fuzzy sweater.

Friday, March 29, 2002

So last Friday my friend K. was guest bartending at a place uptown. Despite the unappealing vicinity, I decided to attend. She’s the type of friend who will invite you and invite you until you feel bad saying no, and also she’s nice, and most importantly the deal was a $10 drink-all from 9-11. So I went. K. had called it a "bar"… hence, I rolled up in my jeans and turtleneck only to find it was a wristbandy, glittery-haltertop-full, bouncer-heavy, coat-check-mandatory kind of place. Not. A bar. Free drinks free drinks free drinks.

I had also invited a number of people to come with, including Jennifer ‘n’ Ryan, Kelly, Lauren, and their various packs of friends. They assumed it was a jeansy place too, being that the invitation came from me, so at least I wasn’t the only one violating the fashion code. So we paid the cover and slunk in the door.

The open bar from 9-11 ensured that by the time the regular crowd started filtering in, I was well proper wasted. Even dancing, if I recall correctly.

As I’m thinking it may be time to head out and polishing off the last of my rum and coke, I peer over Mary Anne’s shoulder to see this underfed little greasy-headed guy busting some sort of move all by himself. In a glance, I notice that his bright orange leisure suit jacket is undone, revealing that he is shirtless and that he has a number of gold chains bouncing off his skinny, hairless chest. In a second glance, I notice that his fly is also splayed wide open. It’s almost as if the pants had no zipper to begin with, so perfectly in sync with his look was the open barn door. I gave him my "you’re nasty" face and yelled at him, "Your FLY is OPEN!" He stopped gyrating and looked at me. Did not move to zip up. So I yelled again. "Why would you do that, you just look stupid!" Extended reiteration of "you’re nasty" face. Slimy puffed up his chest and looked at me like he wanted to punch me. And who wouldn’t be upset, when one’s prime girl-getting attraction has been rebuffed by a fine female like myself. Raising up a hand, he squinted as he looked me in the eye and called to his homeys to come over and "back him up". He wanted to fight me, see. Me! Some of my friends were looking at me funny.

Sensing danger, Ryan, All Around Nice Guy of the evening, swooped in from left field with a "Hon, are you ready to go?" and with an arm around the shoulder completely sheltered me from this guy, whose friends had indeed come when summoned but once among us, seemed to side with me. I nodded meaningfully when asked by the toad, "'Zis yuh boyfriend?" Ryan might very well have been punched or something. I'm glad he wasn't. We fled. I felt invigorated. I never get confrontational! Especially with little hoods in cheesy clubs. And so, despite the fact that I ran out afraid of this little runty guy, and caused a scene, I still felt a little bit proud of myself. As I left, I kind of hoped his fly didn't have a zipper on it-- it was really really cold outside.

This weekend I’m thinking of championing Barcode in Times Square. Dirty weasels, beware!

the words spilled out effortlessly at 16:23

Wednesday, March 27, 2002

A Correspondence, by Liz and Sarah
alternatively entitled:Two People Who Obviously Didn't Have Much Work to Do Yesterday

(We are for hire, by the way. Bar Mitzvahs, high school graduations, namings of firstborns, etc.)

Me: ...i'm waiting for someone else to start a band that i can glom onto as a tecchie or whistler or triangle player.

Liz: hey, be in my band! we'll get amber too, and whoever else, and only have whistling, triangles, maybe a solitary kazoo. please say yes. we can even call it "sarah and her gangsta bitches."

Me: ooh, sweet! what about The Sarah N____ Fo' ? we'd have to get a #4 but for a name like that it could be necessary.

Liz: WAIT. I HAVE GOT IT. PARDON THE CAPS AND INCORRECT GRAMMAR OF 'HAVE GOT.' it can be "The Sneers"!!!!!!!!!!!!! like your name! oh man. that's so good.

Me: for.get.it.

"sneers" has been my nickname ever since i received my first email address in college. i was first "sneers" and now still "sneersy" to all of my college friends, 85% of whom have completely forgotten what my real first name is. so, a band would forever cement me as Sneers. Sarah would cease to exist altogether. And if i ever got married and wanted to change my name to escape the curse, i would still be known as Sneers Davis or Sneers Herschfelder or something. i don't think so honey. but snaps to you for picking up on it.

Liz: oh, and I was so excited. I think "sneers" is cute. but what do I know?

well, we can always use my name for the band. the liz springtimes? that sounds horribly girl band-y. yeah, that's 1500% worse. I need a new name. I will be Liz Handi-wipe from now on.

Me: no we can't use your name, because you said we can use my name! you said you said. or... what about "sarah and liz and two other people"? or "liz, sarah, and a blonde"? or "the sarahliz conjunction"?

Liz: personally I like "sarah, liz, underrated teenagers." SLUT! get it?

k that's not so good.

Me: you were so working backwards there.

how about "sarah plus liz equals milquetoast"? i love that word, milquetoast.

Liz: milquetoast is a great word. maybe that can be the name of our first single. or, "the accordion folder at the edge of the world."

how about "sarah + liz: you can't equate us" or something vaguely insulting?

Me: we could call ourselves "supersmart-annoying"? or a similar combination of two such words.

Liz: *NUISANCE ?

Me: why does that sound vaguely familar?

The Bodies!

Liz: I always liked The Envelopes.

Me: What about Lil' Kim!?

Liz: I love it.

Me: great! finally we settle on something. and really, if you think about it, it's almost full circle to "sneers" again. because she and i went to prep school together.

Liz: did you really?

Me: nope, i didn't go to prep school and i don't think Li'l Kim did either... i thought it was equally preposterous to picture either of us at a private school. although maybe not to other people, i'm sure i could seem the prep school type. anyway, no.

Liz: it occurred to me after hitting send that it was highly unlikely. I'm very smart, you know. sharp as a whole barrel of tacks.

Me: hoowee, somebody has left a very stinky fart lingering by the copy machine...

Liz: nice. our ladies' bathroom has been smelling surprisingly horrific lately.

Me: here on the 3rd floor ours are always surprisingly pleasant, by contrast to all the other ladies' rooms in the building that i've visited... you should come down sometime.

Liz: my new slogan: "I pee on 3."

Me: could we name our band after this slogan?

Liz: it has a lovely ring.

Me: i can picture the t-shirts now...

Liz: ooh, toilets? bidets?

Me: little plastic urine testing cups? or maybe we're too claaassy n all dat.

Liz: or maybe we could just make the shirts yellow. although that might be too high-brow.

Me: well in all honesty we are daring to make people think... so why not be highbrow? "i pee on 3... three what? and who am i? why do i have to urinate? DO i have to urinate? where's the bathroom in this place?" etc.

Liz: the philosophy of urine. it's relevant to everyone.

Me: amen sister.

hear me out on this idea: what about gift urine bags? i recently saw a thing about a product that you attach to your calf and... somehow, somewhere else... and whenever you have to go, you Just Go. in the supermarket, on the bus, or sitting in front of your tv! i forget where i saw this. we could have our logo emblazoned onto it. it'll be all the rage.

everyone in my department, the other three i mean, are ALL wearing hermes scarf type things today. conspiracy? i think maybe yes.

Liz: I hate hermes.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 17:24

Tuesday, March 26, 2002

I had the perfect night last night. I didn’t realize it was perfect until this morning, when I woke up feeling at peace [until I got into the city, at least]... Maybe it was the lighting. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the precise collision of certain air particles set into motion along particular paths some several centuries ago by, say, a milk maid in Sweden and a giraffe in Africa... whatever, Sarah. Anyway, here's the recipe:

- Had a nice, chummy smoke break with Liz, Mary, and Amber on my way out of the office.
- Wandered lazily to the subway without having to internally bitch a single person out for walking slowly.
- Read my book, The Wind-up Bird Chronicles [which is my favorite Murakami to date] on the subway, which arrived right on time, and I didn’t even have to sit next to anybody smelly or suspect.
- On a whim, rented a movie, Ghost World, from the cute-boy-behind-the-counter video place. I never rent videos.
- Got home, put on pajamas, and decided to eschew the bland vegetable-laden meal I had been contemplating. Because it would have been disappointing, as most meals laden with vegetables are to me. Instead I made spaghetti with Traditional Prego and hamburger-- my mother’s most relied-upon staple meal—and ate whilst watching Antiques Road Show. Mmm.
- Decided to rearrange my variety of scrappy rugs. Peeled one particularly cheap one off the wood floor outside the bathroom to discover that the rubbery underside stuff had remained stuck to the floor, and swore and kicked at it a little. But then discovered that peeling the stuff off the floor was in fact supremely satisfying. So I watched part of the movie on my computer DVD player whilst sitting on the ground rolling the rug-bottom crap off my floor with my fingertips. Then I moved another rug there and felt very pleased with the new arrangement.
- Noted that it was hailing outside. I love the sound of ice on windows, little tiny ditditdits… I guess it makes me feel enclosed and safe, to be able to hear it muted from inside.
- Relocated to my bed to watch the rest of the film, which to this point had been absolutely excellent. Pulled grandma’s blanket over me, and Sylvie-pie cuddled herself right into the crook of my arm, unsolicited! I promptly fell asleep [by 10:30] thus missing most of the rest of the movie. [I watched it this morning and thought it was excellent too].

I didn't talk to a soul... didn't do much of anything, really. But it was the nicest night, just because. Of course, the moment I left my apartment this morning, the spell was broken and I found myself directing vile thoughts toward the slow lady in clicky shoes, and the tall guy who couldn't walk a straight line and kept getting in my way, and the girl whose hair was obviously a wig. Oh well, nothing gold can stay, right?

the words spilled out effortlessly at 15:20

Monday, March 25, 2002

Ohmigosh. i've been preoccupied by this succulent little truffle of a website all day long! It's just... well, someone out there who clearly doesn't have a full-time job and who clearly understands the intricacies of the minds of very very tiny people has gone and created something utterly cool. First on the menu, go to "minipops"-- from Elliott Smith to The A Team to Stevie Wonder to Teen Wolf... everybody's all small!!! There's even a miniature 1999-2000 Liverpool FC team, which I once had the pleasure of seeing in action. And when you're done with that (it should take you upwards of two hours to see every minipop on the list but I urge you to do it) check out the mini-tour of the mini-MoMA, including a mini-Damien Hirsch exhibit, and THEN take a look at "fun fun fun" and then "Mike and Jill" and then... well, everything else on the whole entire page. You won't get any work done today, kid. But go! Go now, and with no small amount of urgency.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:00

Sunday, March 24, 2002

You know a date is a few heart palpitations shy of kismet when:
- Over dinner, he tells you about various health problems including the boil on his neck and his receding gumline.
- When it comes time to pay, he pulls out a gift certificate and politely suggests that you pay the tip.
- During the course of downing five drinks he has become less and less attractive to you the more he talks. And his stories about his trip to Italy with an ex-girlfriend aren’t getting any more charming. Defying the rules of beer goggles takes a lot of doing, but he’s bloody well doing it.
- He asks you point blank if your hair color is natural and then when you inquire as to why he asks, he tells you it doesn’t look it.
- When he says he had a great time and asks to see you again, you find yourself smiling nervously and placatingly explaining that he’s really nice but reminds you too much of an ex-boyfriend, and skeedaddle feeling mean because it's a boldface lie.
- You then walk alone to Union Square, veer into Virgin Mega Superstore, and wander around aimlessly for twenty minutes clasping Ultimate Manilow to your chest before being kicked out at closing time.
- After taking the L to Williamsburg and queuing up to take a cab home from there, you recognize a boy who once flirted with you half the night and then effed your friend, and then never called her back. You bum a cigarette just so you can look him in the eye and try to make him feel a little uncomfortable thinking about where he’s seen you before. You’re disgruntled, so why should he feel good?

the words spilled out effortlessly at 11:40

Friday, March 22, 2002

I think my life is overcomplicated by minutia.

An example.

I stood motionless in the shower this morning for almost a full minute trying to decide which of the six shampoos in my bathtub I most needed to use today. I currently employ, on a regular rotating schedule, a lavendar bar shampoo, a soymilk shampoo, a tea tree oil shampoo, an antidandruff shampoo, a conditioning cherry bark shampoo, and a camomile shampoo. And I stood there and I realized that possibly, having six shampoos may be considered excessive by some. I also have three toothpastes, two hairsprays, an uncountable number of moisturizers which I never use anyway, five half-used deoderants (and I think some of them must be at least a year old)... how have I become so fettered by products, so muddled by the process of selection? How can I save myself from further decline? I can't help but wonder if this daily round of decision-making is possibly using up brain cells and thoughts and time that could be put to better use elsewhere, perhaps in asking myself "How I can help the world today?" or "What can be done about the political situation in South Africa?" or "How can I better myself?" etc. Instead it's "Was I dandruffy yesterday? Need I use the Head & Shoulders? But... I want to use my new lavendar shampoo bar, imagine! a shampoo that's a bar!... although, I haven't used the soymilk in awhile, and maybe I need that little extra bit of fortification... ah, but the camomile smells so good..." etc. I am the ultimate consumer. On top of that, I am the most ineffective parer-downer-of-options you will ever meet. For the sake of maintaining your interest, I won't even toe the line on the subjects of my struggle with selecting clothes to wear, choosing what cd to put in my Discman or what reading material to carry, or deciding whether to make myself peanut butter and jelly or cheese and mayo for lunch... just know that in the day to day, these frivilous dilemmas are my crosses to bear.

By the by, I went with Head & Shoulders today.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:48

Thursday, March 21, 2002

Well, well, well. After four months of anticipation and a week of vacation, here I am again. Nought but a lump in a chair at me old desk, surrounded by the variety of mundane, muted-toned items which band together to snuff out my enthusiasm day after day. Stapler. Hole punch. Author photo of E. Lynn Harris. Tape roll (which somebody used in my absence and did not put away!). Italian phrase-a-day calendar still set on March 11, my last day here before being carefree for a glorious eight days... and now, oh look, how very appropriate! The phrase for today, 3/21, just happens to be "La batteria e scarica." THE BATTERY IS DEAD. How true it is. It's bordering on awful to be back.

Y'know, I've come to notice a disturbing trend. Some of my daily blog reads are slowly devolving into lethargy. I'm naming no names. It's just, they're consistently so brilliant, and yet the posts are less and less frequent, seemingly less and less inspired... I don't understand. How can a person not nurture their blog as if it were their own child?! I don't know if I'll ever get around to having children, so it's very possible that fuzzy sweater will be It. Still live and kicking in twenty years or so, even. I'll go to weekend picnic parties with my kind and witty husband (who will be thoroughly besotted with me and fuzzy sweater year in and year out, naturally) and sit calm and unruffled by the physical demands of motherhood on a checkered blanket in the middle of a park. I will look pityingly upon my friends, whose jam covered children are crying about nothing to our left and chewing on handfuls of grass and falling down to our right. And the haggard mothers, my dear friends, will turn to look scornfully at me and ask, "so... how's fuzzy sweater?" to which I will reply with a glowing beam, "Just perfect! Perfect." And it'll be true.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:36

Wednesday, March 20, 2002

Cor blimey! And additionally, crikey, cheerio and pip pip, and maybe also how’s yer father for the slags and tarts among you. I’m so impressed with the blogging that has taken place here in my absence, without so much as a nod of fuzzy sweater tutelage or guidance from me… prizops in the hizouse must immediately go out to Sara, Amber, Liz, Meghan, and Jennifer for entertaining the masses in my absence. I am glad not to have to tell any of them to go suck an egg.

This past week has been what I might call a blogger’s worst nightmare. Countless entertaining things transpiring before and around me, (and when I say countless I mean like a hundred a day or maybe even a hundred and fifty sometimes) and no access to Blogger. It’s been the worst kind of constipation. Well, maybe not the worst… anyway. I’ve suffered. But! I had an amazing time, and I took notes! And I’ll even spare you all the eye-rolling dullness of having to listen to me wheeze on in faux English-accented slang, as much as it physically hurts to not do so at this juncture…

It was a reunion, really. The thing about my group of friends in England is that we communicate in a language system concocted almost entirely of inside jokes. Good in many respects, because one always knows the punchline, and one always knows without a doubt that any mention of, say, butt p1ugs or a peacock, will be 1. hilarious and 2. well-received (and if you aren’t laughing now, you clearly aren’t on the inside). There are of course times when a new joke is introduced… primarily after someone has done something to humiliate him or herself. Example: Blond being discovered completely naked after passing out in his room three years ago. Still easy to laugh at that. Example: Ann waiting patiently to pick me up from the station a full day before my flight actually arrived in England. Also most entertaining. Example: myself just the other night, chundering wine over the ledge of a balcony and onto the street below. Embarrassing, yes, and undoubtedly reason for very loud ridicule over the span of the next ten years or more. Blond took pictures. Ah, I love these guys.

So yes, my friends (and I daresay many an English bloke and bird, eh wot wot) enjoy nothing better than to take the piss out of each other. It's a national pasttime second only to footie. Often, they also enjoy a good laugh on the Yanks. “Sarah, do you know anyone named Biff, Cliff, Clint or Peggy Sue?” “Sarah, where do you keep your shotgun?” “Sarah, isn’t that your cousin over there in the bright blue cinch-waisted parka already?” Ha! Ha ha. At times I got quite exhausted by laboring not to fuel the fire by blurting out some grotesquely American phrase, a “whateverrr” or “all right already!” which was totally, like, hard and stuff. I then tried masochistically to join in on the piss take, and then ultimately gave up and scowled crossly whenever someone broke a silence with a faux-American-accented “Hey Sarrr, you’re all that and a bag of chips, uh uh uh honey, go Ricki!” etc. Which always garnered immediate guffaws from all those not blessed with perfect American diction. Which is to say, everyone but me. When I lived there during my junior year, I was among the first to rip on America... I didn't want anyone to know I was American, and even went to some lengths to protect this truth from various barkeeps and people on buses and such, for simplicity's sake. But this time around, being so out of practice left me with little to add, and with few rebuttals that were anywhere near as funny as the actual jokes. Kind of impotent, if you will... hence the crossness.

Anywayz already, it was really wonderful to go back. I have yet to visit my actual alma mater since graduating, because I fear it will be completely boring. But going back to Uni in Lancaster (where I studied as a junior) was really all that I could have expected it to be-- never disappointing, and absolutely good. I left feeling positively about my friendships with the Brits. And also, not in mourning about leaving the way I was last time. Maybe because I realized now that I can’t take it with me, and maybe because I like my life in New York too, and maybe because I know I’ll see my friends again and it will be comfortable and fun next time too. Whatever dude, I’m just totally glad I had the week with them already.

Here’s a story from my journey home that I can’t help but add:

I had to bite my cheek today to keep from smirking suspiciously at the customs lady who asked me if I had any food items. “Just some chocolate” I muttered, feeling naughty. The word “some” here was grotesquely molested, see. Unless anyone can attest that ten Lion bars, five Dove Milk bars, a Galaxy bar the size of a spiral notebook, a purse-sized bag of Maltesers, four Flakes, a Flake Egg, a Wispa Gold and three Kinder Eggs might lawfully constitute “some” chocolate. I bought a separate bag just to carry it all. She let me through, sucker.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 23:17

Tuesday, March 19, 2002

Ms. Sweater’s safe return cannot come soon enough. Upon her re-admittance into the country, when you haven’t got a scooby what Ms. Sweater is meaning by her expat gibberish turn to this brief online course. Or as I call it “helpful hints on how to translate Ms. Sweater when she believes a week gave her a lifetimer’s accent:”

Beginner: Sex sells: even with the book learnin.

Sack. Boy when Ms. Sweater says let’s hit the sack, you are a lucky man. Sack in the UK actually means bed not the Southerners odd way of saying bag.

Sack-it. On the other hand, lady when Ms. Sweater tells you to sack-it about the boyfriend who you love and hate but don’t know what to do about, she is not telling you to go to bed, she is telling you to shut-up. Luckily, Ms. Sweater would never do such a thing. This is just a warm-up.

Back to the lucky boy, screw is an example where Brit slang has met American slang in a dark, secluded alley long ago. Screw here takes on the same slangish ways of the American ‘screw’ your boyfriend, ‘screw you’ when your boyfriend cheats, and ‘screw off’ when he tries to call or touch you again.

John Thomas, think Big Johnson. This term is reportedly getting as old in England as big johnson is here. (How could it not after all the seventh grade boys ruined it with their gym tee-shirts.)

Salmon canyon. God help us if Ms. Sweater uses this in a sentence. Think female anatomy, ugh, this should have been exploited in “The Vagina Monologues.” Damn brits.

That is an unfortunate lead into the next part of the course.

Intermediate: Leave my food alone.

Sandwich. Gone are the innocent days of Ms. Sweater making you a PB&J for a bolgna lunch-time treat. Upon her return, think twice upon an offer to share a sandwich. The dark, evil, elder Mother Country will have corrupted the innocent American into hedonistic pleasures of three.

On the other hand, and this is why you are in the intermediate class now, a sarnie you may accept from Ms. Sweater and you can expect actual peanut butter and bread.

Sharing a bickie is also acceptable and has nothing to do with pacifiers. You can expect something with chocolate chips or peanut buttery morsels. Think Tollhouse or Bickie Monster.

And definitely say yes to Ms. Sweater when she says, “I’ll buy you a bitter.” Put your dosh back in your wallet and expect something similar to Guinness. To be authentic make sure it’s at room temp.

Advanced: Context clues

If you’ve bumped your bonce or fainted ask Ms. Sweater to call 999 or take you to Casualty. When Ms. Sweater is talking to the operator or Doctor at Casualty, impress her with your knowledge of the language of her pseudo native country, Blighty, and say, “Be a good bloke and quit with the accent for now.” She’ll think you are one clever dick. If she continues with the accent then say, “Don’t be a berk the bloke can’t understand you.”

(This will also be an effective means of testing Ms. Sweater’s true time away. What if this was all a scam and she’s in her apartment laughing at her friends on her blog right now? I have heard the next stage of blogger syndrome is when the lines of fact and fiction become inextricably twisted.)

Exercises to practice on others:

Tell someone the truth for once. For example, my co-worker is dumb and I am smart. We are like chalk and cheese.

Tell your British boss you like their pants. They’ll turn red and wonder how you saw their underwear. (This works especially well for female bosses in skirts.)

Please note: excessive use of hyphens is also British English.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 17:51

Blogin’ about blogness on the blog.

My morning silence is partially due to my getting to work at 9 45 and leaving work at 10 30 for a doctor’s appointment. In truth it is mostly due to my fear the blog addiciton.

I knew I would like it. I knew the feeling afterward would have me coming back for more, more, more. I knew I would start taking sick days from work for the euphoric feelings. So I have never snorted the lines offered at parties. Not even the coke offered in work’s bathroom. Nor, for all the dot govs reading in, have I ever inhaled. I mean never more than once a day at any given point in my life.

In preparation for my guest blogspot on Ms. Sweater’s blog, I have begun reading daily. Ms. Sweater’s web of fellow bloggers do not create the web version of Jewel singing from her unedited diary, as I had suspected. I have found great commentary on shitters and other gems of wisdom in everyday lives. (I too am unnerved by “The Waiters” out there too. This is a perfect example of the usefulness of blogging. We need the blog forum to discuss such topics. These people must be warned to not potty train their children the same way that their parents messed them up.)

However just as the blog cause may be, I remain hesitant. Have you ever watched a dear friend go from without the blog addiction to with? Have any of your experienced the pain? Watched their day’s focus change shift forever?

The following is typical of the conversations I have with a dear friend who over-saturated her life with blog:

Me: “Hey friend who blogs, how was last night?”

Friend: “Oh, weird.” [Note the accurate response of the blogger. Those who have not already crafted their evening into an angled essay would only say good, fine, or some other word numb of meaning. This is a positive effect of blogging on the blogger’s mental health.]

Me: “Really? What happened wise friend who blogs?”

“You haven’t read my blog?”

“Uh, well, uh.” [Those without a blog should insert here the same excuse they used for their boss that particular morning.]

Friend: “Oh, yeah. Well, ok, um [so-and-so]’s roommate was there. Very weird.” [Note the clever way in which the blogger begins to manipulate with an adverb. In addition it is important for me to note the facial expression. It is impossible to decipher if the person hooked up with said roommate or if said roommate threw beer on friend who blogs. This negative effect of the blog comes with severe ramifications. Blogger loses vital clarity in non-verbal communication. This de-socialization of social skills occurs rapidly and social interactions become ambiguous.

Friend continues, “Read the blog.” Friend walks away.

You weaken and read the blog. Damn this feels good having written it out, having read friend who blogs' story, having some purpose to this office computer. Damn it. So good. Maybe I’ll set up a page. But I’ll only blog once a month. Yes that’s it. Well once a week, I’ll want to maintain my hook-ups, I mean readers.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 13:54

Monday, March 18, 2002

hi there. this is liz. as today's guest postress, I've changed the name of this here thing. it will be back to normal tomorrow, I promise.
that might be the extent of my guest-posting.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 09:48

Thursday, March 14, 2002

Hello. This is Sara-without-the-h, and I will be your guest blogger for today...

The subject on my mind today is the office restroom. Or rather, more specifically, those different types of people one encounters in the office restroom. I've been asking around and it really does seem as if there is a large array of weird and, in my opinion, totally inappropriate behavior that goes on in this environment. Without getting too graphic (this isn't my blog, after all, and I would hate to tarnish Fuzzy Sweater's rep) I will submit a few examples:

-The Spacehog: this happens when you are in one stall of, say, three. Or maybe even more. This person, for some reason, does not opt to take the stall furthest from the occupied one, but instead chooses the one right next to you. Nobody needs to be needlessly close to a stranger while in the bathroom. (these must also be the people who sit right next to you on the subway three-seater when there are two seats available). I had a friend who took matters into his own hands to combat this: he carried an Out of Order sign, and put it on the stall door next to him. Extreme, but effective.

-The Waiter: when you walk into the bathroom and see shoes there. You then proceed to take your turn in the stall, wash your hands, maybe apply a little lip gloss... all the while the shoes are still there, unmoving; you can feel the tension in the air. Nothing is happening in that stall until you get the hell out of there. I tend to get a little sadistic with these people and take an extra long time before leaving. Just to see if maybe something will happen. It never does.

-The Chatter: a virtual stranger, or remote acquaintance, who chats you up at the sink. Or, worse, as you head into a stall. Sometimes even about work matters. I submit that the bathroom should be a little oasis from the rest of the office, a place where you do not have to make office-y small talk or discuss work. You should be able to be as antisocial as you like.

-The Endless Roller: (this is secondhand info from the boys' side): When someone goes into a stall and you hear the toilet paper rolling, rolling, rolling. To an extent where there is no possible way anyone could use that much paper. Is it just because it's there? Something to do? Stocking up since there's no Kleenex on your desk? Nobody can figure this one out.

more classifications to come, hopefully...

the words spilled out effortlessly at 11:08

Wednesday, March 13, 2002

What the Radio Will Teach You if You Let it
(or, I Have Recently Begun Listening to NPR Every Morning):

The price of pay phone calls is going up to fifty cents in order to compete with cellular phones. (Not sure how raising the price encourages people to use them, but what do I know about economics). Callers will, however, now have unlimited talk time, thus saving them having to hear that nasal operator-voice whine “Please deposit an additional twenty-five cents now.” Here’s my question: Who really needs unlimited talk time on a pay phone? I mean, do people actually have hour-long heart-to-hearts while trying to compete with traffic noise and fending off the homeless people who now know you must have change?

And I don’t know what the pay phones are like elsewhere, but here in New York they are often gum-coated, sticky, barely functioning and with frayed wires exposed—in short, they are to be avoided at all costs. If you must make a pay phone call, it is advisable to talk quickly while holding the receiver as far away from your mouth and ear as is possible without completely missing what the person on the other end is saying. So I am confused by how this change is going to affect anyone positively, as well as grateful for my trusty (albeit expensive) cell phone.

There is no moral to this story. If you were looking for one, I am sorry to disappoint. It’s a for-informational-use-only kind of day.

Regards,
Jackie-o

the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:57

Oh man, guest-hosting. This is not the first time I have been asked to take on such a daunting task, but it is the first time I have been assigned a particular day during which I am supposed to come up with something clever and interesting and capable of keeping dear Sarah's readers from being horribly disappointed. Wouldn't you know it, but today just happens to be the day I am fresh out of things of substance to say. You don't believe me? Well, I have proof. I offer you the following list:

Rejected topics for today’s guest post:
*Why the ‘Malcolm in the Middle’ theme song is running through my head
*What exactly makes the Caribbean rice salad from the cafeteria ‘Caribbean’ (it tastes like plain old rice and beans to me)
*Last night's weirdo Buffy episode
*The compulsive throat-clearer who sat next to me on the train this morning
*How much I want new hair
*How bitter I am that Sarah is in England and didn’t take me with her

As you can see, not one of these subjects is worthy of an entry all its own, and so there is just this list for now. Don't you worry though, I'm still thinking. I'll come up with something that'll knock your socks off any moment now. And then you'll be sorry you doubted me, yessir.

Until then,
Jackie-o

the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:10

Tuesday, March 12, 2002

Today Is THE Day!!!! Tonight at 8 p.m. I fly out to England... I don't even know what to say about it. I'm trying not to get too worked up into a lather, but how can I not?!? In a matter of three hours I'm going to put my new mix cd (which is excellent, by the way. My music mixing genius has again held up beautifully to all expectations) in the Discman I had to borrow after mine crapped it last week, throw my dumpy little backpack on me back, hop a bus, hop a plane, hop a train, and all of a sudden I'll be right back there again, in the parking lot of a train station in the midst of a drizzle, looking for Ann. Ann is a large part of my international readership, by the way: hi there, Helmet! I will also get to see Blonde Andy, Plothy Williams, Silas Marner, The Mistry, Taffy, Rottwang (a cat in Lichfield) and Liz... it's been almost three years, my god. Let's hope that by this age, this time around, I've matured enough to not get caught on video puking wine up and down the hallway, or ask random (adorable) British boys if they've ever kissed an American before, or... well, we needn't get too much more in-depth here. You get the picture. After divulging this stuff I shouldn't need add that living in England with this bunch of tossers (and the booze, it was really the booze) helped me find a sense of humor about myself. Kind of a necessity. You know though, a really mature person like myself knows not to make any promises she can't keep. We shall just see.

I guess I'm not afraid to fly. Funny to say that, considering what I wrote yesterday... I'm just not worried. Or maybe it's that I'm always worried, so this little trip is nothing more worrisome than going to work is for me. Perhaps the most important difference is that I don't get all the free drinks I can handle on my trip to work like I plan to utilize on my flight tonight.

You, the reader, may be grumbling to yourself ruefully that Sarah has gone and left you here alone with no provision for your entertainment or sustainment throughout the dull America-bound workday. Au contraire, mon cheres! (er, I don't speak the French)... Au contraire. I've asked some of my favorite writer friends to step in as guest bloggers this week. I won't name them, just in case they forget to do it... wouldn't want them to feel like they let us all down, if they forgot. But you'll like them. I do, anyway. So check in, don't let my absence keep you from fuzzy sweatering... in the meantime, I'll miss you all terribly. Until Next Thursday! Mark the date.

So long, suckers. Cheerio, pip pip, and tirrah for now...

the words spilled out effortlessly at 13:13

Monday, March 11, 2002

I know it's a little passe to fall into the whole September 11 retrospective mood that the media has been concocting... it might be tacky of me, uninteresting, already spoken by someone else... but it's my blog and I'll do with it what I like. Hope you understand. You don't have to read it if you've had enough from all other angles. Here, my somewhat unorganized thoughts.

This morning I found myself on the brink of tears while walking across the bridge to Queens, which took me completely by surprise. I haven't cried about September 11 since I got a phone call through to my mother at 10:20 that morning, and that was just winking back little ones. I think I should not have watched the CBS special last night; I wasn't going to. But it seemed I couldn't not watch it, the sensationalism being too powerful for me to say no to.

So with this on my mind, I was thinking about how I walked across the same bridge going the other direction on September 12th after staying the night in an apartment in Manhattan because I didn't think I could get home. I was even listening to the same song on my Discman that was spinning this morning. Morgan Taylor, Fool Enough.

I may have imagined this, but the brightness of the sun today seemed to mimic the sun that I remember hitting me that afternoon, although of course the air is much crisper now, and the wind isn't warm or full of the smell of burnt synthetics.

Then, I was wearing my long rustly skirt that people have equated to a sailboat's sail and which trips me up, and the red shell shirt that requires dry cleaning and was completely pitted from having been on my body for 30 hours, but which I wadded up and threw into the corner of my closet where I think it still is. Today I'm in a scarf and winter coat, a whole two seasons past.

This morning I kept looking over at the Manhattan skyline and having to look away into the oncoming bridge traffic; I'm not sure if it was a prideful feeling in my throat or a self-pitying one, or pride or pity for everyone else in this city, or all of that together... On the 12th I looked hard at the skyline but felt ashamed to do it, like I was staring at a traffic accident. Because I couldn't figure out where I was supposed to be looking to see the evidence of the buildings being gone. Because they were gone. Finally I did find the smoke. It was further south than I had been looking. I went back up later on and took a few pictures and felt even more wrong for doing it. Now without the smoke there, I can't tell anymore where everything happened.

Every time I walk to Queens this way, I notice how many planes fly so close over the city. This freaks me out. And I think, if I was walking across this bridge one day, it could be any normal day really, and saw a plane hit a building, would it ruin me? Would my brain turn to emotional mush like so many people's did? Did someone see it happen from this point I'm walking over now? Actually, I think this thought every morning.

*

By the time I got off the subway and ran-walked past the wall of missing posters which is still up in Grand Central, paranoid as I often am about the possibility of the whole place being blown into the ground while I'm commuting through it, I was feeling marginally better. Safely nestling back into my avoidant aural pod for now.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 13:59

Sunday, March 10, 2002

jeez, i have so much to do today to get ready for my trip... i have to wash some clothes. i have to pile all the stuff i'm going to pack. i have to first clean my apartment so as to be able to find and wash all the stuff i'm going to pack. i have to pack (i loooove to pack). i have to pack sylvie's vacation bag because she sure isn't gonna do it for herself, and she'll be leaving tomorrow night for mary anne and kadie's roach motel of an apartment. i have things i need to go out into the world and buy. and despite all this, what am i doing? sitting around in my bathrobe watching beastmaster like i find myself doing every sunday. downloading songs. eating cheese. if i didn't know better i'd think i was a guy.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 13:57

Friday, March 08, 2002

so huzzah! i managed to hold out against all odds and avoided my greasy landlord for eight whole days! i really didn't think i could pull it off, but somehow i always managed to not be home, or appear to not be home, when he came knocking in the evenings this week. sure i ate dinner in the dark, and peered out the venetian blinds every time i heard a car park outside to determine whether or not to turn down the tv, but it was worth it. oh, it was so very worth it, because tonight when i finally answered his knock, pleased to have a newly filled checking account from whence to pay out the nose for the privilege of living in this palace, good old Kris took a step back and looked me up and down before barking, "sarahhhhh, you look good!" hm. exactly what i deserve for answering the door in a tank top, some might say... personally, i disagree, and i'll certainly be slipping the checks under the door from now on.

i swear i didn't just log on to post this a mere hour after leaving my computer post at work. i have other stuff i need to look up, important stuff. honest. but ew! ew ew ew. when can i move away from this pit?

the words spilled out effortlessly at 19:07

My night last night? For a Thursday, on earth, in my world, a little weird. See if you can follow me.

Went to CBGB’s to see my favorite local band, MTRG. Mary, Amber, and Kate came with. Another concert-going acquaintance, Dave, was there with some of his people. After the band finished, I took it upon myself to approach the lead singer and tell him of the dream I recently had in which I was perusing a diner menu and noticed that there was a hamburger named after him, and how I thought it was surely a sign of great successes to come. I also suggested that he rename his band Morgan Tayl0r Burger. He stared at me and I could see he was trying to think of something polite to say in response but it just didn’t come… I skulked back to my seat, ridiculed by myself.

Momentarily, this other friend, Dave, approached and sat himself down with us. He’s a nice guy, a little quirky but I like quirky people as perhaps you can tell. Well. Within moments of his arrival (and first introduction to the rest of the group, for that matter) he is telling us all about having been a straightedge Christian fundamentalist in college. Hm. I was going to jovially step up and confess with a bashful chuckle that I was a sorority girl (it’s true, people, I’m sorry to disappoint anyone but to love me is to accept my sordid past, no?), but he didn’t stop there. Upon graduating and moving to Sin City and away from the Coalition's womb, he became a bitter nonbeliever, a cokehead, and an alcoholic in rapid succession. Then he found himself again and is fine now and going to get a tattoo to symbolize his reemergence. Truly though, it wasn’t the truth that took me by surprise, it’s that he told it to us completely unprompted, and that I don’t even know him very well. It was a big, weird confessional. Or, as I interpreted it, rather like a peacock showing off all his feathers, only they're really muddy.

Anyway. Dave left, and we hung around sucking in yet more fumes and unsavory CBGB’s air particles because Kate’s boyfriend was going to meet us there. I’ve never met this guy before; he is often referred to by Kate as "Psycho Danny". As we’re waiting, she proceeds to try to convince me that he and I would make the perfect couple! (an aside to Kate: I’m not exactly making fun, but you know I think this is v weird). I don’t know if she was serious, but he was definitely cute, and for that I can deal with psycho… maybe we can work out a deal?

so that was my Thursday night. Oh... I also drank whiskey on the rocks. I'm never very good at sticking to self-imposed restrictions like that, or learning from my own mistakes. So what, who is?

the words spilled out effortlessly at 12:49

Thursday, March 07, 2002

Regarding the blank email I mistakenly just sent when trying to forward this, here are the responses I received within seconds from various witless friends:

Mary: really? that's what i was thinking
(hi-larious!)
Daniel: Hmmm... Is this some sort of avant-garde art project about the meaninglessness of electronic communication?
(a true wit!)
Kadie: facinating [sic]
(why aren't you people doing stand-up?!!)
Liz: if you're trying to say "I love you" without words, it's all right. I already know.
(This is true; I do love her.)
Ah, and from Laura, a blond joke. Everyone knows those are never gonna stop being hilarious.

You all are too, too funny. How did I get such funny friends??!

the words spilled out effortlessly at 16:26

You know, I love living in New York. Really I do. It's the kind of place where quirkiness is applauded, a chronically bad dresser can look backhandedly stylish, and one can find virtually any food imaginable being sold in a metal street vendor cart. I've also heard tell of a street paved with gold existing somewhere in the Bronx... a wonderful place indeedy. But. One tends to wonder if it's worth it just to be Here when one learns, all in the same day, that 1. city air pollution is causing more harm to one's lungs than second hand smoke according to some new report (and wherever one goes, the dingy not-trendy-trendy bars, everyone does smoke, often including onesself, being highly susceptible to groupthink pressure and all. Therefore at least twice a week, one is breathing first-hand smoke, second-hand smoke, AND equivilantly crappy other stuff. One also lives down the block from a power plant and various other mysterious smokestacked factories.), and 2. the city is taking another $800, which is to say virtually every penny, off of one's tax refund from the state and all for the privilege of drinking the city's funky-colored water and wading through uncollected garbage (which has included, for the past few weeks, a half-decomposed coconut) on one's way to work every day. And then on that same day, one spends two hours fighting back erratic emotion and swallowing frustration in a jam-packed-with-rude-people H&M just to end up buying some socks, hairbands, and a net bag for washing one's panty hose in. One finds themselves wondering, while standing in line for half an hour, why one doesn't just pack it in and live as a recluse on a compound in Wyoming and order all their clothes and nonperishable dried goods off the internet. One might just do that.

Oh, be still. Of course I'm not going anywhere. The best writers are the broke ones who live in New York. And can't breathe very well, I guess. I'm sure this must be true in some cases.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 10:42

Tuesday, March 05, 2002

A List of Lists I've Made Today
1. Songs I liked the sound of which were played on Morning Becomes Eclectic which I will look up on their playlist tomorrow or the next day. And then of course, download.
2. Clothes to pack for my trip to England (!) next week (3rd Revised Edition).
3. Things to buy in preparation for my trip to England (!) next week (Subtitle: What I Will Buy For Myself at H&M Come Payday).
4. Items of chocolate to purchase for friends and coworkers when I am in England (!) next week.
5. Chores to do at home tonight. (Subtitle: Chores I Will Now Have To Do Tomorrow Night. I've done none of them this evening).
6. Things to do tomorrow at work (Subtitle: Things I Did Not Do at Work Today).
7. Things to buy with my tax return money if and when it is as bounteous as it promises to be (created after e-filing tonight-- my first time filing on my own. Hooray for me!)
8. Groceries. (List wadded up and discarded after coming to the realization that $3 crumply dollars would not buy ingredients for homemade pasta sauce and ravioli from my organic grocery store).
9. Titles to be discussed in big departmental meeting tomorrow. Which I'm not going to because I'm not high-up enough. It's not like I want to go of course, but do any of those important people ever think to themselves, "Gosh, what darling person made up this list of titles for us? How very nice of her-- and what a pretty layout!" It's the principle of the thing, y'know?
And hey, I think I just added 10. Downstairs neighbors I wish I could knock on the door of, throw rotten fishguts at, and insult their mothers because they won't stop effing singing and it's 11:00 at night and they're just getting louder. Louder!

the words spilled out effortlessly at 23:04

Monday, March 04, 2002

A few days ago I found myself perusing a bookshelf in my local junk shop, and I found this cool old Dictionary of American Slang, 1976 edition. In its way it's very charming. Golly I wish the world still talked like this... or maybe I don't, but still:

Last Saturday night I was hanging out in my local crumb joint sipping on a few mountain dews and enjoying a red noise to the sounds of a grunt iron band when up sidles this rum-dum who was clearly on his way to being laid out on the old juniper juice. I gather he'd dusted a coupla muggles or something too, by the swagger of him. I rolled my eyes and turned away but this gum beater wouldn't take get lost for an answer. Claimed he was from the country, a real butter-and-egg man if you know what I mean. Said he had some ooftish to blow and wanted to take a skirt with him to the racetracks for luck. I thought about running a sandy on the rockheaded dusty butt, woulda been so easy, but I just didn't have the energy. I told him to hop on the first flying bedstead outta town and save himself the trouble. He got up and left in a huff and I later saw him walk out with a forty four name Lulu. I myself later left with a stomach-robber named Stinko who promised to cook me some overland trout. I'm a sucker for breakfast meats.

-- crumb joint: a flophouse infested with lice
-- mountain dew: moonshine, whiskey (aha!)
-- red noise: a bowl of Tomato soup
-- grunt iron: a Tuba
-- rum-dum: A person who is stupid, shiftless, or confused, as if or as from habitual drunkenness.
-- laid out: drunk
-- juniper juice: gin
-- gum beater: a loud, frequent talker
--dusted: smoked
-- run a sandy on: to play a trick on; to dupe
-- butter-and-egg man: A wealthy, unsophisticated, small-town businessman who tries to become a playboy, especially one when visiting a large city.
-- muggle (for you Harry Potter fans be prepared for a shock): a marijuana cigarette
-- ooftish: Money, especially money available for gambling, entertainment, or business speculation.
-- rockhead: stupid person
-- dusty butt: short person
-- flying bedstead: a lumbering but steady airplane
-- forty four: prostitute
-- stomach-robber: a logging-camp cook
-- overland trout: bacon

the words spilled out effortlessly at 23:24

Sunday, March 03, 2002

I’m a wus. I am a big, broke, lazy, wussy chicken wus. I hardly left my apartment today, or spoke a word. I sat here on my bed with the lights off and the curtains drawn and tried not to make any noise, and would you like to know why? The reasons are twofold.

1. Because I really don’t want to have that conversation with my landlord again. The one that has me going, Um, so the heat hasn’t been on for three days, couldja fix that ‘cause it’s been cold all weekend. And he goes, Dzuuruuuh, I just turned it on last night, it’s not working? Huh. Then I smile timidly; he’s silent, expectant. And I hold out my rent check and go, Um, if it’s okay, could you not cash this until Friday? And then he goes, Wellll wuzzawsierlfjfkldsah (he alternates between being a master of the English language and an exaggerated Polish-only-please immigrant talking low and slurry, depending on what’s convenient. I'm not being overly prejudiced; this is what he does). And I smile as winsomely as possible, and he smiles as dourly as possible, and he goes off with my postdated check thinking I’m a stupid American girl and I don’t deserve heat anyway.

2. I can’t escape to Manhattan today because every time I do the Sunday wandering thing, I buy things. And I can’t hang out freely in my own neighborhood today because this afternoon I looked up while sorting my stuff at the laundromat to see, to my horror (maybe that’s too strong a word, but it’ll do), Tom, former-would-be-suitor-who-creeped-me-out-and-led-me-to-stop-answering-my-home-telephone, amble by the window. He doesn’t live anywhere near this neighborhood, let alone have any right to appear in the ghetto half where I live! My stomach revolted. After relocating to the least visible seat in the laundromat, I sat with my hair hanging in my face intently reading last August’s JANE magazine until my clothes finished drying, and then scurried home.

I then spent the afternoon not moving much, watching A Thin Line Between Love and Hate (and reaffirming my total disdain for Martin whassisface) with the volume as far down as it would go, because it was too dark to read. After spending well over an hour deliberating over whether or not to get dinner delivered, and then exactly what kind of delivery I was craving, I discovered that none of the places I have menus for accept credit cards. Or IOU's. But by this time, the frenzy for food prepared by someone else was so great that I simply had to have it. It’s rare that I act on the desire for takeout but today of all days, mi estomago lo manda. I jacketed up, pulled a cap down to my eyebrows and walked quickly to get cheap Thai food at OTT, glancing furtively at every passing person and wishing for invisibility. Ultimately I made it there and back without Tom incident… only to spy the landlord’s van in the street as I arrived back at home. So I snuck back in and ate in darkness. I sit in darkness now. This day sucks, is what I guess I'm trying to say.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 19:35

Saturday, March 02, 2002

How to Know When It's the Right Time to Stop Drinking Jameson's on the Rocks
by Sarah

1. You have to ask your friends if you fell down at all last night, because you can't remember yourself but you think you might have because you do remember being close to the floor for a period of time.
2. You vaguely recall belting out the ShopRite commercial jingle (not forgetting the "doot doot doo doo" flute part) in the middle of a nice, crowded watering hole. Always fresh, always for less.
3. You have a mysterious bruise in the middle of your forehead which no memory you hold of the evening can explain.
4. You might as well have hovercrafted home, or been spirited by fairies, because you don't remember the trip at all and are quite amazed you made it back at all. You do know it was right before the birds started singing.
5. You apparently popped in your Dolly Parton CD when you did get home.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 15:36

Friday, March 01, 2002

A few things that have made me smile to myself since yesterday.

-- On the train last night, I was straphanging next to a well-dressed man my father's age who was reading Winnie The Pooh. I supressed an outright beaming smile, and in glancing around to see if anyone else might have noticed my small glee, I saw that the older man standing on my other side was reading one of those little porn cartoon books, with a picture of some naked toon woman scaling the side of a building. The contrasting influences on either side of me made me giggle the rest of the way home.
-- I had two songs ribboning through my mind off and on yesterday. One was "Babes in Toyland" (I don't mean the band), which I recall from the old TV movie starring Drew Barrymore and the esteemed Keanu Reeves , and the other was "Little Bunny Foo Foo".
-- In cleaning out my ad files yesterday I came across one we ran a few years ago in a publication called "Prison Times". Pah! What would this magazine offer its readership? A steamy "Letters" section, perhaps... fashion spreads? Personals? Soap carving techniques?
-- This morning I ran to catch the subway (as usual) and abruptly found myself standing next to my mystery subway pal, Cute Unshowered Guy With the Hoodie Jacket and Red Lunch Bag. We meet up almost every day on the bridge, though we have never spoken... except once in my neighborhood I waved a piece of pizza at him as we passed each other on Manhattan. Anyway I thought he was gone, haven't seen him for a week or so. But he's still around. The constancy, and the daily mutual recognition of each others' presences ( by way of barely perceptible nods and glances at shoes), are both reassuring to me.
-- Today in our slush pile meeting, I came across several letters and manuscripts of mild interest, if only to me and others who enjoy a good laugh at people with dumb ideas' expenses. One Bell Jar-ish novel's cover letter included the sentence "I consider my manuscript to be like The Titanic of mental illness, if you will." Another promised evidence and truths about half-alien children roaming the mountains of Japan after a UFO crash there in 1947 which the author witnessed personally.
-- In the past hour, I've listened to #7 on Elliott Smith's XO (Bled White) approximately six times in a row. Looove this song.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 15:43