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Tuesday, April 30, 2002 i've spent much of today not doing anything at all. i went to work and sat at my desk, but i don't really know what i did for seven hours. well, six and a half, i left early. i didn't even blog, and i didn't really email anybody, or at least not as fervently as i usually do. i pretty much just sat there. i did sign for a few packages, i guess... hey, you've never seen me do boring, have you? i'm always so zippy and exciting for you guys (implied: ha). well, not today. so i just decided, i'm going to tell you some of the most normal, boring old stuff about my day. i had a bit of a tough time choosing what to wear today. lots of my favorite clothes are in the dirty laundry bag. on the one hand, my purple shirt was very cute. but short sleeved. it might have been too cold for that, i thought. but my black v-necked sweater was cat-hairy. i wanted to wear one or the other. i picked the purple. i had a thought in grand central. i wondered, why don't i ever see banker guys carrying plastic grocery store bags with their lunches in them? well, i answered myself, it's because they make enough money to buy their lunch at cosi every day. or maybe they cram food in their briefcases so they don't look poor and tacky. my bag said cosmetic boutique on it. i had put a tuna sandwich inside. i made it myself. i mixed in corn, curry powder, onion, cracked pepper, and mayonnaise. on wheat. turned out lovely. mary came back from england today. she brought me a small tub of lotion that smells either like lemon creme pie or like cookies, depending on whether you ask me or amber. it's nice stuff either way. after work i went to TGI Fridays for nachos and margaritas. i went with liz and the visiting eric after work. he brought a guy named oliver with him, and i spilled globs of sour cream and strawberry margarita on my lap. at the organic grocery store, i bought hummus, hand-ground peanut butter, carrots, pita, soy milk, paper towels, toilet paper, and cherry 7up. my brother is coming to visit this weekend and these are some of the things he likes. well, we all like toilet paper. last night i watched frontier house on pbs, and the rich family from california wouldn't stop bitching about the lack of toilet paper and having to bury their makeup and face wash and herbal essences under a tree after they got caught using mascara. right now i am watching gilmore girls and playing literati on yahoo. some of you may say it's a step in my plan to become more and more like bill but really, it's not. sometimes i get annoyed, because no one could ever talk as fast as lorelai and be funny in real life. she's not always that funny on the show anyway. i called my friend mer just now but she was at wal mart in fort worth. every time i call her she's in the checkout line at freakin' wal mart. she's never shopping anywhere else! she is going to call me back soon. i just boiled some water and made lime jello. the words spilled out effortlessly at 21:19 Monday, April 29, 2002 i guess it's been awhile since i laid out a nice, fresh pile of (what i consider) interesting websites aimed at bettering the awareness of my readership... so while i'm feeling lazy today, here's a little cross-section of hot spots you might enjoy. some have been linked for awhile at right but i've neglected to acknowledge them there before now. it's a random assort, you'll see. a little of this, a little of that. a little bit ooh, a little bit ahh. you might as well get the "little bit eww" out of the way first: ooh, mister president... ...and then move on to the better stuff: niccola the sagbottom home for wayward girls eben.com now wash your hands this IS a tasty burger! watching expired appliances align monkeybrain rathergood la pagina oficial de Huey Lewis and The News girl least likely kevin mcginnis dot com the words spilled out effortlessly at 15:53 Sunday, April 28, 2002 pants. yesterday was beautiful. everybody on the streets was saying so, walking leisurely, holding hands, singing with the street entertainers, beaming at the sky... yes, for a saturday in april, climate-wise and even street-odorwise, it was just about perfect. personally, i chose to squander this perfect day away shopping for pants. i had this notion that it was time i bought a nice, classy pair of black work pants and perhaps retire some of the tired old regulars, being that the bulk of my trousers are worn year-round, are marked with dubious food stains, and haven't exactly been "work-appropriate" for some time now. so, finally, off i went with my mind on slacks. i was to hit all the big places in my price range and one rung up from it-- j. crew, the gap, banana republic, h&m, urban outfitters,and a few of your other standard hot pants spots. it would've been a boyfriend's worst nightmare, had i a boyfriend and had i elected to drag him with me (believe me, there were plenty of other charge-it-please women towing grumpy baggage along). it was hard enough for just me. destination no. 1: the gap struggling to pull up the leg of a very ill-fitting pair of pants (as gap pants always are on me, as I always forget), i heard a woman in line outside my dressing room ask a sales girl, "i haven't been pants shopping in years. what exactly does boot cut mean?" to which the sixteen-year-old girl replied loudly, "Well, y'know, it's kind of like a flared cut... a little like a lowrise... y'know, but less like that." very helpful like. i left, determined to strike gold in next store and to not ask any Gap staff member for help, ever. destination numero dos: anthropologie i'm sorry. i just can't accept that short pants are back for yet another summer season! i haven't bought any to date and i really don't see it happening. they remind me of my elementary school librarian, a woman who wore calf-length kulots year-round and will live forever in my memory as one of the worst-dressed women of the twentieth century. i'm standing tall through the hottest days in my toe-topping full-length pants, thank you very much. i left feeling parched and scowly. destination three: j. crew linen is in again? i'll pass. anything requiring ironing and quarter-hourly wrinkle maintenance and sweat checks will never make it into my closet. my mother wears linen. the intensity of pants search quickened ever so slightly. i foresaw a long row to hoe. destination #4: banana republic this place was a madhouse as mad as a mental institution full of vicious upper-middle-class white women. i cranked up the walkman at the door. still, amid the chaos i was flushed with relief to find that this store, halleluiah, has racks and racks of pants! full length pants, made of cotton! i filled my arms with pants. the thing is, b.r. has this new marketing strategy. they've NAMED all of their pants. martin, lauren, janice, hugo... i dont know, a whole host of pants with names. the dressing room is filled with a chorus of "i want a martin 4... a lauren 6 long... a martin 10 petite in gray." ultimately, i found myself sufficiently satisfied with a fair enough pair of trousers name harrison and went to queue at the register. i looked at the price tag. $88. reasonable... but did i like them that much? i so wanted to like them, if only so i could go home and rest my aching dogs, but the answer was simply no. i didn't. i stomped next door, aiming to trod on any heel that happened to get in my way. destination 5: h&m banana republic's slutty underaged second cousin. here too were many pants. a plenitude of pants, of varying ugliness and short-waistedness and triple-buttonedness and bedazzled gemstone decoration. in my mind was ringing the voice of my friend kadie who once flatly informed me that chinese slave children make all of these clothes. but i manage to convince myself that if this pair of pants (and about six shirts, skirts, and a jacket) fit me, then their toil won't be in vain. unfortunately for them, my ass looked weird in the pants so i just dumped it all, had a moment of silence for my sanity, and continued on. urban outfitters i realize something standing in the front entryway of this store. like a flash, like reality kicking in. i realized that i don't actually WANT fancy pants. i want pants that are comfortable, cheap, and my style (which is in a nutshell, comfortable and cheap). not harrison's style or my dumpy elementary school librarian's style. so i marched right to the back, slung a pair of black dickies over my arm and paid for them without a doubt in my mind. i left feeling delerious. it was hour five. if i was to take these dickies home and find dirty kleenex wadded up in the pockets, i still wouldn't even think of returning them. satisfaction! the words spilled out effortlessly at 18:09 Friday, April 26, 2002 Helpful Hints for Mid-Workday Slinging-Back-Of-Margaritas: Lesson #19 DO NOT tell coworkers the story about the time when you were four and you did a number two in your pants at your friend's house because her grandparents were old dumb crackers and wouldn't give you any toilet paper. DO NOT let a sudden surge in confidence allow you to rip on your boss to aforementioned coworkers, no matter how big a yellow-livered chicken she is. No matter that she won't face her boss and give you back your much deserved overtime rights, or take you out to lunch on your birthday like she did with Paige behind your back. DO NOT go on at length about how stupid people sound when they say "irregardless". Because it isn't a word, but you never know who among your audience might not actually realize this and use it lots, and feel dumb when you point out their ignorance. Because people hate that. DO NOT dart from your friends and into the elevator at work, neglect to hit your floor's button, continue on to the fourteenth floor with an old man in a suit, and remark to him in a warbly, sing-song-tequila voice, "I've never been to the fourteenth floor, heeeeeeheheheee!" DO realize that aside from Malibu, tequila is your least favorite liquor for a reason. Because you cannot really handle tequila very well. Admit to yourself that you should just order a Diet Coke instead. DO understand that just because it's noon on Friday, and just because you did actually complete a modicum of work this week, this does not mean that you "deserve" a two hour lunch complete with cocktails and two bowls of nacho chips. DO recognize that if you hadn't had said margaritas, you probably wouldn't have "seen" a blonde woman on Lexington Avenue doing high kicks against a tree. And maybe there's something a little off in your brain. the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:13 Thursday, April 25, 2002 confessions of a faux indie popster. there are a few things you should know about me before this thing we've got goes any further. all this time i've been thinking i was at least a little bit indie pop... but as it turns out, i'm not at all. at least, it's been alleged here that i have only 24% indie cred. that's about as low as a person who thought she was indie can go, i think. it's bad. i suppose it's been obvious to many of you for some time now. still, i need to make these few confessions here and now [which would have made the dearth of indie-popness obvious to me long ago, had i acknowledged them consciously before now]. first off...i only pretend to know more than i do about most every indie band that comes up in conversation. oh, i lovestereo total! califone! the deathray davies! etc. etc. etc.. sound familiar? all faked. and secondly... i don't know fuckall about most of the bands that slatch or lovelettertypewriter or a rush and a push are talking about. but! i'll still coyly pass the band names on to those of you who i suspect might think me cool to do so. really, my wallet and my attention span just can't support the volume of band and so-and-so's-side-project trivia, and whose-indie-label-is-what information, and countless overt lyrical references that indie pop superbrains are able to ingest. i wish it wasn't so; but it is so. please don't take this the wrong way -- i do really love music. i just don't go out to buy the latest like you do; i... i only download stuff sometimes, and even then usually forget about it a week later. it still doesn't stop me from pretending i know all about them. i guess what i'm saying is, i'm just tired of living this flim-flam sham of a life. [to sarah t., confidential: i am not your exceedingly cool friend who knows a lot about music. i'm a lame-o, just like you.] oh, and also, according to this, i'm not even the eensiest bit emo, either. if this turns some of you youngsters away, so be it. this, i'm okay with. now if you'll excuse me, i'm going to settle in glumly for further living in the overcast world of the un-hip, doomed to wonder as i tap my toe to was (not was)'s "everybody walk the dinosaur"... who's gonna want me now? the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:52 Wednesday, April 24, 2002 take a gander at a dream i had last night. i just cut and pasted it from an email in an effort to save time. i want you to know that. but what do you think it means? ............... i dreamed last night that i was michael douglas (the actor), and that i had found an abandoned child wearing a big baseball cap in a dark casino. i took him around scouting for quarters on the ground so that we could play the slots together. i thought that would be fun for the boy. we found stacks of quarters, it was great fun, but then the boy went off for awhile (i think i was the boy at times too, maybe i went to look for my parents at that point) and when the boy/i came back, i/michael had squandered the quarters and left only a few for the boy to play with. ? the words spilled out effortlessly at 12:08 Tuesday, April 23, 2002 I don't know if you knew this, but yesterday was Free Cone Day at Ben & Jerry's. Jennifer asked me if I wanted to go meet her for a cone when I finished work but I didn't think I was going to make it. I had a pretty shitty day and didn't feel I should do anything but go home and sit. But on my way out of the office I turn serendipitously to Dan and I say, Dan, you wanna cone? And he says, yeah I do. I say, I told Jennifer I might meet her downtown for a cone. Dan says, but why don't we just go to Grand Central? I say okay. We go to Grand Central. We stand in line. The scoop lady's barking at everyone, saying they weren't supposed to be giving out any damn free ice cream. I get to the front and I say, I'd like Chunky Monkey in a cone, please. She says we're only doing One Free Whirled in a cup. I say, but it's free CONE day. She says, if anybody gives me trouble I'll throw the whole damn tub away. I snarl, fine, and take my cup. It's not bad. Dan also gets a cup. Just as he's taken his, the scoop lady makes a face and turns away, throws the tub out and cuts off the rest of the line. Dan and I scurry outside with our scoops right quick and stand and eat on the sidewalk. I finish first. He says, I bet downtown they're giving cones away. I don't know if I believe it but I got nothin better to do so we take the train downtown. I call Jennifer. After an audible gulp, she says, hey! I say, are you eating ice cream? She says, no! No. We quickly plan to meet and get in line for our free cone. The line on 3rd Avenue is ridiculous. We stand and wait and wait. As Jennifer answers all our questions about variety and scoop size, the truth becomes apparent: Jennifer actually has had another cone. She lied. The audible gulp I heard was in fact the last bite of her first cone! But it's okay, it's okay okay. Because now we're all on equal ground, ice-cream-consumption-wise. I joke that I could handle a slice of pizza afterwards. We all laugh. Shortly, we are all eating large mounds of Peanut Butter Truffle ice cream on cones. Grand Central don't know shit, we said. It was divine. I finished first again. Dan then departs to walk off a little of the sugar, and Jennifer and I catch the L to Brooklyn. En route, I look her in the eye and say, you know, I really could go for a slice of pizza. Say from Williamsburg? She looks me in the eye and says, Yes. I really could too. We are brazen in our gluttony. Keep in mind, the two of us are hardly hefty German fraulines. We're what you'd call normal sized, even smallish maybe. Not a hollow leg between us, either. In Williamsburg we trundle off the train and head directly for the place on Bedford. Every slice looks better than the one before! We settle on mozzarella, tomato and basil. We eat every lovely morsel. We love ourselves for letting it happen, appreciate each other for supporting our own lavish face-stuffing. Looking outside, it seems to have started to hail! Alas, there goes that walking-home-after plan... no matter. We part, and I go home and lie motionless on the bed, feeling greasy, prone to instant heart attack, and ultimately satisfied. Today, I'm eating carrot sticks. But I think if you're worried about my health after reading these last two entries, it might be justified. the words spilled out effortlessly at 12:49 Monday, April 22, 2002 Without any sugar-coating, here's a synopsis of my Sunday. 5:00 a.m. - Collapse into bed fully clothed and with all lights burning brightly. 12:30 p.m.- Awake abruptly. Pain descends slow and sticky, in the way that people do that "crack an egg on your head" massage technique. But say it's with a real egg. A rotten one. A rotten egg that's been floating in motor oil for a few days. And then is rolled in dirty cat litter. And then is cracked over my head. I cannot move. I can only moan. 1:00 p.m. - I open my eyes. I roll myself over slowly to glimpse at the clock, thinking it will read "7:30" or some absurdly early hour. It certainly feels absurdly early. It is 1:00. I have a haircut at 2:00. I will make it. 1:10 p.m. - Standing. Not puking! Very good. Smelling myself, I realize I may have smoked a few too many cigarettes last night. Later I will find an empty pack in my purse where earlier last night there had been a brand new one. 1:12 p.m. - Kneeling. Puking. 1:25 p.m. - A last minute decision to change out of last night's shirt has saved me from additional nauseum, but the sunlight is almost too much to bear. Thanking god I bought a pair of shades last weekend. 1:30 p.m. - In the Acapulco Diner, I order an egg and cheese roll to go and grab a Vitamin water. I hold myself up against the counter. I ask the waitress to please put the ketchup on the sandwich for me, but she doesn't hear me. This is because I didn't actually say it out loud. I can't form the words. 1:35 p.m. -Waiting for the bus outside the vagrant hotel, I feel a familiar urge and I don't even fight it. I lean and vomit into a trash can. It wouldn't be the first time this trash can has seen spew, this is certain, but for me it feels like a new low. A nice couple comes up to ask me about the bus schedule. I can only shrug and hope they don't see anything on my face. 1:45 p.m. - I eat the sandwich. It stays down. God bless egg and cheese, I mean really. 2:00 p.m. - Stagger into Mousey Brown for my cut. When asked how I am doing, it takes me ten seconds to form the words "hung over". I am handed a glass of water. Kelly seats me, asking me what I want done. I gesture vaguely, notice that the whites of my eyes are almost completely red in this harsh light. An hour later, I have a new haircut. A nice one, though nothing like what I had pictured yesterday. Kelly says I have nice eyebrows. 3:15 p.m. - After standing in Stroll In Video for twenty minutes trying to find Say Anything, I finally pick another movie and go to pay. He pulls up my account, tells me I have a "balance". The balance is $28.00. It's been there since September. I spit out a few expletives and hand him a ten, leaving without videos and thinking bitterly to myself that he'll see his grave before I pay him the other $18, or ever set foot in there again. I also took two candies from the dish on desk just out of spite. 3:45 p.m. - Walking towards home, I spot my subway buddy coming my way. The subway buddy I've seen regularly on the bridge and at the train stop, who I always like to think is my kindred traveling pal even though I don't know him. The same subway buddy I collided myself into last night around 3:00 a.m at Union Pool and talked at deleriously for an hour or so, in which time I revealed myself to be something of a stalker. And also a drunken mess. We stop to talk, and he is actually very nice. I leave, nonetheless embarrassed. 4:00 p.m. Lying in my bed again. PBS. A show about Chinatown cuisine. I do not vomit. 5:00 p.m. I find with delight that a Pauly Shore movie is coming on. In the Army Now. I watch the whole thing. 7:00 p.m. I watch another WB Flix on the Frog flick, Can't Hardly Wait. It's like somebody knew I'd be lying here immobile and scheduled these wonderful hangover movies instead of the usual lame ass stupid Martin Lawrence crapola. 9:00 p.m. I am too exhausted from the day's activities even to turn off The Jamie Kennedy Experiment. It's that bad. 11:00 p.m. Have managed to prepare and eat a meal, brush my teeth, wash my face, and change out of my jeans and into a pair of flannel jammie bottoms. Now at last, I can go to sleep. I'm still hung over now. the words spilled out effortlessly at 11:14 Saturday, April 20, 2002 Absurd News Blip of the Day: "Bush Tells Mideast to Choose Peace", according to the Yahoo. I think this is hilarious. As if allllll this time, these people have been suicide-bombing the piss out of each other and waking up in a nightmare world, looking surreptitiously over their shoulders just waiting for America to look sternly upon them and ask them to play nicely, and now they'll cut it out. The article was more or less more of the same. Okay, I only skimmed it, and yes it's one of the few articles I've even looked at recently having to do with the Mideast stuff. I am not up on these current events, nor am I ever up on any. But still. The article was clear on the fact that nobody over there has taken heed of anything Bush or Powell have said to try to slow the struggle. If I may say so... duh. The pomp and circumstance and attitude our government puts forth to the world is just silly. Don't sweat, this is a one-time thing. I'm not getting all political on you... I'm the same old Sarah. Proof: I've done nothing but watch National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, sewn half a patch onto a bag, and googled my own name today. Now I'm thinking of showering. the words spilled out effortlessly at 17:14 Friday, April 19, 2002 So this weekend I'm going on a little trip. I've packed myself a small bag, and at 7:00 tonight I'll be hopping on the back of a motorcycle in Jersey City owned by a former roadie for Tina Turner. After gunning the engine, we'll veer off into the sunset. Once I reach Kansas City [estimated arrival time sometime tomorrow afternoon] I'll be jumping on a small, chartered bi-plane in the middle of a field of jicama, destined for Aruba. The flight should be a smooth one, what with the illegal high-octane fuel and stolen engine we'll be using, and really I'm quite looking forward to learning how to fly... although the pilot of the plane speaks only Innuit so it may be rough going at the start. Fortunately, I did spend some time in a prison in Newfoundland in the early 70's, so I reckon it'll come back to me right quick. Arriving with the brilliant morning sun, I will hit the Aruban beach for approximately four hours, roast myself into an all-over golden tan, drink a few Mai Tai's, and perhaps befriend a stray beach dog or two. I'm bringing a frisbee, of course. I never travel without one. Come afternoon, I'll wander to the edge of town, meet up with a few locals and get involved in a game of pool. I always play for money. High stakes. And when I run out of money, I'm in trouble. Once this happens, I'll have to make a break for the door, where I'll find a junky moped belonging to someone named Pablito leaned against the wall. Tooling off stealthily into the brush, head down, I'll soon find myself surrounded in the pitch black dark of night by snakes and other tropical wildlife, the likes of which could kill a person with a mere glance. Fortunately, I'll be carrying my anti-venom kit. Also, some of the tactics I learned while studying at the Shanghai Poisonous Animal School will be useful. Here, I will sleep uncomfortably in a bed of tall grass. Once daylight is upon me, I'll have to be more careful about making my way to shore, where I'll sneak into a covered rowboat tied to a pole, paddle to the awaiting tugboat two miles offshore, climb the rope-ladder on the north-facing side, and nap leisurely on-deck until the boat arrives in port at Miami. Once there, I'll take a taxi to the airport, fly to La Guardia, take another taxi and be home in Brooklyn. Then I have plans to meet my friend Kelly for dinner. God, it's always such an ordeal, picking a restaurant with her! I'm so not looking forward to that. the words spilled out effortlessly at 17:51 Thursday, April 18, 2002 Below, a typical scenario: As I passed Erika going into the ladies' just now, she flashed me her signature perky smile and squealed "Hey Sar, how are ya?!" Even though we sit on either side of the same cubicle wall, we never really talk much these days. Ah! How nice, I thought, to have a second to catch up and procrastinate in the bathroom! But as the gracious response escaped my lips, "Nothing much! How 'bout you?", I discovered that Erika was already three bounds down the hallway, having let the bathroom door thunk quietly closed behind her. Hereby providing the perfect example of a bone I now intend to pick. Below, a rant: I sometimes feel I'm the last dinosaur, the only one in the world who is bothered by this habit people have of walking towards an acquaintance at full speed, asking uber-enthusiastically "What's up?!" or "Hey!! How are you?!!!" and then zooming off obliviously, not awaiting or expecting any response. It's the new "Hi", I guess. Well, not so new, but you know what I mean. But... these are questions, aren't they? Even when it rings flat and uninterested, like "Hey, what's up." Asking someone how they are, that's technically an inquiry, I'm fairly certain. Right? So in my mind, it goes to follow that the question should be answered with at least a quick "I'm fine, thanks"... and I always respond thusly. Even when I know they're not expecting a literal response. Even when I find myself answering to the copy machine, or a wall. Am I alone in this struggle? I mean, me, if I don't really care how someone I pass is doing, or if I don't have time to stop and chat, I just say hi and keep walking. Or, alternatively, if I DO care how they're doing, I will say, "Hey, how are you?" and THEN, folks, I wait for a response. This makes me the old woman on the subway who doesn't understand why young ladies these days wear such garish makeup, or the stodgy next-door-neighbor who blames the advent of cable for the death of good manners. Regardless, I will uphold this struggle until the rest of the world comes to its senses and stops with this stuff and nonsense, by jingo! Oh, and henceforth if I don't ask how you are, I guess you can assume I don't wanna know. the words spilled out effortlessly at 16:22 Wednesday, April 17, 2002 When I was a little kid, I was special. Beyond the normal "all children are special" slop, I mean. Me, I went to gifted and talented classes! Once a week. The ones only the most bottom-dwelling of geeks went to, yeah. The one that booger-eater Susie and Matt-who-always-stuck-his-head-in-his-backpack-during-class went to, the socially helpless, I-think-I'm-smarter-than-you kids. That was me. Well, not exactly, I mean I always at least tried to be cool... I even had cool in my distant sights at times. The weirdos and I were bonded in apparent-child-geniusness. Our particular brainstorming farm was called Logos. The smart bus was consistently filled up by, most memorably, me and Millicent (a girl with whom I more than once shared the unfortunate coincidence of wearing identical duck sweatshirts with), and Shayne, and Del, and a couple of your other more standard spazzes and ostracized, over-stimulated ten-year-olds. Over the years, every Wednesday we'd hop on the old bus and they'd cart us out to the special school. Out there, we would typically figure a sizeable number of puzzles, write a fair number of stories, draw an alarming number of pictures... in short, it was heaven. The dumb old normal kids didn't know what they were missing. Sure, I had to hang out with Millicent once a week and then pretend I didn't like her the rest of the time, (because to be truthful would have been social suicide... a short plummet for a weird little child like me, but still, a fall I wanted to avoid). And sure, I had to deal with the sniggers of my less cerebral classmates when it came time to quietly shift out of my chair and try to invisibly slip out the door to meet up with the rest of the dorks in the parking lot. And yes, it's true that the moment I glimpsed an outside chance at popularity in the sixth grade and grabbed onto it, I dropped the Logos class like a flaming hot potato. Sadly I have not done a pangram, or written a fairy tale, or even designed a Rube Goldbergian machine used for folding napkins, in simply years. I do still get Games Magazine, but I haven't cracked an issue in ages. I left it all behind. No one from Mensa came crawling after me begging me to stay at the braininess, so I can only assume that my genius had turned out to be not quite real genius after all. No big deal. Over time I have even come to recall with some wistfulness "the old days, back when I thought I was special". Anyway, hem haw, the point I originally planned to work towards kind of doesn't fit anymore, but here it is nonetheless. I have recently been struck with the invention bug. Ingenius ideas! And they seem simple enough, but who exactly is out there making them happen? Nobody. Tell me your world would not be rocked by: 1. apple soda. 2. an easy-listening cd for lonely indoor cats. 3. underwear made of self-cooling fabric, for the summertime. Brilliant, right? I KNOW! If only I had any idea how to brew soda, think like a cat, or create self-cooling fabric. C'est la vie, non? Maybe I'll get some books or something. PS, my friend just told me she saw two men ice skating at Rockefeller Center over lunch today. Apparently they leave the ice out until the end of April. Yes, it is still 92 degrees outside... It's nice to see that they aren't bending the rules just for "Armageddon April" the words spilled out effortlessly at 15:42 Monday, April 15, 2002 Sarah555 : barbara? El128 : hey sarah, what's up? Sarah555 : oh barbara, i've been trying to call you! the scariest thing happened tonight! El128 : what happened? ?? Sarah555 : SYLVIE KILLED A MOUSE IN MY *PURSE*. she nosed around this bag on the floor while i was eating dinner and pulled out a friggin' mouse!!!! El128 : shit! El128 : it was a gift! Sarah555 : i can't believe my baby did that! Sarah555 : i thought maybe she was one of those non-killer cats... El128 : oh honey, she's still your baby, but now she's a mouser! Sarah555 : .... yep. Sarah555 : but she's gonna bring her mouse mouth into my bed! El128 : none of them is a nonkiller. not even my fat, lazy, Soho-born cat. Sarah555 : (i mopped the floor for the first time since i moved) El128 : oh jeez. Sarah555 : yeah but one can hope that the cat never gets the chance, in one's own kitchen, right? El128 : one can hope. Sarah555 : i guess they are all murderers. i'm really glad she was here to kill the thing, because otherwise it would be running around here. Sarah555 : ha, my friend andrea is online, she tells me she just bought a leash and took her cat for a walk. El128 : oh, for a walk? i tried that with jasper a couple of times. most notably at a truck stop in nebraska. Sarah555 : do you have a leash? maybe i could borrow it sometime and see if Sylvie likes it. El128 : Sure, if I can remember where I put it. It might be over at Bec's place. I'll look for it. Sarah555 : really no big deal El128 : Sometime. Sarah555 : i don't think sylvie is a walking type cat, being that she did chew off her own collar El128 : doesn't sound like it. so the mouse was dead? or wounded? Sarah555 : it was dead dead deadsky. El128 : oooh. Sarah555 : no blood though El128 : thank goodness, eh? Sarah555 : yeah. well there's just a little bit of blood in the corner behind the chair. that mouse never had a prayer. El128 : oooh. ... five minutes pass... El128 : ha, mouse mouth. Sarah555 : don't say it! El128 : that's great. Sarah555 : she's in my bed right now! she's tuckered out... aw. even for a killer, she's pretty damn cute. i just know i'm going to forget and mush her and get mouse guts on me El128: she has a deodorizing agent in her tongue. don't worry. she's safe. Sarah555: okay if you say so the words spilled out effortlessly at 21:53 Somebody, anybody, email me. I'm bored. I might not write back, but you never know. Try not to sound too too mentally imbalanced and I just might respond. I might send you a sentence from a book. the words spilled out effortlessly at 16:59 The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles: What the Fuck. An Unsolicited Review This weekend I set about finishing The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles, a book I've been absorbing slowly for almost a month now. I've been cherishing this book, telling everybody about it. Haruki Murakami is one of my favorites; I've read Sputnik Sweetheart and Norwegian Wood in recent months, too. His sentences are so perfect, and his character sketches and descriptions based on the perfect balance of detail and implication... never too much of either. His Japan seems like a place I'd like to go. Granted, his Japan is a twisted alter-reality, but still. And now this particular novel I have been completely besotted with! The layering of story upon story was done so carefully, and the deepening of plot and surreality wasn't so abrupt or Philip-K.-Dickish that I wanted to throw the book down. I really couldn't wait to finish it. What could the outcome possibly be?! Now I may be the only Murakami fan to have ever said this, and perhaps only you Murakami-heads will even care at all, but let me just lay it out plain. I was completely disappointed. I realized at T minus thirty pages and counting that some of the story lines weren't going to be wrapped up nice and neat... okay. I was confused, but I had faith that Haruki would pull things together succinctly, and perhaps even in a shocking manner that stunned and amazed me. I thought, just give me closure for Toru Okada and Kumiko, and maybe tell me why May Kashahara was supposedly so important... and why exactly the Manchukuo thing deserved so much attention... and where the missing cat came in... and who or what Noboru Wataya was supposed to be... and what happened to Creta Kano and her baby. An answer to any of these queries would have satisfied me. But really, in the end, there was no resolution for any of these characters or explanations to their mysteries. Nope, the stories just lopped off at the end. I couldn't believe what my eyes were reading! The way the book was just amputated like that... it was like bad sex. It isn't that I don't trust Murakami now. I would still pick up another book of his, even tomorrow. I still think he's wonderful. I would tell you to read him. I'm telling you to read him. I just don't get why this book is the one people always recommend first. And I really want to know what all that stuff was supposed to mean. Because I'm not stupid. Anybody? the words spilled out effortlessly at 11:34 Friday, April 12, 2002 You know what I hate? Wheeled vehicles. Anything with wheels on it, really. I'm a two-year veteran of full-time pedestrianism, and to me there is almost nothing more annoying than an overbearing bicyclist. Or a driver who peeks his car nose out in front of you at a stop sign even though it's quite clear that you're crossing the street and not going to slow down for him. Or dios mio, a hellion scooterist! Damn all of them and their "get out of my way" handlebar bells and stuff! I just walked some books across the street to our other offices, and in that five minutes was thrown off my path by someone riding a bike down the sidewalk, a man with a large wheelie suitcase, and two turn lanes of cars that didn't seem to care about braking for a pedestrian. And this morning! Walking across the bridge to Queens, I was nearly mowed down by a guy on a moped and a guy riding one of those stupid motorized scooters riding side by side! Where the heck am I supposed to go when they're coming at me tandem like that??? I was livid. I shook my fist at them after they whizzed by but I'm sure nobody saw it. You can't even stand your ground with these people with wheels-- there's no sense to it. They know they can take your ass if it were to come down to a "chicken" scenario. If it means having respect for myself for not terrorizing my fellow travelers, I'll take my bipedal transport any day, thank you very much. the words spilled out effortlessly at 15:29 after just guest-posting to Amber's site, i feel i might not have it in me to put out again today... i don't know, maybe. but in the meantime, go there. the words spilled out effortlessly at 12:20 Thursday, April 11, 2002 Lunch: An Odyssey. 12:40. I discover I have $60 left in my checking account to last another week and a half. I decide to go to H&M. 12:45. After leaving the building I run into Barbara on the street who is frantically searching for the Ratner's soup vendor's tin box, which is not parked where it is supposed to be. 12:50. I arrive at H&M. 1:00. I commence spending $40 on clothes. 1:15. I walk out of H&M with a smart black top for myself and something for my friend Ann. 1:17. In passing a skinny teenaged girl and her mother on the sidewalk, I glance at the girl's face just long enough to see her pause between sentences and casually stick the tip of her own tongue inside her own nostril before continuing the conversation. 1:19. I walk by a church on 5th Avenue and stop to do a double take because I *think* I've just seen Lili Taylor from Mystic Pizza sitting on the steps. After staring gape-mouthed for twenty seconds or so, I'm convinced that I have seen Lili Taylor. And maybe she's seen me too, because she looks uncomfortable and stands up to walk quickly away. Very exciting. 1:35. Back at my building, I hop in the elevator. In the elevator is a young man about my age, clearly a banker. He is wearing a stodgy tie. Momentarily, he begins to whistle and pulls out a large plastic bag full of wrapped colored candies from inside his jacket. He rummages through, spills half the bag, and finally plucks out a pink one which satisfies him. He whistles the whole ride up. 1:38. I arrive at the cafeteria. Despite myself, despite my abhorration of chickeny soups because they always use gross processed chicken, find myself unable to say no to the chicken noodle. Two years I been here, I never had the chicken noodle. I buy some. 1:42. Sitting at my desk, I slurp chicken noodle soup with glee. It's so, so good! It's on my keyboard. My whole area smells like chicken broth and will for the rest of the day. Mmm. the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:17 Wednesday, April 10, 2002 I'm toying with the idea of tidying up my desk here at home tonight, and in sitting here I've come to recognize two things, generally. One is that I'm never going to be the type of person who has a neatly kept desk. The other is that I have amassed a huge cache of junk which I am suddenly quite proud of. So since I'm feeling uncreative but still compelled to blog, I'm gonna list for you just some of the artifacts I've got piled up here before me. - a stack of dubbed tapes that my grandpa sent me, including one by Rosemary Clooney and another by my high school alma mater's jazz band - The Sun: A Novel Told in 63 Woodcuts by Frans Masereel, a collection of postcards in a box, one of which I've attached to the wall above using a binder clip and a red pushpin - 3/4 of a Lord of the Rings box set - a red silk billfold thing I bought last year in Chinatown after I lost my wallet - my current wallet, an orange leather two-pocket number that cost me 50 cents at a flea market in Park Slope - a bag of Scrabble letters; the rest of the game is in the box, location currently unknown - a computer-printed color picture of an ex-boyfriend dressed in drag - a "Double Heather" Garbage Pail Kid given to me by Jennifer [a new and talented blogger of note!] last summer, thus solidifying my undying respect for her - a round-faced, wind-up Diamond alarm clock featuring an owl whose eyes go left to right on the ticks whenever I happen to wind the clock - a lighter from H20 Cafe Bar in Lancaster, England, given to me by my young friend Blond Andy, who serves drinks there - a copy of a self-portrait of Chuck Close, framed, cut from a 1998 desk calendar from the MoMA and propped up against the wall - The Modern Rhyming Dictionary: How to Write Lyrics by Gene Lees, stupidly purchased at the Salvation Army before looking inside - a stack of expired catfood coupons, clipped together and sent to me by my grandma - a pink-handled hammer from my "Little Lady Tool Kit", a Christmas present which I scoffed at but has since come in sort of handy - this tea cup thing I got at Pearl River Mart, decorated with rows of tiny Japanese theater caricatures covering the mug, which has become a pencil cup - a near-dead potted plant - a Petco Pals discount card which I once tried to use to drunkenly charm my way into a bar when I forgot my I.D., which failed to work - a small dish containing 6 AAA batteries and a stainless steel [afterthought correction: sterling SILVER] fortune cookie given to me by Meghan for my birthday - a folded-up Rand McNally map of Australia, full color - a New Yorker cartoon I cut out last week that shows two pigeons waiting for the F train, and one of them is saying to the other, “Wouldn’t it be faster if we just flew to Brooklyn?” which is funny, if you’ve ever had to take the F train. heh heh. also, roughly... a dozen or so bills, both paid and overdue… 34 books, mostly taken from work and... 15 empty cd cases. So there’s me, sort of. the words spilled out effortlessly at 22:44 Tuesday, April 09, 2002 Ahuoy-huoy, as Mr. Burns is wont to say, ahuoy-huoy! This day has hereby been saved!! A hearty and hiccuppy thank you is extended to Meghan for sending me FORTY WHISKEY NIPS AND A BIG BOTTLE OF FINLANDIA VODKA in the mail at work today. Not only do my coworkers think I'm easily distracted by vice to begin with, but they also now have proof (100 proof, har!!) that I'm a first class boozehound. I need a little edge to my rep around here anyway, so cheers to you for that, Meghan. And say, point of fact, Barbara just informed me that I've got sauce. Hoorah for me! I can't speak for the luck you might or might not have in getting nips out of Meghan, so I implore you: don't deluge her with requests. We're related, see. We cuz'ns. If you read her site, you'll instantly recognize the razorsharp wit and clever turns of phrase that imply our superior breed. We can also shoot lasers out of our eyes. the words spilled out effortlessly at 16:42 All Sleep-Deprivation-Derived Problems and Complaints Aside, What Else Blows About Today, and it's Still Before Noon: when i have been invited to go to the rockin' ass I started calculating my revenge around 1:30 a.m., just after I got out of bed to stomp on the floor and the assholes downstairs actually turned the music UP. But some time before I had to get out of bed again at 2:45 to dig around for the three-year-old earplugs I knew I still had somewhere. And before I had to get up ten minutes later to turn on the bathroom fanlight because the plugs weren't really working. And before I had to locate my airplane sleep mask to block out the light from the bathroom. And still yet awhile before I drifted fitfully off to sleep thinking "IHateYouHateYouHateYouFuckwitsFuckwitsFuckwits. IHopeYouOverdoseAndDiePainfullyIHateYou..." A goddamn party on a Monday night?!? If there's a hell and I go to it, it will be just like this. Yes, this time goddamn it, the asswipes in the basement apartment would get theirs. Or at least I'd feel better. I knew what I would do. And this morning, when I awoke with big dark circles under my eyes and a funny stress-induced pain in my neck, what do you suppose was the first thing I did? I repositioned my cd player on the floor at the point above which the noise had been the loudest last night. I figured it surely must have been someone's bedroom, or at least there would be someone passed out there. And then I selected this song (fuzzy) from the Incredible Moses Leroy cd, and I hit "play". And I hit "repeat". And I turned the volume up as hiiiiiiiigh as it would go. And oh, did I sing! I bloody sang like I've never sung before. And it felt so damn good. And then before I left, I plugged the cd player into my vacation lamp timer and set it to play (on full volume, of course) for another hour. I apologized to Sylvie for the disruption, and for the not-entirely-unlikely possibility that the neighbors would break in and string her up by the ears for me to find when I get home tonight. And I left, smiling sweetly to myself. the words spilled out effortlessly at 10:04 Monday, April 08, 2002 It's happened again. Spring, I mean. Stupid old lame ass Spring and its dumb old Daylight Savings Time… y'know, back home in Indiana I never saw the point of Daylight Savings Time. Most Hoosiers don’t much cotton to crazy notions such as time change, or resetting clocks. (Contrary to popular myth, my little smart-asses, we do have clocks- and electricity- in Indiana). Sure, the rest of the world (barring two or three other ass-backward states scattered here and there) follows some cockamamie time-adjusting schedule ordained by the sun which allows people’s days to flow more smoothly with the simple nudge of an hour hand or push of a clock button. Not the Hoosier state. Yes, I'll admit that back home, not switching over meant that I got to watch all the TV shows twice in one night- once on Indiana time and once on Ohio time, since we lived on the border. And I enjoyed that kickback immensely. In perhaps that respect alone, Daylight Savings did have its benefits in a backhanded sort of way… I do so miss that double lineup… but really, what’s the point? So it’s still dark at 7. Big whoop. I don't like what it does to people, this definitive turning of the clock signifying Spring. This very evening I myself was so brainwashed by the fact that it was still daylight when I left work that I went home the long way home through Williamsburg just so I could be outside! Boldly facing the risk that I might miss part of The Simpson’s at 7!! I walked- strolled, even- at an alarmingly leisurely pace up Manhattan Avenue. I swung into the grocery store with seemingly no control over my actions and bought all the stuff needed for a big dinner- pasta, sauce, green beans, salad in a bag, cottage cheese, garlic bread. I found myself thinking, mmm, say, I do want a nice, leisurely meal and not a frozen burrito! I even bought oranges! I never buy oranges. Or any fruit or vegetables really, because they tend to go bad before I get around to making myself eat them. As will these oranges. As I bought them I thought mathematically to myself, normal people buy oranges! I’m buying oranges! Anyone else needing further convincing that the time change is for fools and horses, I prithee, read on. For as I rounded the corner to my apartment I realized- with actual delight, for chrissake!- that I’d actually been Walking to the Beat of “Copa Cabana” for the Past Twenty Blocks. Well, technically, it was “Copa Cabana” in Spanish, the lyrics to which I acquired in 3rd year Spanish in high school. What gives?? All this uncontrollable fruit-buying and singing of Manilow tunes simply won’t do. Give me back my winter of discontent, please. After a night like this you can bet I will henceforth be campaigning my ass off to do away with this ridiculous simpleton’s creation, this Daylight Savings malarky. From there, I guess we’ll see what happens. the words spilled out effortlessly at 22:30 Sunday, April 07, 2002 Sarah and Karl’s Day at the Circus By Sarah Sarah and Karl used to go out, but not anymore. They’re still friends, though. One day they decided they wantd to go to the circus. Karl bought two tickets from Ticketmaster. They met up on the subway and carried on to Madison Square Garden. When they got there, they were met by a rush of sticky, short people wearing clown hats and holding various glowy sticks that spun around really fast. They were the only grownups not carrying small children. The seats were in the nosebleed section so they climbed five flights to get there. Wow, there were lots of people at the circus! There were three big rings in the middle of the auditorium. The rings were very far away from their spot in the stratosphere, but the elephants still looked very big! The ladies all wore glittery costumes. One lady who was swinging from a high swing looked positively naked except for the glitter! But Sarah has good eyesight, and she could see it was just a skin-colored outfit. There were some clowns in the circus, too. They weren’t really all that funny. Karl and Sarah both agreed that the clown car was kind of funny. All those clowns in such a little bitty car! But Sarah and Karl laughed the hardest at the circus hands who ran with shovels and sawdust when the horses and elephants pooped. They noted a dearth of death-defying acts. One guy jumped rope while spinning through the air on a metal thing. Another guy put his head in a drugged-up crocodile’s mouth. At the end, some guy in an orange suit flew out of a cannon. Big whoop. It’s not so scary when you know these guys do it three times a day their whole lives long, Sarah and Karl whispered to each other. The lady behind them was howling the whole time through. Sure, but wasn’t it grand entertainment anyway! Sarah and Karl both bought souveniers. They bought plastic mugs shaped like clown heads with snow cones inside. They cost $8 each. The ices weren’t very good but the mugs were way cool. They commanded respect. Sarah put hers in her bag, but Karl carried his out and onto the subway afterward and people looked at him funny. He pretended that the mug could talk, and Sarah was a little bit scared for a minute. That passed, though. All in all it was a fine day at the Big Top, even without anybody lighting themselves on fire or pulling Sarah from the crowd to throw knives at her in the center ring. A fine time. The End. the words spilled out effortlessly at 23:59 Friday, April 05, 2002 it's last night. mary and dan and i are on the subway en route to mama's for soul food. we are sitting on the F, train talking loudly and obnoxiously as young people tend to do when buoyed by the presence of friends. of course, no one else is talking. we are Those People. roundabout-like, mary tells a story about a family of tourists she saw on the train the day before who were slow to get on the train and then separated by the closing doors, two on one side and two on the other, mouths wide open, silently panicking as the doors opened an inch, and then closed, and then opened again, and closed. mary was watching this scene with a smirk. finally the train took off and left half the family on the platform, hanging there, without having mimed any suggestions as to how they might reconvene with the two on the train. the two on the train hovered around the subway map trying to figure out where they are. Which is near impossible, since it's a convaluded system and difficult for even veterans to comprehend sometimes. They're fucked. mary is beside herself telling this story to us, and we are all three swaying back and forth laughing in that silent wheezy kind of way that one often laughs when a moment is so funny that normal, noisy laughter isn't strong enough. it's so funny that it's too funny. it's not even the story so much as the telling of it that's getting to us. i glance around at the annoyed passengers, and it's then that i realize: we are flanked on all sides by a family of tourists. dad is to dan's left, mom and the kids to my right. they may or may not have heard us, but the thought that they might have, and the tremendous jerkheads that we would thereby have just made of ourselves, is too much for me. i think i might pee my pants. i lean in to mary and splutter out a fragmented sentence about the tourists. she doubles over, practically convulsing. dan needs to know what's going on, but dad is so close that he would certainly hear, were i to whisper anything. he keeps saying "what?!" and i keep shaking my head, still wheezing slightly. he insists,"write it down!" so i take out a pen and scribble on my hand the word "tourist" and four scraggly arrows pointing in the tourists' directions. i give him the raised eyebrows. dan doesn't get what's so funny. the dad is eyeing us as if to say "oh woe, didn't your parents teach you it's not nice to make fun?" the mom is clueless, chattering about going to the world trade center site. i feel quite bad, as well i should. later on we tell dan and he laughs pretty hard about it. the words spilled out effortlessly at 16:47 For those of you who have been waiting with baited breath, anticipating good news... I must tell you now. It's not fair to withhold this from you any longer... I did NOT win the New York nomination for the National Wireless Samaritan Award for my beyond-heroic deeds on September 11 (see January 17) and will NOT be attending the national award dinner in Washington D.C. and do NOT need to write a bashful speech and will NOT have to have an 8"x10" black and white headshot taken of myself. Apparently somebody saved a child from drowning or something. Whatever. But it's a heady consolation, knowing that I am still a hero and goddess to you, my fans and supporters of undying faith. No, no, please no applause! It's too much!! Stop it! Oh, go on. I might get the headshot anyway, just for my own personal enjoyment. the words spilled out effortlessly at 13:29 Thursday, April 04, 2002 Kelli Fox tells me, a Capricorn, that: Control and confidence mark the final days of Capricorn's week. The Universe meets your demands as if trained to do so. Clear the land around you and start building. Shoo-wee!! That's right folks, the Universe is mine mine mine mine today. What's more, I am Controlled, and Confident. Yes. Why, then, am I sitting here in an uncomfortable, non-lumbar-friendly chair complaining to myself about my love life, my outfit, my evening plans, what I had for lunch, etc.? Shouldn't I be glowing with exuberance and power right now? Isn't the Universe supposed to be unfolding itself to me today? She's so rarely wrong, Kelli Fox... OR, maybe she means West Coast time! That gives me least a couple of extra hours in which colossal things could potentially happen for me today. Although technically, I guess I do have until Sunday.... I want it now. the words spilled out effortlessly at 16:10 Wednesday, April 03, 2002 Some things that have truly excited me of late which I now feel compelled to share with the patrons of fuzzy sweater: - The Ladybug Transistor, Argyle Heir. I mistakenly bought the wrong T.L.T. cd at Virgin the other night after first hearing about them from my coworker, Dan. When I came to work cranky and disappointed (because the first cd, Beverley Atonale, mostly blows), he shook his head and handed me this cd, the newer one, which is so delicious! And... in the middle of one song, #10, I was able to actually picture a pretty little ladybug in a sun hat sitting in a lounge chair bobbing her head to a little bitty transistor radio. So they're as good as their name. - Boca Burger (tm) Spicy Chik'n Burgers. I could have eaten the whole box! But I just ate one. But I could've eaten four. They taste just like real chicken patties! But you know they're not made of leftover chicken parts so you're able to enjoy them just that little bit more. - My new bra. Yes, I said bra, we're (presumably) (mostly) mature adults here. It's from the Gap, though I couldn't find it on the website. I've fought the urge to sleep in it, I'm so ecstatic about the dang thing. I know some of you don't care or are utterly appalled by this if you're prudish, but it's reallyreally comfortable. - The designs I created for our launch meeting fact sheets. They are the most unnoticed piece of paper among the thousands that are handed out in the publishing world each season. And yet I am exceedingly proud of them. They might be described as "rockin'" or "bad-ass". - Andy Richter Controls the Universe. Fox has finally done it! They've produced a second show that I'm willing to watch (the first being The Simpsons). Okay, third counting Malcolm in the Middle. Andy Richter is... well, he's still just Andy Richter, but to watch him is to love him. I'm really glad he's doing something good. - Being reacquainted with this game: Guess the TV Sitcom Character or Dictator. Freshman year of college, back when the internet was fresh and new to me and blogging wasn't even a glimmer in my eye, playing this game was what I spent all my "study" time doing. Well, that, and watching TV sitcoms. the words spilled out effortlessly at 15:14 Tuesday, April 02, 2002 A small list of weird and trivial subjects that have come up twice, in completely independent circumstances, within relatively small windows of time over the past week or so which had not, in some cases, even crossed my mind once within the past ten years, if ever: -- VICKI from Small Wonder. 1. In a conversation on Sunday about the merits of robotic-child labor with Ben L. 2. THE NEXT DAY, in an email from Tim, comparing Hayden's early work to Vicki and by contrast, his later work to "barely eating". No, I didn't understand it either. -- Arlene Grocery's Punk Metal Karaoke night, including simultaneous mentions of Journey and Foreigner. 1. In a most excellent post to be found on Liz's site today. 2. AT THE SAME VERY HOUR that she must have been posting, in a lunchtime conversation, over burritos. -- Asparagus pee. 1. Last week, from the erstwhile proprietor of e/a, in a list of his top five favorite smells. 2. LESS THAN FOUR DAYS LATER, in a revealing conversation with Shule on Saturday night about what she ate for dinner the night before, shortly after her return from the ladies' room. -- Emmanuel Lewis. 1. In the same conversation as the first VICKI reference, but after the topic had changed to a discussion about shortness. 2. WITHIN TWELVE HOURS, while talking to Dan about unfortunate but seemingly inevitable downward spirals of some people's lives, especially those of diminutive stature who have been child stars in early eighties' sitcoms. I think there's a name for this phenomenon, uncommons coming up in two's and threes... does anyone else think it must be paranormal? the words spilled out effortlessly at 15:29 don't you hate it when you get to work and realize that the clothes you are wearing are not only dirty, but obviously stained and smelling somewhat less than fresh? this is my cross to bear today. the words spilled out effortlessly at 12:16 Monday, April 01, 2002 Stop me if ya hoid this one before: HOW TO STOP PEOPLE FROM BUGGING YOU ABOUT GETTING MARRIED: Old aunts used to come up to me at weddings, poking me in the ribs and cackling, telling me, "You're next." They stopped after I started doing the same thing to them at funerals. This "yolk" just in from my grandpa to his only still-not-in-a-serious-relationship grandchild, along with the standard and loaded inquiry, "So how's your social life these days?" and the blazing subject heading "Getting married???" Yes, I know... my grandpa is pretty cool. He sends me jokes all the time. Sometimes they're even dirty jokes about nuns and stuff. But in this instance, and in past instances, I can't help but notice the subtle hints... Sarah, dear, when are you going to get serious and find yourself a nice boy? Sure, he and Grandma met and married young and have since had fifty beautiful years together... they still hold hands and laugh at each other's jokes and spend all their time together. It's a thing to envy and be in awe of, really, that they hit some sort of marriage jackpot. Historically, on both sides of my family, it's abnormal to be 24 and not in the family way, I guess. My brother's got this serious girlfriend now, and my cousins are semi- and fully-attached, I'm apparently the last one clinging to the buoy and waiting for my fish in the sea, my ship to come in, my [insert third nautical fate metaphor here], etc. Three down, one to go! So I sense that they fret a little. I know they just want me to be happy... and it'll come. Just. not. now. And then on the other side of this coin is my maternal grandma. I talked to her on the phone last night and was lamenting the fact that I really needed to clean the apartment. To which she slyly replied, "Why honey, are you gonna have a male visitor??" [because a booty call on a hung-over Easter Sunday is really my style...] This grandma has repeatedly compared her vision of my New York life to those of the sexual free-wheelers on Sex and the City, and inferred [never with a wink, but you can sense the wink brimming there just below the surface] , "Oh Sarah, ah understand how things are for you kids these days!" Leading me wonder if her wink-wink, I'm-a-hip-ole-lady attitude is the result of my having mistakenly sent that drunken email about Walt to her instead of Stephanie after a party in college one time... In any case it's becoming increasingly uncomfortable for me to talk to any of my grandparents at all. the words spilled out effortlessly at 13:39 |
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