looked like before, not after and was buying lightbulbs and Simple Green cleaner. I don't know why you'd go all the way to Home Depot for that (it's even more heinous than Century 21--we were only there because it's literally blocks from the new apt.). It's pretty when the closest I get to celebrity sightings is Queer Eye makeover subjects. Oh yeah, but to be a true New Yorker, you're also supposed to be blasé about celebrities, which I am, of course. That reminds me--unlike everyone else, I didn't have much of anything to say regarding Elliott Smith, I wasn't a major fan or anything, though I do feel an affinity for depressive Northwesterners (I know he wasn't actually born in Portland). But I just remembered that I'd seen him a few months back at this comedy thing, it wasn't ha ha comedy, but that David Cross and co. performance of "The Day the Clown Cried," from the Jerry Lewis script about a clown in a concentration camp, that I might have mentioned before. I guess you call that dark comedy. After the show, Jessica and I cracked up, seeing Elliott Smith milling around on the sidewalk because he looked so damn morose. It was like dude, you just saw a funny show, lighten up (I would never really use "dude" in conversation, but I felt the urge to throw it in there). Maybe the thought of Jerry Lewis entertaining children in a gas chamber put him over the edge. Looking at this atrocity this afternoon almost made me want to stab myself in the stomach. Who knew Rosie O'Donnell was such a freakin' artistic genius?

11/11/03
This morning on the way to work, I noticed the coffee cart guy wasn’t on his corner. It’s just not like him. The last time he was going to be absent, quite some time ago, he told me the day before. Then I started getting (not seriously) paranoid that he must be in on some terrorist plot and was told not to come to work today. You know, how there’s that conspiracy theory about how the Jews didn’t go to work on 9/11 because the attacks were really their doing and they were warned to stay home. A while ago, this annoying maintenance guy (library staff wasn’t allowed to have keys for like the first four months I was at this job because thefts were occurring after hours [clearly from the cleaning staff, we had it on tape, but no one in charge would say anything to the cleaning company because administration was afraid of making any accusations that be construed as racially biased. I’m serious, that the hand on the videotape belonged to a dark-skinned individual, became an issue] and this guy would have to let me in the mornings I opened and would purposefully take his time just to dick me around. There’d be staff and students waiting to get into the library along with me, and he could care less. I had to wait 50 minutes once.) from Parsons was in line ahead of me at the coffee cart and giving the coffee guy a hard time about being Middle Eastern, calling him Saddam Hussein, joking in that obnoxious way that undereducated minorities in NYC think is the pinnacle of wittiness. I’m hardly P.C., and enjoy busting people’s chops, but it wasn’t even sharp enough ribbing to be funny. When I got to the counter, the coffee guy emphatically stressed that he doesn’t support terrorism and that he moved here from Afghanistan in the 80s. I was just like I never really thought you were a terrorist in the first place. But after this morning’s mysterious absence…I’m not so sure. I never considered myself to be crazy paranoid, but today while at my desk I heard really loud plane noises and totally snapped alert. Of course nothing happened. And no, I don’t really think the coffee cart guy (for the record, he told me his name was Abraham…no doubt, an alias) is really a terrorist. Maybe I was suffering inexplicable post-post-traumatic stress disorder. I’m always a little skittish until I get my first cup of coffee.

11/7/03
I realize those kinds of days where everything goes to hell happen to everyone from time to time, but yesterday I felt particularly cursed. I don’t really want to do an internship because who wants to work for no money, and the impression I get at school is that the people who do them have no library experience and I have quite a bit, but not in the corporate world (just public and academic) so I figure I should get some. Fine. I haven’t set anything up yet, but had an interview at Fairchild Publications yesterday. I didn’t feel good at this, mainly because I interviewed for a real job there in 2000 that didn’t pan out, and also because this blobby, annoying, big-mouthed lawyer guy (who’s also a library science student) at my school internship meeting said that some girl (that I couldn’t place by name) in a class we had together last semester was just hired there. It came to be that she’s like this mousy 24 year old who may or may not be competent, because she didn’t every speak, but couldn’t have anything over me. So why would I want to work somewhere for free where a mediocre schlep was being paid? I also couldn’t remember why I was lukewarm on the job from the interview in 2000 (always rely on your gut instincts). So, the HR person was this intern I’d had phone exchanges with. His voice, which seemed normal, didn’t prepare me for him in person. He was like a weird caricature of a middle aged Brooklyn guy, probably a plumber or appliance salesman, but he was probably 22. He was short, had a gut that hung over his pleated slacks, was bow-legged, had greased back hair and a moustache. Like a young Ernie Sabella (I know Mr. Sabella doesn’t have a moustache). So wrong. When I finally was taken to see the library, the elevator kept going down, at the lobby we didn’t get out either. That’s when I realized we were going to the basement. So not a good sign. I interviewed at Penguin for a librarian position in 2000 as well and after being told it was in the basement, totally lost interest (they never called me back anyway). A basement is where the mailroom is, maintenance, freaks basically. It’s where the people who are underpaid and command the least respect reside. In a way, the library was cool, it was filled with old fashion scrapbooks, magazines and clippings from the 1910s on. But I’m doing this whole MLS thing as a tech-savvy, forward thinking future information professional. This was total stodgy old stereotype librarian stomping grounds. An elderly black women was filing things onto ancient endless rows of shelves. That’s when I remembered the interview from 2000. The woman had told me that there was a handful of staff who’d been there for like 20 years that didn’t want any responsibility, they just index and file, earn an paycheck and go home, and that I would supervise them at times. This depressed the hell out of me, and I could tell the interviewer noticed my lack of enthusiasm at the prospect. This happened once again. The associate director was nice enough, but I’d already decided this wasn’t for me. At that point, you turn off. I heard nothing he said, I just nodded my head, said yes a lot and debated whether or not I should buy a pack of cigarettes when this was over (I know I’m in trouble when I buy cigarettes because I only do it maybe every five months, and only when I’m completely at my wit’s end and downtrodden). I didn’t buy any cigarettes, but left feeling hopeless. I had applied for a local scholarship last month and was told they would inform the winner by the end of this week, so I kept checking my phone and email messages to no avail. This also started pissing me off because I’d thought I’d written a pretty decent essay and am so much more qualified and together than most of the students in my classes (like last week I had a class with a midterm and a project both due on the same day. I was the only one who did both. Everyone else banded together and told the professor it was too much work. They got an extension until tomorrow. Did I get any credit for actually following the syllabus and taking the deadline seriously? Of course not). I had to leave work an hour early (I also arrived an hour and a half late because of this internship interview) which stressed me out since I’m a poor hourly employee, to register for spring semester. Apparently, everyone except me knows you’re supposed to register Sat. the first day available to get the classes you want. I had an asshole of an advisor, who never was around so I’d always get screwed out of classes. This is the same guy who taught my summer class and made me stay after to have a talk about how I needed to calm down and made him nervous and it made me think he was an even bigger asshole. I requested a new advisor, and apparently got an equally fucked up individual because last night I showed up at 5pm on the dot, as per his email. The office was closing and told me he wasn’t there and had a conference or some shit and almost didn’t seem to believe that he told me to come that date. I was livid. One of the classes I had wanted had already been closed, who knew about the others. I was just like well someone here had better register me now. I’m over $30,000 in debt and these fucks can’t even get their acts together. I told the office woman (who had given me this new advisor, not at my request, but because all the ones I suggested she said had too many students already) I was about ready to lose my shit. One of the assistants said she’d see what full time faculty were around (they’re the only ones who can register you). And guess who was there? The prick of a teacher that I’d switched from originally because he was totally unhelpful. Thankfully, there was one other professor around, who didn’t want to register me because my advisor would know me best, never mind that my original advisor never asked about career goals, my interests, anything, and that the second one who didn’t show up had never met me in my life. I was happy just to get my registration settled, but this woman was a total hard ass, asked me a million questions about what I’d taken and what I planned to do career-wise (which is what I think they’re supposed to do) and suggested all these classes I didn’t want to take and tried discouraging me from every single one I wanted. She didn’t agree with my wanting to intern at publishing houses. Then she didn’t want me to take three classes. I’ve always taken three classes, I don’t work full time, I originally wanted to take four classes. I know people who take five. I know the average lib. Sci. student is highly incompetent and can barely handle high school level assignments, but I’m not an idiot. I was pissed. Pissed at horrible depressing Fairchild Publications, pissed at my original advisor, my new one who went AWOL, this temp. one with her unwanted advice, pissed at the scholarship committee for not recognizing my obvious genius (I’m joking), pissed at the retards in my class who can’t do their assignments right or on time, and pissed at myself for even trying to do anything good in my life. I bought a pack of cigarettes. Then I was hanging out in this computer area waiting for class at 6:30. Earlier in the day, a job opening from Parsons, where I work was posted on the library school’s listserve. This girl who was hired the same week as I was, is leaving to work at NYU. Whatever, that’s not the issue. But this girl was asking people on the computers if they’d seen that Parsons ad. And I was like yeah why, I work there. She was totally blown away by the shitty pay, and I was like no duh. Even the public library workers thought it was disgusting because they’re way underpaid and still make more. They were all like how do you work at a fashion school, look good and buy all the Gucci and Louis Vuitton (this was their idea of looking good, not mine) with that kind of salary? I agreed art libraries are ridiculous and that I plan on getting the hell out of that field after I get my degree. At this point, I started feeling madder at the world. Then I went to class. For the past two weeks students had been giving oral presentations. The teacher would randomly call on people. So far, I’d made it to the third, final week without having been called. I hate presentations, and kind of wished I’d just gotten it over with, especially since I knew I’d have to go this session and was in a totally bad mood. Six students including myself were left. He called all other five. The fifth, the student body pres., made some comment about not knowing whether it was a curse or a blessing to go last and I said out loud, “you’re not last.” Then after her presentation, the teacher thanked everyone and said all the speeches were great and he didn’t leave anyone out did he. And I was like fuck all of you, no, I STILL HAVE TO GIVE MY PRESENTATION, pissed again because apparently I’m completely forgettable and not worthy of the time or attention given to everyone else who all got registered promptly by advisors who give a shit and have better paying jobs despite being brain damaged. I'm neither small nor quiet, I never miss class, I always do my assignments (and get A's, mind you), so it's hard to figure out why I'm so invisible. I felt like going Colombine on the whole library school’s asses. That was yesterday. Today I’m just moderately irked.

11/5/03
Yikes, November. The rapidly approaching end of year is sort of scary, but what’s really scary is parents calling their kids mama. I’ve heard this twice in less than a week (an epidemic, I tell you). Guys calling women mama or mommy has always grossed me out. It’s not like that hillbilly spouses calling each other ma and pa or mom and dad thing. (I went to this girl Shawnee’s [her sister was Cheyenne—they weren’t Native American] birthday party in highschool. I didn’t really know her that well, and ended up being the first one there and had to hang out with her parents, who were this odd plump duo [the whole family was rather hefty] by myself, and they kept calling each other mom and dad and freaking me out. At midnight, dad took us all into “the city” to see “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.” It was a bizarre evening.) The very first day I moved to NYC, my cab driver got totally lost. At the time I didn’t realize that they only know Manhattan and if you do boroughs you have to be super specific and I’d never been to the girls’ apt. I was going to be staying at. He drove around Williamsburg for an eternity and kept leaning out his window asking other drivers for help (it actually is a fairly obscure location where two streets meet next to the BQE. I recently passed by in a car and was like oh, that’s where I stayed five years ago. I only knew the location walking from the subway, not by road) He called every Poppy, and I was like this must be some NYC slang, but I almost never hear it. I think it’s a Caribbean thing. Mommy too, perhaps, since they people who use it seem to be mostly Puerto Rican. Whatever its ethnic origins, it weirds me out. Last night on Fox 5 Problem Solvers they did some expose about city housing scams and the chunky, loudmouth female reporter (I can’t recall her name--they don’t have her bio on the website) was called mommy by someone they were accusing of whatever and she snapped, “I’m not your mommy.” I don’t know, it cracked me up. The Problem Solvers segment always cracks me up. Fox 5 is so NY Post, all mouthy, self-righteous, patriotic, conservative and hilarious. So, Sat. James and I were shopping at our favorite grocery store Western Beef in Ridgewood and in the frozen food section this guy yelled, “get over here, mama” and he was talking to his grade school aged daughter. At least I’m pretty sure he was because the mom/wife was way over on the other side of the section and didn’t respond while the girl did answer. I thought it was a fluke, then today I was leaving the gym and this woman was in front of me on the sidewalk with a toddler (earlier I’d seen the woman inside the gym and noted that we had similar figures. Whenever I see someone who is a doughy pear they always have kids under two like they haven’t been able to get rid of the extra baby weight. It never fails to disturb me because I have no excuse) and couldn’t get the kid to pay attention or walk straight. The child kept wandering and getting distracted by everything. And as I passed by, the adult said, “no, don’t touch that, mama” to the girl who had picked up crap from the sidewalk. I almost wanted to turn around and ask her why she was calling a toddler mama. I guess it’s a term of endearment and maybe I’m the only one who is repulsed by it. I think I’m going to start calling everyone daddy.