Tuesday, November 30, 2004
First I made the tragic mistake of walking into the fucking Rockefeller Center Tree lighting. Dont ask. Just know that when a bunch of upstate tourist trash started singing "Rudolph the Red nosed reindeer" I yelled at them to shut up. I wish the terrorists had blown up that tree and Katie Couric.
Then I went to a PGA panel discussion on television producing and wanted to die. Some fucking douchebag tried to disparage "Arrested Development" by saying he couldn't sit through it. this guy works on "Hope & Faith". 'Nuff said (as he would most likely type into his lowest common denominator script and then add a laugh track). It gets better; someone else on the panel (also an employee of that show which I refuse to type in again out of self-respect) said disdainfully, "Who can relate to that show? What is that show about? That show is about how great it is." I wanted to kill all of them. And of course, the standard "work within the crazy kooky networks this is a business" brainwash shit. As my dearest Sara would say, I wanted to take a dump on their heads. I hate other people so bad.
Monday, November 29, 2004
I got trashed on Thanksgiving. I don't mean, I had some drinks. I mean, I had two glasses of wine at dinner, two beers before we went to see "La Cage Aux Folles", and so many I can't even remember how many after the show. And I tried the next day, believe me. Rob Webber and I finally ceased drinking at around 2:45 am. I then like an asshole decided to take my umbrella and tap dance through 42nd Street. See, here's the thing, how funny is it to pretend you're in a MUSICAL in the middle of where all the MUSICAL THEATER happens?!? Man, am I a card or what?! I'm still cringing at the thought of it. The display of class ended with a much needed trip to McDonald's where Rob and I were the only ones who spoke English. I have to admit: the only times I like Times Square occur on major holidays, because it's destitute.
I am debating having a Christmas party again. I for some reason really hate throwing parties. Last year's was nice, though. It was big (usually nerve wracking) but for some reason I was less stressed, I think because it was a joint effort with Meg. We'll see.
Nigel has been in a word, horrid. I tired to be nice and put one of those perpetual pet waterers out- you know, the kind that looks like a mini water cooler- so he'd have more fresh water, due to the recent toilet ban. He put his paw up inside the cooler and knocked water out onto the floor. I noticed his paws were soaking wet when he jumped on me and I was baffled. When I walked into the kitchen, there were puddles everywhere. The rug was soaked, and the waterer was all the way across the floor, turned to face the window. He chooses dehydration I guess.
I started trying to knit again. It's hard, I feel like I have ape paws because of my fat fingers. I am determined to knit myself a scarf over the holidays. I have no excuse, as there will be a lot of travel time to fill. I am hopeful that my trip home this year will be less upsetting than last, when my favorite travel sleeve containing my precious Xmas cd collection was swiped at La Guardia. When I got off the plane in San Diego I was hysterical. I think people thought it was over my styrofoam box containing a kidney gone missing rather than the loss of "A Ren & Stimpy Christmas" and "Jingle Cats".
I am getting excited about Christmas, it is my favorite holiday. It's always so much fun, because I go to see my family and sit on my ass in the sunshine. I have already prepared a list of where I will be eating upon my return to sunny, boring-but-lovable San Diego:
1) In-N-Out Burger (will be ordered on the way home from the airport)
2) Filiberto's (the most amazing homemade Mexican fast food, and get this: not made by failed Chinese restaurant owners like in Manhattan)
3) Rubio's (the best fish tacos; save your jokes, jag off)
Plus, my Dad will be frying a turkey this year for Christmas dinner. Due to the highly likely threat of fire/death that combining a high-pressue boiling oil-filled deep fryer with drinking offers, my Mom has banned us from having any "Artilliery Punch" until after the bird is cooked. Hooray!
Monday, November 22, 2004
One thing about epilepsy that sucks is when, after you've had a seizure, the neurologist rakes a sharp metal sort of pen (for lack of a better term) down each of the soles of your feet. It's akin to getting your reflexes tested, that uncomfortable tap with the hammer that results in your leg sort of bouncing. Except it's more than uncomfortable, and it makes you jump up a bit off the vinyl chair and slide on the hygienic paper that covers it. That's what makes me think of seizures, that rake down the foot.
Friday, November 19, 2004
The Ghost has lived here for 9 months. I have seen her, meaning laid eyes on her, perhaps 9 times since then. Please note: this does not count speaking to her. I have spoken to her perhaps 4 times- two of these times were conversations lasting longer than 5 sentences.
Here are some answers to what are going to be your preliminary questions: No, The Ghost is not mean, or spiteful. She is not born again (I draw the line on that shit in my home). She does speak English. She is just fucking odd.
I lost an amazing roommate last year and the Ghost was a seemingly sound replacement. She was willing to pay for the whole month of February even though she'd only be moving in the last week (a bidding war had begun to spring up for the room). That to me was her ticket in. Plus, when we met, she seemed pleasant, literate, and kind of nerdy. And not in an ironic Williamsburg-y way, either. Like, long mousy hair parted in the middle, all the way down her back, hasn't been cut since she was small nerdy. Like, is really into dog posters and may sketch horses in her notebook nerdy. Like, excited by a Chico's giftcard nerdy. (There may be a strong resemblance to "Carrie" pre-Prom blood spewing).
Things seemed OK until about week 3 when I realized with some alarm that she would come home and go right into her room. The door would open, and she'd be talking non-stop on her cell phone; and then I'd hear her bedroom door close. She wouldn't come out for the rest of the night, with the exception of going to the bathroom (presumably to eat toilet paper- see prior entry). My apartment is set up similar to the famous "railroad" style- her room and the bathroom are right at the front of the house and then, after a long hallway (that has my two closets in it), and the kitchen (which has a real dishwasher and a real oven- not that dollhouse shit that you normally get in NYC), there's another doorway that opens into two huge rooms- my living room and the TV den. These together are larger than the studio a friend of a friend pays $1000 some odd dollars to live in. And then, off to the side, is my small yet cozy bedroom.
When the Ghost moved in I made it clear that while my room was indeed my room only, these two other spaces were common rooms. I stressed that to her and she smiled and agreed. And then she never went near either.
She doesn't cook. She doesn't put anything in the refrigerator. She doesn't watch TV. She sits in her room and chain smokes. And talks on her cell phone- but oddly, only when she comes in the front door, when she leaves her room to go to the bathroom (?!?), or when I walk past her room to go to the bathroom.
At first, I was really spooked. I complained to Ben who suggested that I approach her to make sure allw as well. So, after I heard her come home one night and bolt into her room, I waited then knocked on her door. She opened it looking confused, holding her flannel pajama top closed and- yep- talking on her cell phone (which had commenced the minute I knocked on the door to her room). I asked if she was ok. She seemed confused, but mouthed yes, smiled, and then shut the door. Uh, ok.
This was to be the last time I saw her for a few months. The others were:
- literally DARTING like a rodent from the bathroom to her room when I was just opening the front door (?) and then TALKING ON HER CELL PHONE!!!!!!
- on the couch in the den watching tv (I don't charge her for cable since she doesn't have a hook up in her room and she's never around); on this occasion she stammered (who does that?! except in like, bodice rippers or stupid detective novels, NO ONE) something incoherent and scurried back to her room (no cell phone this time, as she didn't have it on her when she was discovered; I think that stammering was a primal response and am surprised she didn't make that fake phone shape with her hand as solace)
My friend Keith insists I don't really have a roommate and that I made it up that she lives here. But that's mystique of the Ghost: I never see her, I only hear her. Or smell her rancid smoke, which she chimneys out into the hall despite the rolled up handtowel under her door (again...dorm?). She picked up some atrocious vanilla air "freshener" at a .99 cent store and likes to spray that to pretend it masks her activities. Because, you see, this is a non smoking apartment. No, pot does not count, smarty jones.
To be continued...
I live over a huge Muslim family, who collectively are my landlords. There is the patriarch of the family, and his wife; then, their 2 sons and their wives, and their daughter and her husband, plus two younger brothers who I guess to be about 15 and 11, respectively, and, at last count, 2 kids, although I noticed the daughter was pregnant last week. They own two adjacent buildings on this block, and in this building they rent the top floor out. They bought the buildings back when Smith Street was a war zone; you can still see bullet holes in the Plexiglas of my front doorway, and there are security mirrors jury-rigged onto the windows overlooking the front door from my kitchen (think rearview mirrors, but giant). My apartment is huge, even by Brooklyn standards, with the whole Manhattan-esque rent increase taken into consideration. It's a fair price as well for my rent, and I love it here. But sometimes, the family below makes it a nightmare. They tend to fight all the time, screaming bitterly. The kids are always howling; I remarked to Ben once that I suspected they fed the babies glass. Right now, one of the young husbands, I can't tell which, is screaming at the top of his lungs at his wife, and it is actually scaring me. Doors are slamming and it sounds like he's hitting the walls. Do I call the police? Will that make it worse, will the wife end up getting in more trouble then? Muslims tend to be very private about business between husband and wife in my limited experience. I'm never sure what to do, which makes me feel sad and powerless. My old roommate Meghan used to have my room, and she told me that she could clearly hear the 11 year old swearing and watching what sounded like the bass-heavy tones of BET. At 1 in the morning. On a weeknight. One of the husbands comes home from work at midnight, and the wife wakes up her kid to see him. So there's inevitably spine-tingling screeches echoing down the hall at that time almost nightly. I'm home a lot more than I used to be. All this noise was present before, but now the nuisance of it is evident in a greater way. However, they keep out of my way. I'm nearly invisible to them up here, and they are always courteous to me when we pass one another on the stairs- which is rarely. I know they time it so that when they hear me approaching, they clear out. I've seen the hem of a tunic peeking out from under their front door as I loped up the stairs, drunkenly. Yet, it's not done in a mean way- they don't treat me as if I'm suspicious. I think they just like to know what's going on. It's a strange situation.
Check out this site for simple, hilarious "news" clips from Andy Borowitz. He's awesome. He makes me laugh in this fucked up political morass we're in. Again. Four more years, my butt. I suggest signing up for his daily e-mail alerts, it's a great way to start your day. Also, bong hits are.
I discovered a kick-ass radio stream on the web. Go check it out, and click on the Brit Pop icon. I've heard World Party, Badly Drawn Boy, Oasis, Stone Roses, and the Soup Dragons today. Word.
I’d been wanting to adopt a kitten for while. The flyer I had picked up told me that there would be an adoption fair on Valentine’s Day, and that was where Ben and I were walking now. I held a small pet carrier, which I had found on trash day. It was in fine shape- I suspected a pet had simply outgrown it- and after a through cleaning, I deemed it fit for any new companion I’d be bringing home. Ben was horrified by this, but had given up trying to tell me otherwise. As we walked, I imagined the kitten I’d adopt today; she would be orange and white, with long hair that worked itself into spiky little peaks. She’s have a look on her face that could not be mistaken for anything other than a smile. And she’d have spunk; she’d never run under the couch wimpily when company came over. Instead, she’d meow graciously at them and set herself upon their laps, charmingly purring and looking up at them coquettishly. This cat, I had decided, would be the feline version of me. I would name her Ruby. Ben and I arrived at the pet adoption fair 15 minutes after it had begun. On our way in, we saw a happy couple passing holding a cardboard box with holes cut out of it and pitiful mewls issuing from it. They smiled at us, and we all chuckled at their terrified new pet’s screeching. This only made me more excited, and even Ben, never one to betray perceivable emotion, seemed mildly interested. Little did we know. All of the kittens were gone. Not a one remained. There were plenty of dogs in cheerful yellow felt capes with the phrase “Take me home today!” printed on the back. But kittens were not an option. I was in tears, and Ben saw fit to pat me on the back and suggest brunch. On the way there, we ran into a couple who Ben knew, and they suggested that we check out a local veterinarian who offered some cats for adoption. After eating in order to raise my blood pressure to the point where I would not weep bitterly on the spot, Ben and I took off to the veterinary office. The window of the vet’s offices displayed a bunch of cubbyholes from floor to ceiling. There were no metal cages, and the cats were able to roam about. One cat, a gray Siamese mix, regarded us coolly from her perch, where her tail hung down and in doing so, provided a chubby calico with a toy to bat at. One grey tabby walked back and forth, silently meowing at us through the glass. These were patients of the clinic, and I liked that they were treated so well. This place seemed like it would do. We went inside. I asked the receptionist about any cats for potential adoptions. She started to shake her head, but then, called in a vet’s aide, who reminded her that yes, there was one cat that was available. The receptionist pulled out some papers and gave me some information. This kitten was older; 6 months to be exact. He had been abandoned at a low cost spay & neuter clinic (his previous owners were at least half responsible). He was shy. Would I like to see him? I was uncertain. I had wanted a younger cat, and I wasn’t sure about a male, either (sexist, but true). Plus, he sounded like he may have a less than desirable personality, which I was concerned about. Ben tilted his head at me kindly and suggested I take a look at the cat, just to see. I nodded, not quite convinced but feeling guilty for being so dismissive of this one animal out of thousands in need. The receptionist disappeared into the back of the office momentarily. I sat down, held Ben’s hand and felt torn. And then I saw him. The receptionist had him in her arms, and he looked terrified. His yellow eyes bugged open, and he shrunk his tiny body against her chest. She walked up to me and said, “Now you can get to know him and see if he’s a good fit”. I reached out and put my hands around his heaving rib cage. I could feel his little heart beating frantically against my palm. I placed him gently on my lap. He looked up into my eyes for just a second, and then, shivering, burrowed in between my arm and my side, trying to meld himself into me. Like a four legged ostrich, he shoved his head under the hem of my down vest to hide. And he broke my heart, just like that. Without any hesitation, this tiny creature had demanded that I hold and comfort him. And how could I say no to him? My eyes teared up and I whispered to him, “It’s going to be OK, little guy. It’s all going to be OK now.” Ben was up at the reception desk, making polite conversation with the receptionist in a shared attempt by both of them to give me some privacy while I evaluated the kitten. Now, the receptionist peered from around Ben and asked politely, “OK, so maybe you can think about it-“ “I think I’ll take him” I said, cutting her off. Ben laughed, surprised by my sudden certainty. I filled out all the papers, Ben paid the vet’s adoption fees as a Valentine’s Treat, and we loaded the kitten into the recycled carrier and started back home. Ben, saddled with a giant bag of cat food in one hand and a bag of toys in the other, laughed as the kitten cried miserably. I had decided to name him Nigel, and no matter how much I tried to soothe him, he wailed in utter horror. I cooed to him, “I promise, you’re OK now, Nigel. You’re mine, and it’s all OK now.” And I hope Nigel knew I meant it.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Typing the word "inevitably" just made me think way back when to that disturbing commercial for "Circus Fun" cereal. I think there was an animated Jimmy Durante creature posing as a spokesperson. Its tagline was to chant, "indubitably!" I wasn't aware that circus staff and the like were in possession of such high IQ's. Or the 6 year olds that cereal is usually being marketed to, for that matter. I can say this: I knew/know who Jimmy Durante is because I saw his likeness in Looney Tunes cartoons. I went online to see if I could find any pictures of this creature, but all I found were references to a clown. Sorry, it's a little too late in the day for that type of malarkey.
I am cat sitting for a friend who is a very wealthy young lady. Being in her house makes me sad, because everything is so elegant. Even the wastebasket is pure silver. I know because I knocked it on my clumsy foot like an oaf. It should be fun to stay over in the fancy apartment with the lovely cat, but it just serves to remind me of how everything in my apartment is crappy. It makes me consider that I have a desk that gives me welts above my elbows whenI type because it's made of particle board, a coach coated in cat fur, and a huge, hideous entertainment center that looks like the fucking set piece that "Miami Vice" forgot.
Plus, I miss my cat (Nigel) when I sleep out. He punishes me when I return by having chewed any type of paper he can get at. Wonder where he learned the passive/aggressive tendencies?
And now, let's dwell: My ex boyfriend would become enraged at me for using that term, passive/aggressive. He said I used it too often & incorrectly. He said I didn't know what it meant. He insisted I stop saying it. So, to be passive/aggressive, I used it even more. I went so far as to shorten it to "PA", which may or may not in the lexicon already, but to me, it was a bright idea for the purpose of any sort of torment. I threw this abbreviation around as much as possible, and his sighing and head shaking became a reward I sought openly.
Even though he acted superior and could be just plain nasty, I miss his companionship. He was a funny guy, even if he was C3-PO.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
You see, unless I can do something exactly right the first time, I don't want to do it AT ALL. I have never said that aloud, mind you. But I catch myself when confronted with a project, postponing indefinitely because I don't want to begin until I've done all the prep work, I don't like my pen, I'm not sure if I can set something up without a template...it's sad.
This is because I am a highly critical, awful person. No really. I am. I tend to be so hard on stuff, that I am terrified to get up and do anything unless it's absolutely perfect from conception. I am afraid to fail, as most of us are...but I'm afraid to fail at typing in that first word.
Next step: being OK with making the kind of fool out of myself that I would openly imitate to the amusement of my hateful yet charming friends.