fuzzy sweater.

Friday, May 31, 2002

half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays half-day fridays

last week was our first one. i celebrated with margaritas and an ill-advised shopping binge.... ah. today's afternoon is going to be less celebratory than perfunctory, though. i lost my social security card about a year ago and just now decided i should maybe get a new one, and report the old one lost. it really wasn't the kind of year you would've liked to have lost your identity card, let me tell you. i also lost two driver's licenses in the same window of time. whoops.

so i'm going to sit in a dingy, un-air-conditioned government cave and wait for my number to be called for two hours, then get snippy with the lady behind the plexiglass partition who insists on mispronouncing my name and demanding documents i don't have, and finally stomp out with my "bitch face" slowly fading away, feeling like i need a scalding hot bath and scrub-down to rid my soul of the filth and hatred it has acquired in this one afternoon.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 13:21

Thursday, May 30, 2002

yes, that's right, i'm ignoring you.

this day has been full of surprises, and i'm just not going to get into them here... job and other. dullsville. it would probably bore the (love?)pants off you, so all the better that i keep these thoughts to myself, even if it means i have to be mysterious.

there's really little else i can offer you, apart from this: www.astro.com. if you go to the section on the upper righthand side that's called "astroclick portrait" and enter your date of birth, time of birth, location, etc., the heavens (via astro.com) spit back this astrological personality profile. and i'm kind of amazed at how accurate mine is... today especially, my horoscope was right on the money. thus making me think twice about ever questioning the power of the cosmos again.

(if you're wondering, i'm a capricorn with a virgo moon and an aquarius ascendant).

the words spilled out effortlessly at 18:10

Wednesday, May 29, 2002

courtesy of slate.com by way of my friend ben, i've just been made aware of this kind of interesting idea. so in an effort to broaden my circle of narcissistic new york city blog-happy pals, i think i will be contributing shortly.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 17:16

Hi, folks. I'm Sarah... and I'm a Television Addict.

For a literate person employed at a great publishing house, it amazes me how little reading I actually do. My apartment is full of all of these amazing books, books I've chosen to bring home, and at least half of them haven't been cracked open. In fact, some of these books are employed as part of a table sort of construct being used to support my television. It has its meathooks so deep into me... it's pretty pathetic. Last night was the first night in months and months that I was able to turn the TV off during prime time. Seriously. It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be, leaving it off once it had been turned off... I know I used to go on about how I planned to stow the thing in the closet, but I never actually got around to doing that. I just need TV too much. And me having no cable makes the obsession even more lame. I can't make myself turn off a rerun of King of the Hill to crack one damn book open? I often sit miserably staring at the screen thinking, what is wrong with me?

Fundamentally, the blame lies with my parents for not forcing me outside when I was a kid, and letting me sit without moving for hours on end on beautiful summer days watching reruns of Eight is Enough and Little House and Kate and Ally day in and day out. I can't escape that legacy at this late hour in the day, can I? I'm stuck in my ruts now. I can blame them for one more thing, it's not like this is going to tip the scale any further than it already is.

I don't know how I managed to finally turn off the TV. Technically I did have to physically turn the thing off off-- I couldn't not watch The Simpsons while I was eating, could I?-- which proved almost an insurmountable challenge. I almost didn't do it. I had to clear my mind first. And then with a flick of the wrist, I had done it. That bitch was off, yo. Lifeless! But then it was so quiet... eerie even. So I fumbled with the radio for awhile trying to find some sort of psychology call-in show, because I'm always fascinated by those things, but I couldn't find one. Finally I logged on to the internet to play some Literati and send emails and do some poking around on job search sites. (see: things I would have done anyway had I left the TV on). In the end, there was no reading, no betterment of my mind... no writing. No blogging, either. I am such a technology addict. Still it takes time and patience and support to beat one's demons. And slowly, slowly, I will gain control. Victoire!

I know, I'm full of crap.

(I just did a quick calculation. I have watched an estimated 39,420 hours' worth of television in my life, based on a 6-hour-a-day average hours watched over the past 18 years. This estimate should allow for days I've spent doing nothing but watch TV and for days when I watch no TV).

the words spilled out effortlessly at 16:13

Tuesday, May 28, 2002

Actually, hold the phone... I will tell you this! I am in love. With Neil Halstead. I've never listened to Mojave 3 before (see, I told you I had no indie cred) and then someone played his solo album for me this weekend... my world was momentarily blown wide open. After which I recovered and promptly fell into a heavenly state of grounded infatuation, complete with daffy smile and music ringing in my ears and all. God, I wish it was this easy falling in love with actual people. That's another, more woeful tale. Neil! Oh, Neil. The cruelist turn of the knife re: my love for Neil is that I have no money to buy this album for myself! I may just have to open the vicegrip on my wallet and take out a credit card. For an emergency of this magnitude I think it's warranted.

By the way, does anyone else suppress a giggle whenever they hear newscasters say "Putin"?

Oh yeah, now we're cooking with Crisco.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 15:08

Some days I wake up bursting with fresh blog ideas. From the second I feel the first spurt of shower water on my back to the moment I step onto the subway to the minute I sit down at my desk, I'm mulling over thoughts and possible topics, inspired by a shaft of light, or a rude old woman on the subway, or the asparagus thing I made last night. You know, the titillating stuff that you keep coming back for. Some days I practically can't log on fast enough to satisfy my urge to post.

Today is quite the opposite of that kind of day. I DO still want to post... I feel so neglectful if I don't. Like maybe you won't like / love me anymore if I skip a day. Or, I might be unwittingly aborting the construction of a brilliant sentence that would otherwise go unrealized. Or, the post from the day before was kind of stupid and I want to bump it off the top spot.

I've tried brainstorming a little... nothin'.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:05

Monday, May 27, 2002

It's a rare Sunday that sees me stray further from the apartment than the grocery store. This one started out no different than most others, and for much of the day I did little more than watch The Parent Trap (I actually have the original on tape) and eat my leftover sushi which wasn't very good the second time around. And I was settling in tonight after a long day of motionlessness, content with the fact that I had nothing better to do than watch Selena on the WB and eat a Boca Chik'n Burger, when Mary and Shula called. They said, come eat dinner with us. Come see a movie. Pleeeeeease Sarah, please, just come be with us (implied)! I mulled it over and decided it was worth my while to go. I changed out of my bathing suit (well, I at least had to see if it still fit, even if I don't see a beach all summer) and into some slouchy duds and went to meet them. And out of the blue, I had these two delicious experiences!

Dinner, first, was fantastic. Sure, it isn't hard to please me with dinner. But this particular dinner bordered on orgasmic. We went to Joya on Court Street and Warren. I had the Kang Penang Gai or something like that, chicken and peppers in a hot coconut curry sauce, and Mary and Shula and I sat at the front window table moaning in ecstasy with every mouthful of our meals. I've had a lot of coconut curry in my day, and this was possibly the best yet. If you're from here, go there right away. Don't waste any time! Just get there.

Afterward, we all had a nice walk around the neighborhood, and then Shula and I went to see Monsoon Wedding. People, if you can, go see this movie. Everything about it was just right! It had beautiful everything, and I even cried which is not normally my thing. (It's reminded me of this thought I once had, which I interpreted as a premonition but really I suppose only time will tell if it is, that I will someday marry an Indian man). The movie is just... wow. Afterward, we walked ten minutes to the subway and talked about nothing but the movie the entire time. Brilliant. I've had a great streak of good movie experiences lately... Y Tu Mama Tambien, About A Boy, and Delicatessen (which I rented the other night) have all been exactly what I wanted them to be.

And I've just come home and my little bunny Sylvie gave me the best cuddle... she's not usually the cuddly type and I don't pressure her, but tonight she's all sweetness. Probably because I've deprived her of all contact with other living beings and left her all alone for most of this weekend, but why split hairs about the reason. She's so wubby. Oh, and just now she heard a catfight in the street outside so I held her up to the window and we watched them scrap for awhile... she was a street cat once, you know.

Now I'm going to brush my teeth, put on my jams, watch the last ten minutes of an episode of Taxi and doze off. I'm still toying with the Yonkers idea.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 10:17

Friday, May 24, 2002

Apparently no one wants a postcard from Yonkers. What about Poughkeepsie?

the words spilled out effortlessly at 12:55

Thursday, May 23, 2002

These Thoughts Wouldn't Go Together Anywhere Other Than Here.

- Sometimes when I'm slouched in my chair here looking at a blog or similarly non-work-related website, and I hear the distinct footsteps of a person I work with but it's too late to pop open the Excel document I have waiting in the wings [typically being worked on in two minute intervals every eight to ten minutes, between which I am reading this or this, or working on fuzzy sweater, or emailing her or him or her] I will stare at the weblog intensely, squinting with resolute concentration and concern, in an attempt to convince that someone-walking-by that my business is in fact work-related, and very important. Which was probably a none-too-convincing act of futility just now, when the publisher passed by imposingly as I clambored to close this shameful and obviously-not-work-related waste of time.

- If I hadn't been watching the drivel that was the Felicity series finale last night, I might well have been compelled to watch Fox Celebrity Boxing II. Pitting Welcome Back, Kotter's Horschack against Saved by the Bell's Screech?! I sure hope the genius behind this show is good lookin', because I want to have tenThousand of his babies.

- Hoorah!!! I get to go to a picnic this weekend!!

- okay. so... Yonkers. ??? Who names a town "Yonkers"? Maybe I'll go there this weekend. Okay, so anyone wanting a postcard from my trip to Yonkers, please submit your addresses using the "talk at me" link at the upper right. Seriously. And I won't tell you if I went or not... so the postcard, if and when it comes, will be a nice surprise. The anticipation (and ultimate disappointment) will be good for you.

- Is it politically incorrect for me to say "I am mental" and only jokingly mean it? Because I think today's spasmodic posting warrants such a declaration, in the half-assed sense.

Okay, maybe I'm just a big goofy dork. Even geniuses are allowed to have an off day now and again.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 15:44

Wednesday, May 22, 2002

i amaze myself.

part of me (a very small but persistent part) has caught on to the idea of celebrating the beginning of summer hours (half day fridays!!) by instigating an all-afternoon drinking session on friday... go someplace downtown where we can sit out back and sling down margaritas or something equally sweet and powerful, starting at 3 or so. i seem to have no control over my own will power-- before i even realized what i was doing, i had already emailed three people about going with me. is this the sign of a larger problem?

the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:04

Tuesday, May 21, 2002

Come on cutes, put on your Basie boots, and come... dance with me... come dance with me... dat dat dah... dah dah daaaah...

Took the day off. I'm "sick*", see. I am having SUCH a lovely day today! I've been listening to Frank, I washed my three-week-old supply of dirty dishes, watched Sesame Street (Maria is still on that show, can you believe it? She used to be my favorite.), took a half hour shower (during which I found myself singing "Yew can get caught between the moooooon and New York Ciiiiteeeee", theme song from Arthur if I'm not mistaken), danced the cha cha cha with my cat, ate the nicest cup of lemon yogurt in bed... I highly advocate taking sick days at one's own leisure to all you working stiffs.

*In truth, I really was sick when I woke up. I was hung over. I'm feeling fine now, but I do recognize that this going out and smoking and drinking five nights a week has really got to stop. Soon. Next week I'll be better.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:16

Monday, May 20, 2002

Join Me As I Celebrate Long and Winding Post Day, 2K2.

My good friend Laura is flying away today. She's moving her things from New York to Ohio, leaving her cat with her parents, traveling around Europe for a month, then coming back to the States to train to be a yoga instructor after which she will move to North Carolina and spend her evenings on the beach drinking pink beverages from tall, frosted glasses. I'm a little jealous, I'll admit. To the naked eye, my life is standing still. I've grown tired of certain elements and patterns that make up my days and nights... right now the job is my main complaint. I won't get into it here. This isn't about my job, or my life. I don't know what it's about. I'm just going to write.

Laura and I lived on the same hall in our freshman year of college. She was the cool girl I was afraid of, and we never really hung out together. She was cool in that kind of uniquely beautiful, disregard-for-general-opinion, you-go-join-your-sorority-while-I-smoke-pot-and-write type way. So we didn't speak much. Both being writing majors, we often found ourselves in classes together over the next few years. She was really good. What consistently amazed and flattered me was that she thought I was really good, too. We were both shy, and sat next to each other, not talking. I found out at the end of senior year that she was also planning a move to New York. We swapped email addresses and I thought that would probably be the last I saw of her. People were swapping emails with each other, making out with each other, swearing long-pent-up crushes to each other, like mad at the time.

Anyway, we moved here, did get in touch, and suddenly we found ourselves emailing fifty times a day. I didn't get any work done for seven months because of her. I've been rereading some of the emails from our heydays over a year ago (I made a special file for our emails), and I suddenly remember how funny we were together, a real comedic team. We lost e-touch somewhat after she quit her full-time job and wasn't at the computer all day anymore... we still hung out just as much, but the e-magic slowed. So I just now decided. As a tribute, even though she isn't dead or anything, I'm posting this string of emails written on March 1, 2001 under the inexplicable subject heading "morning has broken her water". Apologies for the length of this post, though I guess if you're bored you can (have?) stop(ped?) reading.

Sarah: you know i completely forgot about amihotornot

Laura: umm, uh, i really dont think that is, umm, a very nice website. Umm, i really, ah, wouldnt recommend you going there.

S: what are you hiding?

L: me? what do you mean?

S: i would insinuate that you sent your own picture in but I don't think you have the capacity for the level of technology required to scan your picture in and send it.

L: yeah, that was stupid. i should send a tip to myself.

S: didn't you just?

L: a not funny one.(whore).

S: you callin me a turkey? [did you call me a turkey?]

L: what of it? (of course!)

S: oh, muggy. you are so trite.

L: at least i am not a dork

S: and i can tell it to you to your face. [er, sort of]

L: you know that you are a bigger, more obvioius dork than I am right?

S: no.

L: of course not. you big fat obsequious dork.

S: hmm. how am i obsequious?

L: if you don't know, then you're even more obsequious than i had initially imagined.

S: i think you are confused on what obsequious means.

L: no no, that's right. you are immensely pleasing me with all this obtusity/dorkness. see? um.

S: dork.

L: yuh i saw that coming.

S: such is the life of a dweeb.

L: I REALLY AM IN THE MOOD FOR GUACAMOLE

S: yeah i bet you are, ho bag.

L: you are such a sore loser.

S: that's what your mom said to your dad.

L: ?

S: tripe [trp ] noun

1. stomach lining of a cow or sheep: the stomach lining of a ruminant such as a cow or sheep, used as food
2. nonsense: something absurd, untrue, or worthless (informal)

[14th century. From Old French, of unknown origin.]

L: what's your point sarah? It's all stomach lining isn't it?

S: yeah this is all devolving into absurdity. anyway, what's your plan tonight, anything fun?

L: what's your plan tonight, anything fun?

(no. what is yours)

S: am going to my cousin's 6th floor walkup to watch tv and order takeout.

L: well, that's the whistle....tak ta ya tamaro.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:38

Friday, May 17, 2002

Oh god how I love getting paid. Nowadays, the week before payday is so damn barren and penny-pinchy that Friday has become like a like a special bi-weekly holiday for me. It happens like this: after calling the bank to make sure my paycheck has been deposited, I get to feeling like I deserve treats upon treats. So I go out to lunch. I go shopping after lunch. I order CD's off the internet. Et cetera. Take today, for example. By 1:00 this afternoon I had already spent ... calculate online movie tickets... skirt and pants from H&M... $40 cash, half spent on lunch... about $120.00. It's like I can't help myself. God help me if I ever take up dice.

Typically I am a very cheap, stingy woman. I pack lunch almost every day, hardly ever buy clothes that cost more than $30, complain and whine about having no money to buy drinks to the point that someone usually offers to buy one for me (not often... just lately. I know it's annoying. You can judge me for this, I deserve it. Although it's typically true that I don't have money for drinks, I just shouldn't go out when this is the case)... horribly tight with money. Well, maybe it's not that so much as I spend it erratically, and then when I need it it's not there and I panic.

So I love payday. The spirit will be gone by next Monday, once I've paid off my bills and various personal loan debts, but today it's drinks on me, folks!

the words spilled out effortlessly at 15:20

Thursday, May 16, 2002

25 tangential sentences and sentence fragements inspired by today's mid-afternoon snack.

everything in my mouth tastes as if it's been painted with butter.
tongue, teeth, roof, all thoroughly coated with this yucky oily butter residue that won't go away.
i mean, i love butter.
butter's terrific.
i used to eat sticks of it as a kid (possibly explaining my adult eating habits)...
but as you know, the stuff of microwave popcorn isn't at all like normal butter.
it's the grainy imitation stuff.
this may be among the worst products of our modernity.

why did i feel the need to make microwave popcorn?
and why would they put friggin' "natural" on the bag if it isn't really?
seriously?
doesn't "natural" imply "nude" popcorn, as in, sans chemical additives and butter-flavored goop?

this guy in the office came by to grab a handful and asked me if they "sell this stuff in grocery stores."
the man had never had microwave popcorn before.
granted, if you don't have a microwave you have no need to know of such novelties.
personally, i pop mine on the stove at home.
and yet even so, i'm not a cave-dweller, and i know what microwave popcorn is.

teeth made of butter.
i wonder if dentistry has evolved to the point where people can get flavors permanently embedded into their teeth.
this question once came up in a drinking game: what would you choose for your mouth to taste like if you had to choose one flavor to live with forever?
i chose garlic.
i meant it-- garlic always reminds me of a good meal.
also (although this had nothing to do with the choice i made) when i studied abroad in england i used to have great luck with the lads after especially garlicky meals.
i don't know why, you'd think the result of eating lots of garlic would have been the opposite.
but the proof is in the pudding.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 17:17

Wednesday, May 15, 2002

My mom always used to complain about how mean and cranky I get when I'm falling ill. Of course I would buck and snarl in protestation of her claims, feeling maligned and vindictive... as I always felt about everything she said about me until I reached the age of twenty. Ultimately though, she's always been right about this. I do get nasty when I'm sick. And today, I'm sick. And feeling mean, and thinking mean thoughts about everyone and everything. Maybe even you.

People I hated before 10:00 today

9:30- The guy walking the two dogs who I see every day and said good morning to, and who did not respond. Your dogs are ugly and so's your girlfriend.

9:40- The two businessmen I pushed aside after clamboring to get into the train this morning. They were standing right in front of the doors, and obviously saw me forging through as the doors were closing and didn't move. So naturally they were going to get elbowed as I finally edged myself beyond the vicegrip threshhold of the doors. Aaaand you're gettin' no apologies from me, sirs! I curtly thought at them with a madwoman's sense of triumph.

9:45-The Grand Central 7 Train Platform Flautist. You're barking up the wrong tree, buddy.Doesn't he realize that it's one of the worst platforms on which to busk in this city? No one's ever waiting for the 7 train long enough to feel guilted into leaving him money. It's the most reliable train in the whole city, the wait time is almost always under five minutes. Plus, he's a sucky flautist.

9:54- In the tunnel which runs below Park Avenue, a woman in a linebacker-shoulder-padded navy blue suit looked at me funny for just a hint of a second. I don't know, maybe she didn't. But in response, I gave her a look that endeavored to convey what was going through my mind: Oh yeah? Well, try getting a new look, you rump-faced, helmet-haired, poorly dressed frump-o with terrible posture who stares at people!

9:59- The toothy security guard downstairs. Every day I try to avoid walking by him, and go to the other guard to be swiped in. Today I had no choice. He always touches people's hands when they hold out their cards to be scanned! And he calls girls "darlin'" in his Brooklyn accent and smiles in a really creepy way. I never look him in the eye or say anything to him. You're damn right I don't like you, I seethed internally as his knuckle grazed mine.

These were all prior to my arrival here in the office. I don't need to extend this typed list of grievances beyond 10:00 this morning to prove to you that I am not to be reckoned with until after the cold has subsided, do I? Of course, here at work I've been using the "I'm getting sick" excuse to allow for the eye-rolling and heavy sighs designated towards everyone who's asked me for anything at all...

I wanna go home.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 16:27

Tuesday, May 14, 2002

Huzzah! Last night: such a success! I would like to extend a serving platter laden with kudos, congratulations, accolades, and praise to Ryan for pulling off an amazing night of readings, music and good cheer, and to everyone else (especially the very talented / enviable writers) who participated in the event and helped to make "Nettie's Boy" as solid as it is. If you didn't make it last night, well, it's a shame. AJOP is averaging one event/journal a year so far. And so, as with those who study the beautiful Century plant which blooms but once every hundred years, if you missed the event this time around, you'll just have to wait awhile. Probably not a hundred years, but awhile.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 13:53

Sunday, May 12, 2002

MONDAY NIGHT: A LITTLE BIT DIFFERENT THIS WEEK.
What: A Gala Event to introduce The American Journal of Print: Two, "Nettie's Boy."
When: Monday, May 13, 2002. Doors open at 7:30pm, the Event starts at 8:00pm.
Where: Tonic, on the Lower East Side. Tonic is located at 107 Norfolk Street, between Delancey and Rivington. Take the F train to Delancey Street or the J/M/Z trains to Essex Street. Walk along Delancey towards the Williamsburg Bridge and take your first left onto Norfolk.
How much:
$5 = Entry
$10 = Entry and a copy of the AJoP:2.
$15 = The above, and a copy of the AJoP:1, while supplies last.
(The event is FREE if you've purchased a copy in advance. If not, we prefer you to pursue the $10 option.)
What's happening:

Readings by: Jeff Boison, George Chase, Dan Kois, Paul Toth, and Theresa Young. Music by Andrew Hultkrans, the Manhattan Choral Ensemble, and Stefan Pedatella (DJ). Something special by Clay McL. Chapman, author of Rest Area.
-----------
I meant to post this sooner although I think I've mentioned it here and there to some of you locals... the man in charge of this event, co-editor of this journal, co-brains behind the operation, etc. is Ryan, pal of Sarah and boyfriend of Jennifer, coworker and pal of Sarah and a rapidly budding blogger. Y'know, just, if you needed background.

The evening promises to be highly, highly entertaining. I spent much of yesterday acquiring a slight sunburn whilst reading AJOP: 2 "Nettie's Boy" on a park bench, oblivious to the passing of time or many of the cute Brooklyn lads cycling by. Let me know if you need any further encouragement to join. Or if you'd rather, you could be evasive about your commitment, show up really late and inappropriately drunk, trip over a few chairs, swear loudly, and inadvertently cause a scene in the middle of a politely muted crowd of gathered writers and readers listening intently to a reading or musical performance. Most people would probably rather you came quietly... but I hear Vonnegut makes his entrances thusly (and I don't think he'll be here) so do what you must. Either way... hope you can come.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 13:54

Friday, May 10, 2002

update: last night i went out drinking with coworkers (actually, we went to see a band called spank who didn't live up to their name). we ended up talking about work, as was inevitable, and i actually uncovered tips about two jobs in publicity in the company. that job-hopping should come up in conversation unsolicited on the very day i'd been seriously considering my options struck me as a sign. it was also pointed out to me that i've been an assistant longer than any of the other assistants here. and i have absolutely no chance for upward mobility right now. what am i doing wasting my time? just because my friends are here doesn't mean i can't go somewhere else and still be friends with them... and really that's the only reason i've stayed this long. the wrong reason, probably, but oh well. the ball is rolling now, friends! i went home and fluffed up my resume and wrote a little letter (by that point only just slightly feeling the effects of the four ciders i'd had) and brought it all in to work today, not the least bit scared about taking this jump and admitting i am capable of leaving my current job. unfortunately, when i got here this morning i found that both publicity positions had been filled. but i still feel motivated... i posted my resume on hotjobs.com. that's a definite start. and i applied for a job i found there! also a very proactive move, i feel. i just hope the motivation lasts. and that i don't get hired somewhere else until i've managed to whittle down the past six months' worth of filing work i've yet to do here.

on top of that, my horoscope tells me this:

If there was ever a question, you're not lost any longer. You coexist beautifully with associates who are often prickly. Major life decisions are exciting to consider. Everyday magic is visible in all its splendor.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 13:37

Wednesday, May 08, 2002

it's last night. i am about to happily tuck into my dinner in front of the tv when i hear a knock. i ignore it, as i usually do. a few seconds later this penetrator-of-peace knocks again, and rings the bell also. my left nostril curls slightly as it sometimes does when i am displeased. shit. i concede that the landlord heard the tv, he knows i'm here, so i might as well answer the damn door and get rid of him rather than sit here ignoring him for ten minutes. so i get up and open the door. there's a girl outside, of about nineteen or twenty. this girl stands back bearing a clipboard and a bright smile. am i aware that i could be saving up to a fourth off of my energy bill each month? do i realize that con edison is overcharging me erratically? and could i come outside and close the door behind me? the onion smell is driving her crazy.

ten minutes later, governed by some force within which seems contradictory to my usual fuck-off stances on both interruptions and solicitation, i'm in the hall nodding my head and signing some document that shari swears will save me bundles per month. she whips through the details, tells me we just need to make a call from my home phone to verify that she's in my apartment getting the occupant's consent. i reluctantly invite her in. a stranger in my apartment... am i a sap? i'm thinking, because i am a sap, and i know it. she scratches sylvie behind the ears, looks around. we call the 1-800 number for SmartEnergy, the company she's here representing, and i answer "yes" to eight or ten questions asked to me by the operator to verify that i've "read" the contract, as instructed by shari. the woman asks me if i know that should i choose to cancel within a year, i will owe the full amount of the savings i've amassed back to the company. i think this sounds odd, but i glance over at shari and she nods encouragingly. i'm helpless, trapped in my own home by a shrewd salesperson, at dinnertime, after a long day busting my hump. papers will come in the mail within a week. when shari finally leaves (with my current gas bill in hand), my salad is wilted, my macaroni and cheese is lukewarm, and i am completely spent and feeling the world's biggest sucker.

five minutes later shari is back. she knocks again, and somehow i'm incapable of ignoring her rap, drawn to the door as if pulled by a string. i answer with a smile, thinking maybe she had something else to give me. a pen with a logo on it, perhaps. but no. she gives me a look of exaggerated desperation and asks if she can use my bathroom. uh, okay, i say. i point her to the bathroom and loiter in the kitchen, looking around to make sure i don't look like someone worth robbing. laptop securely put away. opulence nowhere to be found. on the other hand, single bed very visible. ground floor windows unlocked and open. clearly vulnerable. she's taking awhile in the can... what if she's rooting through my soaps, my makeup? what if she's calling her partner to tell him i'm easy pickin's and give him the okay to come on over? fuck fuck fuck. finally, five minutes later (did she poo in my toilet?!) she exits the bathroom and leaves quickly, with no friendly "see you!"s or "thanks so much for everything!"s. i had a hard time falling asleep last night, thinking i'd be awakened by someone breaking into my apartment. then i had a hard time leaving this morning, wondering if i should lock my laptop to the desk and then ripping through my drawers trying to find the key to said lock. finally i had to leave all, unprotected.

what it is is, i feel violated. by a salesgirl. yes.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 12:06

Monday, May 06, 2002

We got spirit yes we DOO we got spirit how 'bout YOO!

My mom sent me a copy of Hoosiers, and I'm watching it now. It's not often that I appreciate being from Indiana, at least out loud, but when it comes to this movie I stand proud. I just can't help but get all choked up inside. It makes me yearn to go back in time and live like a farm kid from Hickory, or Cedar Knob, or Ooltic, watchin’ basketball and talkin’ about crops.

It's no surprise to me that this movie has been ranked the number one sports movie of all time [and what’s the competition, Might Ducks 2? Cool Runnings? Rudy, Rudy was all right… and A League of Their Own was good... still.] What does surprise me is how few of my friends have actually seen, or even heard of, the movie Hoosiers. I'm definitely no sports lover, but I will stand by this movie as one of my favorite films, ever ever. I remember going to see it in the theater with my family when I was nine or ten, and coming out wanting to feel a basketball in my hands. Which, if you knew me then or if you know me now, will seem a slightly preposterous notion. [Aside: I actually did go to basketball camp once, when I was in the seventh grade. It was a two week training program, and Mom made me buy brand new court shoes which were on heavy discount and a very un-sporty baby blue tone, and get fitted for a special and expensive mouth guard. One week into the program, I quit. It was grist for the mill for several years hence].

It's just... aw hell, I dunno. The only kind of basketball, or sport, I can really tolerate watching is Indiana basketball. State championchips or high stakes games, exclusively. I went to almost every game in my first two years of high school and never once paid a lick of attention to what was happening on the court, because the team was lousy then. It's those rare special nights of glory that get me in the back of my throat. My high school team won state the year before I got to high school... I had to watch it on TV, but it was still just beautiful. My mom and I cried; I painted a sign and hung it in our front window. We even had a Mr. Basketball on the team, and the local radio station wrote a song about him to the tune of “You Can Call Me Al [Woody]”. They still replay the 1991 semifinal and championship games on local cable during basketball season. It was the most glory my town had felt since the Forties when Dizzie Gillespie recorded at Gannett Records downtown, and the most publicity we'd seen since local boy Jim Jones hit the papers with his Jonestown massacre in the Seventies.

I'm yammering on... anyway, I really have to git. Jimmy just rejoined the team, Shooter’s back on the wagon, and Coach Dale is about to light a fire under them boys.

"No school this small has ever been to the state championchips!" Mmmm.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 21:27

Friday, May 03, 2002

my little brother is coming to town for the weekend. he's flying in tonight, and i'm getting quite excited! i've been planning things to do with him pretty much since he visited me last year. i'm not sure when it happened, but suddenly he's just a supercool individual and i can't wait to hang out with him.

if you'd told me when i was fifteen and he was twelve that one day i'd actually voluntarily spend time with dave, i probably would've sneered or said "bite me" or something equally clever. i spent so many waking hours resenting his existence back then... he'd pretty much ruined 1981-1996 for me, what with him being born and taking attention away from me and being the good one and having shared interests with my parents and all... and with him being so damn nice all the time, it was hard to forgive those kinds of slights. with a repressed penchant for goodwill clothes being about as outside-the-box as i got back then, i was hardly a rebel... so, i was of the mind that anyone who could've made me into the bad kid must have been conniving for personal gain. naturally, it was all his fault that i was a surly little bitch teenager.

i guess you could say i had a chip on my shoulder. a very typical story i'm sure, but still, the transformation is noteworthy. i behaved pretty dastardly to him for about fifteen years. and hey world, look at me now! so mature. i respect him, i think he's funny, his genuine kindness is no longer a point of contention for me, i've all but forgiven him for what he's done to my car since i left for new york,and i even think he dresses all right! most of the time. so there's practically nothing left to make snide remarks about! i welcome the little punter with open arms. i look forward to this weekend with overeager optimism. i'll be taking him to see some superloudyoungmanband he's a fan of, introducing him to a cross-section of my favorite friends, showing him my neighborhood, convincing him that he would love living here, eating high on the hog and squandering the money my parents gave him to spend here... ooh, and he just turned 21 last week! he's never been a big drinker (imagine, a relative of mine! and he's definitely not adopted, i did that research- wistfully- some years ago...) anyway, i'm going to make sure that the little scrapper sees his share of sunrises while in the big city with his big sissy. me. and try not to talk about blogging, which has become a (probably very annoying) Drunken Sarah trend of late... him knowing about my blog, it just wouldn't do. i'm sure you all understand.

so to be sure, it'll be exhausting. but i'm going to try really hard not to get pissy with him. sometimes it's hard to pretend that all those years of despising each other didn't actually exist...

well, have a nice weekend.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 16:03

Thursday, May 02, 2002

On the upside of things, i've been cheered by something as simple as a lovely song... "You Can Have it All" by yo la tengo. I've never listened to a Yo La Tengo cd all the way through before today. I'm admittedly a little slow on the indie uptake, as we've established. But it's kind of a nice surprise to find delight in something like this song, which "everyone else" has apparently known about but is a new thing to me. Of course, maybe it just feels that way because I'm surrounded at work by people who know a lot about music.

There was this guy my friend Ann knew in college who had never seen, tasted, or heard of a mushroom until he left home. Hence, he was called Mushroom Matt (though not to his face). This kind of innocence is refreshing, ain't it?

the words spilled out effortlessly at 16:05

I was late to work today because a person jumped in front of a train.

I arrived at the Vernon-Jackson Station, where I catch the 7 in the mornings, to find the train sitting there stagnant and the doors open. Some people were squatting against the walls on the platform or wandering around aimlessly, while others stood on the train holding the metal hangars, waiting. Nobody was talking really, except the conductor. He was sitting in his little booth which I happened to be standing near. It was stuffy in the car. So as I waited there, I could hear him clearly. First, he would make an announcement to the passengers on the train, repeating that there was a "sick passenger" on the train ahead of us and we would proceed when approval had been sent. He then would switch off the microphone and turn to the gathering crowd of people outside his window on the platform and proceed to go into detail about the "jumper" incident as he heard more about it over the CB. Tried to kill himself, he said, but the guy crawled up out of the tracks on his own. Took him to the hospital. Guy tries to kill himself, can't even do it. Terrible, he said. It was more than I wanted to know, or than anyone needed to know. People's morbid fascinations were piqued.

Finally, after I had been standing around for half an hour trying to listen to anything but his loud, flat voice (and with no book, the one time in months) the station manager came on the overhead speaker and announced that the train would soon be departing. We crowded onto the train, sighing. The woman standing next to me said (twice, to anyone who was listening), "If a guy's gonna kill himself he should know better than to do it during the morning rush hour!" She thought she was pretty funny. One other person laughed; I shot her a dirty look. The train sat for another five minutes, and I stood peering over the shoulder of a little man reading Howard Stern: Private Parts, trying to ignore the woman who was greedily informing the other passengers, who hadn't all been privy to the conductor's gossip flashes, about the jumper. She kept saying, "We'll see it on the news tonight, I bet!" I had fleeting fantasies of bitch-slapping her. Eventually, I was able to space out by thinking of my apartment search options for next year; I didn't even notice the train start up until we'd moved out of the station and picked up to full speed.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 12:05