I don't know about you, kiddies, but 2005 was a nightmare. For every good thing that happened, there were two or three rotten things. We started with the Tsunami, and ended with the strike. Let's see if Dick Clark gets through tomorrow night. And I hope to God Mariah doesn't get pickpocketed. Times Square's never had a live performance out there. It is fitting that it's a New Yorker, though. I hope Tommy Mottola chokes on Thalia's cooking. They do nothing but bad mouth Mariah. Enough negativity, it was a crappy year, ok? Sheesh...
And now, the calendar changes begin. That ink-stained mess on my desk will go into the trash happily. The one in my kitchen will die a forgettable death, and the one near my bedroom will be shredded into confetti. I haven't been so happy to say goodbye to a year since 1988. And that year suuuucked!
Tomorrow will bring some thank you's and farewell's. Dexter's blog is going up Sunday. He's very excited, and his typing has gotten better.
(so I'm a crazy cat lady. shoot me.)
Friday, December 30, 2005
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
What a Difference a Week Makes
Well, I took the train in again this morning after a glorious three-day weekend. I'm sick, but it's not bothering me. After a week of slogging thru bridges, Queens, Long Island and generally walking a 15 mile total for last Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday? I can't believe I don't have pneumonia let alone a simple head cold.
Christmas Eve and the day itself were lovely: roast chicken and potatoes one night, a ginger and o.j. ham the next. I've been cooking up a storm since my oven is clean and without the ghost smells of dinners past. There were no dramatic drunks this year. No narcissistic assholes ruining my patience, no drama queen histrionics, no re-gifting, no racism, no NOTHING. It was quiet, peaceful, and filled with gifts. Mom shopped for me and I for her. That was it. We put all our money on each other and haven't gotten into one fight yet. This is quite a turn for us. In years past, we'd be at each other's throats on the second day in my kitchen. But 2005, in all of its strange ugliness, has allowed for one simple thing: we have seen it all this year so we'd better appreciate each other. It's now or never.
2005 began with the Tsunami and ended with the MTA strike. I'm a conspiracy theorist at heart; I wouldn't doubt that one last crappy thing could erupt from now until December 31. It was a year of lies, deceit, this ridiculous war we're in, Katrina, Rita, The Commander in Chimp's wiretaps, and an overall loss of hope, I feel. Everyone I've spoken to is happy for 2006. We all can't wait to get there, and most of my friends don't even consider New Year's a real holiday. It's counting backwards, getting champagne, and buying a new calendar. Entropy is the way of the universe, but it's been difficult to take, kiddies. Everything seems to be breaking down, crumbling, falling apart. It HAS to get better. How much more can we fall down?
I've learned a lot this year and I'm grateful. As hard as swallowing the truth is, I know I need it. I'm not giving up, though. And no stupid resolutions this coming year, either. Why should I beat myself up when that's all I saw going on around me in 2005? Plenty of boxing matches are still in my head from 2005. No need to take those with me.
New Job, Knits, BARC center in Williamsburg, more skating, Pilates, Bowery Mission. Those are the things I'll spend my time on in 2006.
(and when I step on the D train, I'll breathe a sigh of relief. They still don't have a contract!)
Christmas Eve and the day itself were lovely: roast chicken and potatoes one night, a ginger and o.j. ham the next. I've been cooking up a storm since my oven is clean and without the ghost smells of dinners past. There were no dramatic drunks this year. No narcissistic assholes ruining my patience, no drama queen histrionics, no re-gifting, no racism, no NOTHING. It was quiet, peaceful, and filled with gifts. Mom shopped for me and I for her. That was it. We put all our money on each other and haven't gotten into one fight yet. This is quite a turn for us. In years past, we'd be at each other's throats on the second day in my kitchen. But 2005, in all of its strange ugliness, has allowed for one simple thing: we have seen it all this year so we'd better appreciate each other. It's now or never.
2005 began with the Tsunami and ended with the MTA strike. I'm a conspiracy theorist at heart; I wouldn't doubt that one last crappy thing could erupt from now until December 31. It was a year of lies, deceit, this ridiculous war we're in, Katrina, Rita, The Commander in Chimp's wiretaps, and an overall loss of hope, I feel. Everyone I've spoken to is happy for 2006. We all can't wait to get there, and most of my friends don't even consider New Year's a real holiday. It's counting backwards, getting champagne, and buying a new calendar. Entropy is the way of the universe, but it's been difficult to take, kiddies. Everything seems to be breaking down, crumbling, falling apart. It HAS to get better. How much more can we fall down?
I've learned a lot this year and I'm grateful. As hard as swallowing the truth is, I know I need it. I'm not giving up, though. And no stupid resolutions this coming year, either. Why should I beat myself up when that's all I saw going on around me in 2005? Plenty of boxing matches are still in my head from 2005. No need to take those with me.
New Job, Knits, BARC center in Williamsburg, more skating, Pilates, Bowery Mission. Those are the things I'll spend my time on in 2006.
(and when I step on the D train, I'll breathe a sigh of relief. They still don't have a contract!)
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Day Three, Hee Hee
Yup, it's complete madness. I'm loving every minute of it! Threats of Toussaint going to jail have erupted, and they won't go back to negotiations until pension talks are taken off the table. MTA's not supposed to put pensions back in any of it, but they could've headed off this problem months ago. They didn't want to. Pataki also doesn't want to overhaul NYC/NYS pensions, which is why we're in this mess to begin with. Who do ya think's subsidizing all this MTA money? The NYC taxpayers, of course.
Pataki didn't want to touch pensions since it could hurt him politically. I say since he's out of the governor's race, it's his fault for not putting in his two cents since it doesn't matter. He was voted in for the death penalty, and he hasn't done a damn thing for New Yorkers other than appointing the MTA board whose fucking us and the TWU as I write this. Who does Pataki take care of? Albany, yes. His lobbyist friends, yes. Other Republicans, yes. New York State may be Republican, but the vast immigrant, blue-collar majority in NYC and the five boroughs are Democrats. Cuomo would have NEVER let this happen, pain in the ass that he was.
And for those of you bitching, let me remind you that Peter Kalikow (head of the MTA) lives in Westchester, takes a limo to work, and made almost $300,000 last year. You think he'll cut his own salary? PUHHLEASE. The last round of TWU contract talks in 2002 brought the same retirement age, and a flimsy $1,000 bonus. And what happened? Two months later, there was a breaking news story about how the MTA "found" money to the tune of a $27 million surplus. How do you cry poorhouse and then turn around and find millions? Is there some secret mattress being stuffed at 347 Madison Avenue? How the fuck do you justify this?!!!
Now the MTA's got a billion dollar surplus and the riding public (mostly middle class, poor, and not white) gets the stupid carrot-on-a-stick bullshit deal of $1 fares on the weekends knowing they'll yank the fare again in 2007. What's next? $3.25 per ride? I'll bet any amount of money that's the fare. Mark my words. Crap, I tell you. That billion surplus should have been kept out of the press releases and put on the table with the TWU FIRST. Transparent accounting is all we want, and the MTA fails to provide this time and time again. It just sucks, plain and simple.
And for those of you that say Fire Them All--the same things they are striking against used to be the norm for a lot of workers. Break every union there is and watch any standard whatsoever go down the toilet. The days of the Robber Barons have returned with a vengeance, kiddies. Symbolically what the TWU represents is what workers used to get across the board. As we well know, times have changed. And not for the better. I may seem unabashedly pro-union--which I'm not, they DO annoy me with breaks and coffee and 15 minutes here and 7% raises there--but this time, the facts are in. The TWU deserves more. Plain and simple. Pataki, the MTA, and Kalikow are completely to blame this time.
I'll be on the yellow bus today. Again. Merry (?) Christmas.
Pataki didn't want to touch pensions since it could hurt him politically. I say since he's out of the governor's race, it's his fault for not putting in his two cents since it doesn't matter. He was voted in for the death penalty, and he hasn't done a damn thing for New Yorkers other than appointing the MTA board whose fucking us and the TWU as I write this. Who does Pataki take care of? Albany, yes. His lobbyist friends, yes. Other Republicans, yes. New York State may be Republican, but the vast immigrant, blue-collar majority in NYC and the five boroughs are Democrats. Cuomo would have NEVER let this happen, pain in the ass that he was.
And for those of you bitching, let me remind you that Peter Kalikow (head of the MTA) lives in Westchester, takes a limo to work, and made almost $300,000 last year. You think he'll cut his own salary? PUHHLEASE. The last round of TWU contract talks in 2002 brought the same retirement age, and a flimsy $1,000 bonus. And what happened? Two months later, there was a breaking news story about how the MTA "found" money to the tune of a $27 million surplus. How do you cry poorhouse and then turn around and find millions? Is there some secret mattress being stuffed at 347 Madison Avenue? How the fuck do you justify this?!!!
Now the MTA's got a billion dollar surplus and the riding public (mostly middle class, poor, and not white) gets the stupid carrot-on-a-stick bullshit deal of $1 fares on the weekends knowing they'll yank the fare again in 2007. What's next? $3.25 per ride? I'll bet any amount of money that's the fare. Mark my words. Crap, I tell you. That billion surplus should have been kept out of the press releases and put on the table with the TWU FIRST. Transparent accounting is all we want, and the MTA fails to provide this time and time again. It just sucks, plain and simple.
And for those of you that say Fire Them All--the same things they are striking against used to be the norm for a lot of workers. Break every union there is and watch any standard whatsoever go down the toilet. The days of the Robber Barons have returned with a vengeance, kiddies. Symbolically what the TWU represents is what workers used to get across the board. As we well know, times have changed. And not for the better. I may seem unabashedly pro-union--which I'm not, they DO annoy me with breaks and coffee and 15 minutes here and 7% raises there--but this time, the facts are in. The TWU deserves more. Plain and simple. Pataki, the MTA, and Kalikow are completely to blame this time.
I'll be on the yellow bus today. Again. Merry (?) Christmas.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round
Not on time, though.
Yes, kiddies, we're in the middle of a strike. The first strike in 25 years! In a typical punk ass move, my lovely job sent an unheated school bus to pick us (all four of us) up in the boroughs. Since so many execs live in NJ and CT, why should they worry about us in Brooklyn, the Bronx, Staten Island and Queens? New York City is a one-borough place, Manhattan. Those other four boroughs are just cheap uneducated immigrant hacks who don't deserve to breathe the same air. $30,000 is enough salary for us and every new union member. Fuck us all if we can't pay our rent, right? EVIL, I TELL YOU. No cost-of-living, no tax calculation, no pension addition, no real 401K math, no matching funds. If you ain't rich, here's a violin. Go play the sad song somewhere else.
So, I had to walk 1.5 miles in 23 degree frigidity at 7:20 this morning to wait for 45 minutes for a driver who didn't know what the hell he was doing. You can't spell cheap without "AP"! And of course, we're supposed to be here no matter what. Gotta remind the working masses who makes money and who doesn't. No map, no CB radio, not even a cell phone. But he was a Johnny Goomba guy--at least his hair looked good. Other companies get chartered Academy or True Line Greyhound-type buses with bathrooms and working heat. We got a shitty broken-down yellow school bus that special ed kids would protest. But I'm supposed to be grateful. That's like saying, "Well, I might have gotten shot twice, but at least the gunman didn't punch or stab me." PUUUHHHHHHLEASE!!!
After last week's "test" at MTA's headquarters, I can see--and I do support--the reasons why they decided to strike. Incompetence, miscommunication, profligate spending, and sheer mismanagement adds up to a bloated sense of power. Abuse of power, really. Toussaint? C'est vouloir, le pouloir--where there's a will, there's a way. I told people he wasn't fooling around--you just don't mess with an angry union boss who happens to be from Brooklyn. Both my parents were union: Mom for 1199, Dad from Graphics Local 2.
Could this be the last great union taking a stand? I think so. Everything, oh everything, is corporate these days. Money at the top, slim pickins for every one else. Throw in a few vacation days and some healthcare, and that's the American way. Not the American Dream, but the American Way. Europe is laughing at us.
It's time for me to go back to reading Ray Bradbury and maybe Aldus Huxley. There are bigger things at stake than me having to listen to yuppies bitch while I still have no money. When you're stinking rich and privileged? It's gauche to speak of dollar signs. Me? I have nothing. A loaded gun wouldn't get me $40,000 at this point. My pride has been broken, but not my spirit. Bonne Natale, Toussaint!
Personally, I'm loving every minute of it.
Yes, kiddies, we're in the middle of a strike. The first strike in 25 years! In a typical punk ass move, my lovely job sent an unheated school bus to pick us (all four of us) up in the boroughs. Since so many execs live in NJ and CT, why should they worry about us in Brooklyn, the Bronx, Staten Island and Queens? New York City is a one-borough place, Manhattan. Those other four boroughs are just cheap uneducated immigrant hacks who don't deserve to breathe the same air. $30,000 is enough salary for us and every new union member. Fuck us all if we can't pay our rent, right? EVIL, I TELL YOU. No cost-of-living, no tax calculation, no pension addition, no real 401K math, no matching funds. If you ain't rich, here's a violin. Go play the sad song somewhere else.
So, I had to walk 1.5 miles in 23 degree frigidity at 7:20 this morning to wait for 45 minutes for a driver who didn't know what the hell he was doing. You can't spell cheap without "AP"! And of course, we're supposed to be here no matter what. Gotta remind the working masses who makes money and who doesn't. No map, no CB radio, not even a cell phone. But he was a Johnny Goomba guy--at least his hair looked good. Other companies get chartered Academy or True Line Greyhound-type buses with bathrooms and working heat. We got a shitty broken-down yellow school bus that special ed kids would protest. But I'm supposed to be grateful. That's like saying, "Well, I might have gotten shot twice, but at least the gunman didn't punch or stab me." PUUUHHHHHHLEASE!!!
After last week's "test" at MTA's headquarters, I can see--and I do support--the reasons why they decided to strike. Incompetence, miscommunication, profligate spending, and sheer mismanagement adds up to a bloated sense of power. Abuse of power, really. Toussaint? C'est vouloir, le pouloir--where there's a will, there's a way. I told people he wasn't fooling around--you just don't mess with an angry union boss who happens to be from Brooklyn. Both my parents were union: Mom for 1199, Dad from Graphics Local 2.
Could this be the last great union taking a stand? I think so. Everything, oh everything, is corporate these days. Money at the top, slim pickins for every one else. Throw in a few vacation days and some healthcare, and that's the American way. Not the American Dream, but the American Way. Europe is laughing at us.
It's time for me to go back to reading Ray Bradbury and maybe Aldus Huxley. There are bigger things at stake than me having to listen to yuppies bitch while I still have no money. When you're stinking rich and privileged? It's gauche to speak of dollar signs. Me? I have nothing. A loaded gun wouldn't get me $40,000 at this point. My pride has been broken, but not my spirit. Bonne Natale, Toussaint!
Personally, I'm loving every minute of it.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Ankles We Have Heard on High
Mine are covered in pine needles. No, seriously. My tree is here!
Blash and her hubby drove to two different Home Depots for me (I didn't even ask--good lord) and ended up at my previous spot of Xmas Tree Bliss on 65th & 4th Avenue. They brought me home an 8.5 foot monster that would make Drosselmyer proud! All of this before 10 am, mind you. I felt weird about calling them so early on a Sunday, although I was up at 8:30 am again, and filled with excitement. I can't believe the size of this thing--$70 well spent. Home Depot ran out and had only pathetic 5 ft Charlie Brown rejects. It ain't Christmas unless the damn thing hits my 11 ft ceiling, kiddies.
THEY HAD TO SNAP OFF THE TOP, THE ANGEL WOULDN'T FIT. Now that's big.
2.5 gallons of water later, and it's good to go. Miss Muffin is 16 years old today, and even she's sitting there in awe, whiskers askew.
They arrived, they drove fast. They thought nothing of it. No bitching, no moaning, no "what about me" whiny bullshit. My god, what a change! Someone that does something nice for me without expecting anything in return. Pardon me while I pick myself off the floor from SHOCK. Can you hear me now? I'M ACTUALLY PROCLAIMING MY THANKS AND HAPPINESS. God, kiddies, when does that happen?
And since this morning, I've been sitting here doing crappy bank and job stuff. My 8.5 monster's going to have to settle down before the lights, fezzidings, whatnots and whoozibumples go on the tree (yes, I watched Dr. Seuss last night). My rent's going to be late again, but when's the last time it was on time? Certainly not with my crappo job. A lovely sinus headache bent me in two Friday, so I stayed home. They'll accuse me of lying, of course. Pinochet goes into the hospital vomiting and gets an "I hope you feel better." My heart palpitates, I get the flu, or go into the bends of a low-blood sugar crash and I get the "Stop bullshitting you hypochrondriac" sneer. FUCK THESE PEOPLE. I HATE THEM. It only makes me love good decent humans like Blash and her family even more passionately.
With the current MTA shenanigans resetting that happy lil strike "clock", let's see if I don't get a replay of last week. I did buy new sneakers, so I guess I'll just walk over the bridge. Then, like the bitch that I will be, I'll take the next day off citing, of course, that I live the furthest away and there was nothing running. I also don't make enough money to take a cab. They don't pay me enough. More ammo to throw in their faces.
But who cares? Someone did something nice for me today. My tree is gorgeous, and my apartment is deliciously organized.
I love Christmas. To hell with those who'd try and ruin it for me.
pbbbtthhhbbbbtttt on you!
Blash and her hubby drove to two different Home Depots for me (I didn't even ask--good lord) and ended up at my previous spot of Xmas Tree Bliss on 65th & 4th Avenue. They brought me home an 8.5 foot monster that would make Drosselmyer proud! All of this before 10 am, mind you. I felt weird about calling them so early on a Sunday, although I was up at 8:30 am again, and filled with excitement. I can't believe the size of this thing--$70 well spent. Home Depot ran out and had only pathetic 5 ft Charlie Brown rejects. It ain't Christmas unless the damn thing hits my 11 ft ceiling, kiddies.
THEY HAD TO SNAP OFF THE TOP, THE ANGEL WOULDN'T FIT. Now that's big.
2.5 gallons of water later, and it's good to go. Miss Muffin is 16 years old today, and even she's sitting there in awe, whiskers askew.
They arrived, they drove fast. They thought nothing of it. No bitching, no moaning, no "what about me" whiny bullshit. My god, what a change! Someone that does something nice for me without expecting anything in return. Pardon me while I pick myself off the floor from SHOCK. Can you hear me now? I'M ACTUALLY PROCLAIMING MY THANKS AND HAPPINESS. God, kiddies, when does that happen?
And since this morning, I've been sitting here doing crappy bank and job stuff. My 8.5 monster's going to have to settle down before the lights, fezzidings, whatnots and whoozibumples go on the tree (yes, I watched Dr. Seuss last night). My rent's going to be late again, but when's the last time it was on time? Certainly not with my crappo job. A lovely sinus headache bent me in two Friday, so I stayed home. They'll accuse me of lying, of course. Pinochet goes into the hospital vomiting and gets an "I hope you feel better." My heart palpitates, I get the flu, or go into the bends of a low-blood sugar crash and I get the "Stop bullshitting you hypochrondriac" sneer. FUCK THESE PEOPLE. I HATE THEM. It only makes me love good decent humans like Blash and her family even more passionately.
With the current MTA shenanigans resetting that happy lil strike "clock", let's see if I don't get a replay of last week. I did buy new sneakers, so I guess I'll just walk over the bridge. Then, like the bitch that I will be, I'll take the next day off citing, of course, that I live the furthest away and there was nothing running. I also don't make enough money to take a cab. They don't pay me enough. More ammo to throw in their faces.
But who cares? Someone did something nice for me today. My tree is gorgeous, and my apartment is deliciously organized.
I love Christmas. To hell with those who'd try and ruin it for me.
pbbbtthhhbbbbtttt on you!
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Blorange Saves the Day!
Well, actually, she's Bl-ash now. Blorange and ash makes Blash, her newest hair color. She and her husband have chipped in to help me get my Christmas tree, which is why I'm up so early. I've been up since 7:02 a.m. Shocking considering this is a Saturday, but a combo draft + weird John Cusack dream got me out of bed really early.
The dream consisted of a pseudo-Danny set-up, where a beat-up car barely worked and I had to help out. (For those of you who don't know Danny, that pretty much sums up his last two cars.) The car, a beat up LeMans with a crappy dashboard radio, went rolling down a hill and I went after it. I expected to see Danny, but instead I saw Cusack instead. Very un-"Serendipity." A blast of cold air got me out of bed. Off to coffee, Amaretto creamer, and feeding chubby fuzzers. Dexter and Muffin have back-to-back birthdays this weekend! Mr. Boo is 13 on December 19, and Ms. Poofski Puddins is 16 tomorrow. Ahh, the teenage years. So sweet.
What really shocks me is an actual married couple NOT writing me off. Where the hell Andy and his wife ended up? Beats me. It's also nice to have someone with a car not bitching that they're helping me at all. I'm not used to being treated with such respect. I truly appreciate this, I do. I am the last of the Mohicans still trying to survive in New York. How strange that is. I am also waiting to see if this strike pans out. Gotta love the MTA.
Speaking of the MTA, that test on Wednesday was a JOKE. It consisted of a "common sense" test of (oh god, can I write this without laughing madly???) spelling, and taking detailed phone messages. How many spelling bees did I win? I remember fondly standing in the auditorium of St. Mary's church in February 1985 during the Diocesan Championships fucking up the word "poplar" because I thought the guy said "popUlar." I did get "anesthesia" and "Blitzkrieg", which still makes me proud. As for common sense, if I've outlasted Pinochet, Ghetto Cow and Princess Brat, obviously I'm doing ok. What got me? The typing test.
Yes, the typing test.
The MTA, in their infinite "standards", wanted 98% accuracy and 55 words per minute. What was my score? 95% accuracy and 54 words per minute. They refused to let me interview based on this. Nice, huh? Apparently, I'm an idiot. Where the HELL are you gonna get 95% accuracy? Typing at home on this here blog and typing constantly on a Dell PC at work, maybe? NUh UHHH, not good enough. I hope Toussaint strikes if these are the types of idiots he has to deal with. Crap, I tell you.
Let's see if the mayor's office wants me. Screw these agencies, they're wasting my time. I'm beginning to think I wasn't made for this world. Maybe Mars or Pluto would be a good place to work?
Grrrr.....
But in two hours, I'll have my Home Depot Christmas tree! The Druids would be proud. And yes, it's a CHRISTMAS TREE, not a holiday tree. The ACLU can shut their mouths now....
(and Meg, I LOVED the card, so funky and elegant. Your's is on the way!)
The dream consisted of a pseudo-Danny set-up, where a beat-up car barely worked and I had to help out. (For those of you who don't know Danny, that pretty much sums up his last two cars.) The car, a beat up LeMans with a crappy dashboard radio, went rolling down a hill and I went after it. I expected to see Danny, but instead I saw Cusack instead. Very un-"Serendipity." A blast of cold air got me out of bed. Off to coffee, Amaretto creamer, and feeding chubby fuzzers. Dexter and Muffin have back-to-back birthdays this weekend! Mr. Boo is 13 on December 19, and Ms. Poofski Puddins is 16 tomorrow. Ahh, the teenage years. So sweet.
What really shocks me is an actual married couple NOT writing me off. Where the hell Andy and his wife ended up? Beats me. It's also nice to have someone with a car not bitching that they're helping me at all. I'm not used to being treated with such respect. I truly appreciate this, I do. I am the last of the Mohicans still trying to survive in New York. How strange that is. I am also waiting to see if this strike pans out. Gotta love the MTA.
Speaking of the MTA, that test on Wednesday was a JOKE. It consisted of a "common sense" test of (oh god, can I write this without laughing madly???) spelling, and taking detailed phone messages. How many spelling bees did I win? I remember fondly standing in the auditorium of St. Mary's church in February 1985 during the Diocesan Championships fucking up the word "poplar" because I thought the guy said "popUlar." I did get "anesthesia" and "Blitzkrieg", which still makes me proud. As for common sense, if I've outlasted Pinochet, Ghetto Cow and Princess Brat, obviously I'm doing ok. What got me? The typing test.
Yes, the typing test.
The MTA, in their infinite "standards", wanted 98% accuracy and 55 words per minute. What was my score? 95% accuracy and 54 words per minute. They refused to let me interview based on this. Nice, huh? Apparently, I'm an idiot. Where the HELL are you gonna get 95% accuracy? Typing at home on this here blog and typing constantly on a Dell PC at work, maybe? NUh UHHH, not good enough. I hope Toussaint strikes if these are the types of idiots he has to deal with. Crap, I tell you.
Let's see if the mayor's office wants me. Screw these agencies, they're wasting my time. I'm beginning to think I wasn't made for this world. Maybe Mars or Pluto would be a good place to work?
Grrrr.....
But in two hours, I'll have my Home Depot Christmas tree! The Druids would be proud. And yes, it's a CHRISTMAS TREE, not a holiday tree. The ACLU can shut their mouths now....
(and Meg, I LOVED the card, so funky and elegant. Your's is on the way!)
Monday, December 12, 2005
Oink
Why is the title of this segment "Oink"? Why is it brown? Two reasons: first, because the former renters in my apartment were PIGS; second, because brown is the color of grease I cleaned up from my stove yesterday.
In an effort to overhaul my lack of kitchen space, I decided that would be the first room I would de-clutter. Some of the clutter, mind you, is strategic: Kashi acquired the nickname of "Stinky" due to her habit of walking across the microwave and dive-bombing the garbage bin. More than a few nights were spent with me wiping down her fur to remove grease and debris in her kittenhood. Books and papers still sit on the microwave to block her Feline Kamikaze urges. The cabinets and stove were another matter entirely.
My stove emits a faint yet recognizable smell of things past-cooked. This drives me mad, so I decided to pull the damn thing away from the wall. Well, whaddya know! Nothing but a demarcation of grease upon old linoleum. I proceed to slop oil soap on the floor and mop fiendishly. Then, I washed down the wall with Formula 409. Two rolls of paper towels vanished. Next came the fun part--I opened the stove door-- and at that angle, I noticed it didn't open "down" fully. Hmmm...what's with the door...SPLAT. A nice dried chunk of brown grease fell from the side "clutch". Creaking and groaning all the way. Where's my WD-40? On the counter. I spray. Rust drips. And some more. And another chunk of grease plops off. This door is worse than I thought.
Ok. I'll just take the door off.
This led to me looking in the broiler. More grease. And interestingly, feathers and ash. Were these people doing santeria over the bottom compartment? Were mice and rats dressed as chickens for Halloween? WHAT THE HELL IS THAT????? So, I continue.
These people were pigs. I'm messy. THIS was something else entirely.
An full canister of Lysol scrubbing wipes--Gone. Two sponges covered in brown muck--Tattered. 4? 5? Brillo pads--Used until the pink 'soap' turned rusty. A bucket filled with hot water was rinsed--Twice. It was now well past 6 pm. I started cleaning at 2 pm. (Half my kitchen is still a wreck.) Then the mop snapped (damn plastic) when I tried to clean the rest of the floor. Grrrr....
With that, I went out at 7 pm to get the Sunday paper and to grab some pizza. My hands were cut from the spring of the oven door and itchy from all those cleaning products. My back hurt. My legs hurt. I couldn't even find a decent replacement mop. So, to hell with it--off I went to Circles restaurant to get a Czarina Sauce with Shrimp.
A "Czarina" consists of a three-pepper cream sauce with fried eggplant, shrimp sauteed in white wine, butter, julienned zucchini and carrots, and sliced onions with flecks of fresh black peppercorns over a bed of white rice. The dish is more N'awlins than Russian, so its name still boggles me. All I know is it hit the spot.
I came home, sat down, deflected Dexter and Kashi from running off with the shrimp and proceeded to sneer at my kitchen floor. My half-dirty kitchen floor.
Tonight, I will try and finish the floor. The 99 cent stores must have a cheapo mop somewhere.
But first, I'm heading over to 66th and Madison to see Barney's windows. Simon Doonan did a send up of the royal family I simply must see.
And of course, I can admire my spotless oven. How do people clean their entire homes in one day? I can't even finish a kitchen.
I wonder if those two British women wanna come by and bring their "team"? Door's open...
In an effort to overhaul my lack of kitchen space, I decided that would be the first room I would de-clutter. Some of the clutter, mind you, is strategic: Kashi acquired the nickname of "Stinky" due to her habit of walking across the microwave and dive-bombing the garbage bin. More than a few nights were spent with me wiping down her fur to remove grease and debris in her kittenhood. Books and papers still sit on the microwave to block her Feline Kamikaze urges. The cabinets and stove were another matter entirely.
My stove emits a faint yet recognizable smell of things past-cooked. This drives me mad, so I decided to pull the damn thing away from the wall. Well, whaddya know! Nothing but a demarcation of grease upon old linoleum. I proceed to slop oil soap on the floor and mop fiendishly. Then, I washed down the wall with Formula 409. Two rolls of paper towels vanished. Next came the fun part--I opened the stove door-- and at that angle, I noticed it didn't open "down" fully. Hmmm...what's with the door...SPLAT. A nice dried chunk of brown grease fell from the side "clutch". Creaking and groaning all the way. Where's my WD-40? On the counter. I spray. Rust drips. And some more. And another chunk of grease plops off. This door is worse than I thought.
Ok. I'll just take the door off.
This led to me looking in the broiler. More grease. And interestingly, feathers and ash. Were these people doing santeria over the bottom compartment? Were mice and rats dressed as chickens for Halloween? WHAT THE HELL IS THAT????? So, I continue.
These people were pigs. I'm messy. THIS was something else entirely.
An full canister of Lysol scrubbing wipes--Gone. Two sponges covered in brown muck--Tattered. 4? 5? Brillo pads--Used until the pink 'soap' turned rusty. A bucket filled with hot water was rinsed--Twice. It was now well past 6 pm. I started cleaning at 2 pm. (Half my kitchen is still a wreck.) Then the mop snapped (damn plastic) when I tried to clean the rest of the floor. Grrrr....
With that, I went out at 7 pm to get the Sunday paper and to grab some pizza. My hands were cut from the spring of the oven door and itchy from all those cleaning products. My back hurt. My legs hurt. I couldn't even find a decent replacement mop. So, to hell with it--off I went to Circles restaurant to get a Czarina Sauce with Shrimp.
A "Czarina" consists of a three-pepper cream sauce with fried eggplant, shrimp sauteed in white wine, butter, julienned zucchini and carrots, and sliced onions with flecks of fresh black peppercorns over a bed of white rice. The dish is more N'awlins than Russian, so its name still boggles me. All I know is it hit the spot.
I came home, sat down, deflected Dexter and Kashi from running off with the shrimp and proceeded to sneer at my kitchen floor. My half-dirty kitchen floor.
Tonight, I will try and finish the floor. The 99 cent stores must have a cheapo mop somewhere.
But first, I'm heading over to 66th and Madison to see Barney's windows. Simon Doonan did a send up of the royal family I simply must see.
And of course, I can admire my spotless oven. How do people clean their entire homes in one day? I can't even finish a kitchen.
I wonder if those two British women wanna come by and bring their "team"? Door's open...
Friday, December 9, 2005
Snow? You Call this Snow???
Feh.
Here I am, up at 5:30 am this morning, trying to beat the rush and get to the rink, but it just ain't happening. No bus. Trains are flooded (I'm sure it's a trick due to the potential strike.) No taxis.
I have time for a shower, coffee, and some toast. Dexter's got a runny nose, Kashi's sneezing, and my shade fell down. Let's see if I can get that plastic thingie to work so I have privacy to my windows. My curtains are really dusty, too. Gotta throw them in the wash tomorrow.
I make it past ground zero (which only has one lane due to Cortlandt Street's reconstruction)and sit in slushy traffic. Finally, at 8th Street, I realize there's no taxis. I walk to 14th. No way in hell am I getting to the rink this morning. I was reallllly itching to get on the 8 am session and fly for 45 minutes. ARRRGGGHHH
So, I get back on the F train. In the wrong direction. I transfer and make my way to work at 9:15 am. So much for my wondrous morning.
And now, it's sunny outside. So much for the Four Horsemen of Winter kicking NYC around like a football. So stupid.
Conchita Maria Godessa Punaney is nowhere to be found. A nice email from her son or boyfriend sits in my co-worker's email. Of course, my email address is incorrect. She doesn't listen. Why should she? I'm smart. And fat. Two things her culture won't hear of and two things that mine prize and accept. Impasse, as the French say.
All I can say is, I want to see Harry Potter and Narnia. Lou Lemmenick from that disgusting fish-wrapper New York Post didn't like the movie. He also admitted in yesterday's "critque" that he read the book after he saw the film. Um, that's really fucking stupid. And ignorant. Wait a minute, this is the New York Post I'm talking about. Never mind.
Let's hope my weekend's better than today.
Here I am, up at 5:30 am this morning, trying to beat the rush and get to the rink, but it just ain't happening. No bus. Trains are flooded (I'm sure it's a trick due to the potential strike.) No taxis.
I have time for a shower, coffee, and some toast. Dexter's got a runny nose, Kashi's sneezing, and my shade fell down. Let's see if I can get that plastic thingie to work so I have privacy to my windows. My curtains are really dusty, too. Gotta throw them in the wash tomorrow.
I make it past ground zero (which only has one lane due to Cortlandt Street's reconstruction)and sit in slushy traffic. Finally, at 8th Street, I realize there's no taxis. I walk to 14th. No way in hell am I getting to the rink this morning. I was reallllly itching to get on the 8 am session and fly for 45 minutes. ARRRGGGHHH
So, I get back on the F train. In the wrong direction. I transfer and make my way to work at 9:15 am. So much for my wondrous morning.
And now, it's sunny outside. So much for the Four Horsemen of Winter kicking NYC around like a football. So stupid.
Conchita Maria Godessa Punaney is nowhere to be found. A nice email from her son or boyfriend sits in my co-worker's email. Of course, my email address is incorrect. She doesn't listen. Why should she? I'm smart. And fat. Two things her culture won't hear of and two things that mine prize and accept. Impasse, as the French say.
All I can say is, I want to see Harry Potter and Narnia. Lou Lemmenick from that disgusting fish-wrapper New York Post didn't like the movie. He also admitted in yesterday's "critque" that he read the book after he saw the film. Um, that's really fucking stupid. And ignorant. Wait a minute, this is the New York Post I'm talking about. Never mind.
Let's hope my weekend's better than today.
Thursday, December 8, 2005
25 Years
Without him. Lennon, of course. What music would he have made? How would Sean and Julian’s lives have changed? What would he be now?
How vividly I remember the tears, the reactions, the news of that night. It was warmer than the typical December, but it started snowing right after midnight. I remember not being able to sleep. He had turned 40 on October 9. My dad turned 45 on October 10. I knew he wasn’t really old at all, being so close in age. Everyone in my family made a big deal about turning 50, not 40.
Dawn and I were up very late that night, and she was playing with me in my room. We heard the news from my tiny black and white television. Both our heads popped up. He meant something to us since we followed Yellow Submarine religiously every year. My father and I loved the Blue Meanies. My mother never cared for the Beatles, but when she heard how he was shot, she knew from a nurse’s standpoint that he didn’t have a chance: bullets and vital organs simply don’t mix. She covered her face in her hands and said, “What a horrible way to go.”
As that week continued, I remember the grief, the tears, and the covers of The NY Post and the Daily News. Lennon was proud to be a New Yorker, and we were proud he chose us. He became one of our own. Cab drivers, hot dog vendors, deli owners, barkeeps, cops and shopkeepers all had Lennon sightings. My dad saw him on the Lower East Side in 1978. He came home, sat down with his coat on and stared into space. I asked what was wrong, who was sick, who died? “I just met John Lennon,” he said. I immediately knew what that meant. I sat next to him listening to the sound of my own heart. It was a huge moment. It was late, and cold outside, but I wished I was there. Just that one night. Two years later, my chance had passed.
I heard an incredible eulogy once for a friend whose grandfather died. It went something to the tune of “do we mourn this person? Or do we mourn ourselves?” In Lennon’s case, that isn’t true. We mourn him and what could have been. The selfishness falls in when we think what music would have been recorded, how his career would have swerved and changed. If there had been another son or daughter besides Sean? What would have been his reaction to the Patriot Act? This war? 9/11? Would we have gotten through the excess of the 80’s and the stupidity of Reagan’s trickle-down economics any easier? Would he have been an author? A talk show staple? These are all questions that will go unanswered. Always. He was an icon in life and more so in death.
Let Chapman rot in jail. He’s up for parole next year. I say cancel the hearing now. He should never get out. For taking a father away from his kids, a husband from his wife, a musician from his art, and a man to marvel at for the rest of us mere mortals.
Tonight, it’s set to snow just like it did all those years ago.
It’s a little colder without him.
How vividly I remember the tears, the reactions, the news of that night. It was warmer than the typical December, but it started snowing right after midnight. I remember not being able to sleep. He had turned 40 on October 9. My dad turned 45 on October 10. I knew he wasn’t really old at all, being so close in age. Everyone in my family made a big deal about turning 50, not 40.
Dawn and I were up very late that night, and she was playing with me in my room. We heard the news from my tiny black and white television. Both our heads popped up. He meant something to us since we followed Yellow Submarine religiously every year. My father and I loved the Blue Meanies. My mother never cared for the Beatles, but when she heard how he was shot, she knew from a nurse’s standpoint that he didn’t have a chance: bullets and vital organs simply don’t mix. She covered her face in her hands and said, “What a horrible way to go.”
As that week continued, I remember the grief, the tears, and the covers of The NY Post and the Daily News. Lennon was proud to be a New Yorker, and we were proud he chose us. He became one of our own. Cab drivers, hot dog vendors, deli owners, barkeeps, cops and shopkeepers all had Lennon sightings. My dad saw him on the Lower East Side in 1978. He came home, sat down with his coat on and stared into space. I asked what was wrong, who was sick, who died? “I just met John Lennon,” he said. I immediately knew what that meant. I sat next to him listening to the sound of my own heart. It was a huge moment. It was late, and cold outside, but I wished I was there. Just that one night. Two years later, my chance had passed.
I heard an incredible eulogy once for a friend whose grandfather died. It went something to the tune of “do we mourn this person? Or do we mourn ourselves?” In Lennon’s case, that isn’t true. We mourn him and what could have been. The selfishness falls in when we think what music would have been recorded, how his career would have swerved and changed. If there had been another son or daughter besides Sean? What would have been his reaction to the Patriot Act? This war? 9/11? Would we have gotten through the excess of the 80’s and the stupidity of Reagan’s trickle-down economics any easier? Would he have been an author? A talk show staple? These are all questions that will go unanswered. Always. He was an icon in life and more so in death.
Let Chapman rot in jail. He’s up for parole next year. I say cancel the hearing now. He should never get out. For taking a father away from his kids, a husband from his wife, a musician from his art, and a man to marvel at for the rest of us mere mortals.
Tonight, it’s set to snow just like it did all those years ago.
It’s a little colder without him.
Tuesday, December 6, 2005
Happy Birthday to Andrew!
He's 30 today. Or, as I like to think: 21 with 9 years of experience. Kiss Carmine and Ann for me!
As for me, this will go down as the year I banged myself up the most. Shall we tally 'em up? Why not....both shoulders dislocated, Fibromyalgia in back, shoulders and legs. Continual banging of toes in those psuedo-mukluk boots I should have left on the shelf. Slipped and fell on the ice how many times? 4? 5? Dentist has informed me my TMJ is worse (and I'm grinding my jaw at night), knee swelling (again, what else is new), and my back has turned me into the human knuckle with pops, cracks, creaks, and groans. Either I need a new body, some WD-40, or one of those medeival racks is called for. Yikes.
My latest interview went well--but then again, I don't really know what the hell they're looking for. What I really should say is that I'm satisfied with the kick-ass thank you note I sent. It was absolutely complete. Next week I will be in the belly of the beast--yes, kiddies, the MTA has called. The one agency that has fucked up my life for so long I simply MUST see what their headquarters looks like.
The MTA (Most Terrible Authority) tests huge hunks of people who apply for positions. Things like spelling, grammar, typing. Since I was an English major, I threw back my balding mane of hair like a grizzled lionness and laughed HAH! when I got the call. "That test will take all of 20 minutes for me," I told the woman. Still, with my luck (which is none), I'm sure affirmative action will give the potential position to a ninth grade dropout who lives in Hunt's Point. I applied on a whim, giggling madly as I thought to myself, "They will NEVER contact me." Wow. I was wrong. Surprise, surprise. Let's see if someone here doesn't fuck it up for me. I still have 6 vacation days left, and I'm using all of them. The battle for holiday days will still rage, I'm sure. It's the Bag O'Rocks hangover.
Whatever will they do when I leave? That's getting to be so close. ONLY the jobs I have applied for that are good are contacting me this time around. I've told the agencies to go scratch. I knew I'd have to do the hard work myself. Perhaps if I didn't let them waste my time, I wouldn't be here? No use looking back.
And the next big question: who's gonna lug my Christmas tree home with me this year? God forbid someone with a car actually volunteers to help.
As for me, this will go down as the year I banged myself up the most. Shall we tally 'em up? Why not....both shoulders dislocated, Fibromyalgia in back, shoulders and legs. Continual banging of toes in those psuedo-mukluk boots I should have left on the shelf. Slipped and fell on the ice how many times? 4? 5? Dentist has informed me my TMJ is worse (and I'm grinding my jaw at night), knee swelling (again, what else is new), and my back has turned me into the human knuckle with pops, cracks, creaks, and groans. Either I need a new body, some WD-40, or one of those medeival racks is called for. Yikes.
My latest interview went well--but then again, I don't really know what the hell they're looking for. What I really should say is that I'm satisfied with the kick-ass thank you note I sent. It was absolutely complete. Next week I will be in the belly of the beast--yes, kiddies, the MTA has called. The one agency that has fucked up my life for so long I simply MUST see what their headquarters looks like.
The MTA (Most Terrible Authority) tests huge hunks of people who apply for positions. Things like spelling, grammar, typing. Since I was an English major, I threw back my balding mane of hair like a grizzled lionness and laughed HAH! when I got the call. "That test will take all of 20 minutes for me," I told the woman. Still, with my luck (which is none), I'm sure affirmative action will give the potential position to a ninth grade dropout who lives in Hunt's Point. I applied on a whim, giggling madly as I thought to myself, "They will NEVER contact me." Wow. I was wrong. Surprise, surprise. Let's see if someone here doesn't fuck it up for me. I still have 6 vacation days left, and I'm using all of them. The battle for holiday days will still rage, I'm sure. It's the Bag O'Rocks hangover.
Whatever will they do when I leave? That's getting to be so close. ONLY the jobs I have applied for that are good are contacting me this time around. I've told the agencies to go scratch. I knew I'd have to do the hard work myself. Perhaps if I didn't let them waste my time, I wouldn't be here? No use looking back.
And the next big question: who's gonna lug my Christmas tree home with me this year? God forbid someone with a car actually volunteers to help.
Thursday, December 1, 2005
Longing
Let's not forget it's World AIDS Day.
My skaters, my coaches, my dance teachers, costumers, drag queens, choreographers and others who have left my life, and especially my mother's saddest patient-- April's mother. April went to live with her grandmother. I wonder if she knew her mom was dying in May 1987. AZT did not exist yet. There were no cocktails then. April was told it was cancer. She did not know (but must've suspected) that her mother's drug habit had something to do with it. Her mother had more than a few "boyfriends" and one of them got her hooked on heroin in 1986. I'm surprised she lived as long she did. April was 13 when I met her. My mother worked with social workers to keep the family intact. I haven't heard from April since 1988. She was 14 when her mother died. The same age that my mother lost her mother. Maybe that's why my mother wanted to help her so badly. Proof that she was the best damn nurse that Lutheran Medical Center ever employed. There is no shortcut to the work of the soul.
Gia, John Curry, Rudolph Nureyev, Keith Haring. I can't forget. I can only remember.
It only makes me think of one song...
i've been looking so long at these
pictures of you
that i almost believe that they're real
i've been living so long with my pictures of you
that i almost believe that the pictures
are all i can feel
remembering you standing quiet in the rain
as i ran to your heart to be near
and we kissed as the sky fell in holding you close
how i always held close in your fear
remembering you running soft through the night
you were bigger and brighter and wider than snow
and we screamed at the make-believe
we screamed at the sky
and you finally found all your courage to
let it all go
remembering you fallen into my arms
crying for the death of your heart
you were stone white so delicate lost in the cold
you were always so lost in the dark
remembering you
how you used to be
slow drowned you were
angels so much more than everything
hold for the last time then slip away quietly
open my eyes but i never see anything
if only i'd thought of the right words
i could have held on to your heart
if only i'd thought of the right words
i wouldn't be breaking apart all
my pictures of you
Looking So long at these pictures of you but i
never held on to your heart
looking so long for
the words to be true but always just breaking
apart my pictures of you
there was nothing in the world
that i ever wanted more than to feel you deep in my heart
there was nothing in the world
that i ever wanted more
than to never feel the breaking apart
all my pictures of you
My skaters, my coaches, my dance teachers, costumers, drag queens, choreographers and others who have left my life, and especially my mother's saddest patient-- April's mother. April went to live with her grandmother. I wonder if she knew her mom was dying in May 1987. AZT did not exist yet. There were no cocktails then. April was told it was cancer. She did not know (but must've suspected) that her mother's drug habit had something to do with it. Her mother had more than a few "boyfriends" and one of them got her hooked on heroin in 1986. I'm surprised she lived as long she did. April was 13 when I met her. My mother worked with social workers to keep the family intact. I haven't heard from April since 1988. She was 14 when her mother died. The same age that my mother lost her mother. Maybe that's why my mother wanted to help her so badly. Proof that she was the best damn nurse that Lutheran Medical Center ever employed. There is no shortcut to the work of the soul.
Gia, John Curry, Rudolph Nureyev, Keith Haring. I can't forget. I can only remember.
It only makes me think of one song...
i've been looking so long at these
pictures of you
that i almost believe that they're real
i've been living so long with my pictures of you
that i almost believe that the pictures
are all i can feel
remembering you standing quiet in the rain
as i ran to your heart to be near
and we kissed as the sky fell in holding you close
how i always held close in your fear
remembering you running soft through the night
you were bigger and brighter and wider than snow
and we screamed at the make-believe
we screamed at the sky
and you finally found all your courage to
let it all go
remembering you fallen into my arms
crying for the death of your heart
you were stone white so delicate lost in the cold
you were always so lost in the dark
remembering you
how you used to be
slow drowned you were
angels so much more than everything
hold for the last time then slip away quietly
open my eyes but i never see anything
if only i'd thought of the right words
i could have held on to your heart
if only i'd thought of the right words
i wouldn't be breaking apart all
my pictures of you
Looking So long at these pictures of you but i
never held on to your heart
looking so long for
the words to be true but always just breaking
apart my pictures of you
there was nothing in the world
that i ever wanted more than to feel you deep in my heart
there was nothing in the world
that i ever wanted more
than to never feel the breaking apart
all my pictures of you
copyright 1989
"Distintegration"
words and lyrics by Robert Smith
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Do You Hear What I Hear? Whaaa?
All I hear is Christmas music. True, my radio dial is stuck on 106.7 (crappy alarm clock), but it's still November! Where's Snoopy? Where's George Winston? No Peggy Lee? Faith Hill warbling in that pseudo-style is not my idea of easy listening.
(ahhh...iTunes just kicked into Gino Vanelli. Gotta love a hairy guy that can croon.)
Still, I will dutifully traipse into Manhattan and begin my window shopping--particularly Lord & Taylor--I hear they did Fairy Tales as their Christmas theme this year. I'm also going to stop into that knitting cafe I've read so much about. Let's see if I fare any better than with Gotta Knit that fucked me out of 3 classes in April. Then maybe I can learn to increase and decrease properly. I can only make so many scarves.
And as for the few Pisces that read this here blogeroo, an interesting Jupiter-Uranus link that's happening right now will set things right for us, if we're willing to see the signs. That means taking charge, career changes (ooh! ooh!! Me first!!!), situations involving shifts of power, control and politics will lean ever so slightly in our favor. Like I've always said to my mother (March 13), one door closes for us and another slams shut on our fingers. That's going to change. I felt it Saturday night. Proof?
A huge eBay package was delivered to my door, no bickering (thank god) with the post office on the phone.
A pack of AA batteries that should have cost $2 cost me only $1. The guy didn't even argue, he let me take them!
Two pit bulls that live up the block and usually lunge for me (which makes me go around cars to avoid them) sat quietly as I passed by. One even wagged his little demonic tail.
And the horrible bitch neighbor who constantly complains I'm making noise in the hall died. Yes, died. No, I didn't create a voodoo doll, it was natural causes. I wonder what her 43 year old son will do now. Pay his own rent, maybe?
My chin hasn't broken out in about a week, and Muffin hasn't urped any hairballs.
I like this Jupiter thingie, I do. Keep your eyes open, my little fishie friends! It's gonna be an interesting December........
(ahhh...iTunes just kicked into Gino Vanelli. Gotta love a hairy guy that can croon.)
Still, I will dutifully traipse into Manhattan and begin my window shopping--particularly Lord & Taylor--I hear they did Fairy Tales as their Christmas theme this year. I'm also going to stop into that knitting cafe I've read so much about. Let's see if I fare any better than with Gotta Knit that fucked me out of 3 classes in April. Then maybe I can learn to increase and decrease properly. I can only make so many scarves.
And as for the few Pisces that read this here blogeroo, an interesting Jupiter-Uranus link that's happening right now will set things right for us, if we're willing to see the signs. That means taking charge, career changes (ooh! ooh!! Me first!!!), situations involving shifts of power, control and politics will lean ever so slightly in our favor. Like I've always said to my mother (March 13), one door closes for us and another slams shut on our fingers. That's going to change. I felt it Saturday night. Proof?
A huge eBay package was delivered to my door, no bickering (thank god) with the post office on the phone.
A pack of AA batteries that should have cost $2 cost me only $1. The guy didn't even argue, he let me take them!
Two pit bulls that live up the block and usually lunge for me (which makes me go around cars to avoid them) sat quietly as I passed by. One even wagged his little demonic tail.
And the horrible bitch neighbor who constantly complains I'm making noise in the hall died. Yes, died. No, I didn't create a voodoo doll, it was natural causes. I wonder what her 43 year old son will do now. Pay his own rent, maybe?
My chin hasn't broken out in about a week, and Muffin hasn't urped any hairballs.
I like this Jupiter thingie, I do. Keep your eyes open, my little fishie friends! It's gonna be an interesting December........
Goodbye Romano's
Well, it seems another fave restaurant of mine has bit the dust. Just like La Stella, which is now a Dunkin Donuts. Last night, I read the "Goodbye to all our Patrons" letter posted in the window of Romano's on 13th Avenue after visiting my hair salon to make an appointment (it was closed, dammit.) Romano's last day was October 3. Sigh...
Romano's was there for 70 years in the same spot. I remember how RD and I survived an onslaught of Michael Bolton's painful Christmas songs last year. If this spot becomes a Starbucks or a Duane Reade, I will have to slit my throat. Another great restaurant biting the dust. Is there nothing left of my childhood? How comforting it was to see all the other stores change year after year, but that place remained virtually untouched by time. Another knife to the chest. Billy Joel's "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant" conjured up images of this place for me. Always will. Mozzarella with tomatoes will never be the same, that's for sure. Change is inevitable, but I wasn't prepared for this. Oh well.
Happy news for a change: of all the ice rinks covered by the Daily News yesterday, Rock Center and Abe Stark in Coney Island got NO mention. I have very mixed memories of both. And it seems my favorite window fashionista Simon Doonan has dolled up Bloomingdale's this year with a zing at Charles and Camilla. Saks has done snowflakes, and there are different Nutcrackers all over the boroughs that are getting strong critical reviews. I love it, but Balanchine does get tired. There has been a thinning of the ranks with regards to NYCB principle dancers, so I will just have to see New York THEATER Ballet's version this year.
And I'm off tomorrow! Burning more vacay days. Laundry, and goofing off. I love when Thanksgiving is so early. Technically, it's still November, but the Christmas rush is here. I dig it.
Romano's...thanks for the memories.
Romano's was there for 70 years in the same spot. I remember how RD and I survived an onslaught of Michael Bolton's painful Christmas songs last year. If this spot becomes a Starbucks or a Duane Reade, I will have to slit my throat. Another great restaurant biting the dust. Is there nothing left of my childhood? How comforting it was to see all the other stores change year after year, but that place remained virtually untouched by time. Another knife to the chest. Billy Joel's "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant" conjured up images of this place for me. Always will. Mozzarella with tomatoes will never be the same, that's for sure. Change is inevitable, but I wasn't prepared for this. Oh well.
Happy news for a change: of all the ice rinks covered by the Daily News yesterday, Rock Center and Abe Stark in Coney Island got NO mention. I have very mixed memories of both. And it seems my favorite window fashionista Simon Doonan has dolled up Bloomingdale's this year with a zing at Charles and Camilla. Saks has done snowflakes, and there are different Nutcrackers all over the boroughs that are getting strong critical reviews. I love it, but Balanchine does get tired. There has been a thinning of the ranks with regards to NYCB principle dancers, so I will just have to see New York THEATER Ballet's version this year.
And I'm off tomorrow! Burning more vacay days. Laundry, and goofing off. I love when Thanksgiving is so early. Technically, it's still November, but the Christmas rush is here. I dig it.
Romano's...thanks for the memories.
Friday, November 25, 2005
You Heard it Here First!
***insert smile***
Didn't I say it first right here on this blog? Didn't I say that Nick & Jessica would be divorced or have children within five years? Well, they celebrated Anniversary #3 last month, and like, omigod, wow! They announced their separation last night. Like, I was right! Totally awesome, kiddies. THEY'RE TOO DAMN YOUNG. Wait, I take that back. SHE'S TOO DAMN YOUNG. He's 31. And can sing better. Whaddya expect when you marry a virgin with an overprotective family? Anyone notice his family was barely shown on "Newlyweds"? You saw his dad and his brother in, what, two episodes? The poor guy was overshadowed by someone less talented but with better connections. 98 Degrees is kaput, too. Let's see where his career goes. She's got Daddy holding the reins, so I'm not worried about her.
In other news, I'm at work. Can you smell the resentment? I didn't even feel like getting up to skate, but I did. Crossrolls and crossovers. Very "blah" kinda morning. The rink was warmer than it was outside! Shocking. 22 degrees does not make a happy camper of me, kiddies.
And the commercialist blitz has begun: between the replays of those poor parade-goers who got clonked on the heads with the Macy's balloon and Black Friday? It's a bit much. Technically, it's still November. That means I'm keeping the Indian, the pumpkin, and the pilgrim on my door until December 1 rolls around. Yes, I'm sitting here playing Peggy Lee's Christmas carols, but I need a pick-me-up this morning. Starbucks was closed downstairs and this weak-ass brown water they call coffee is just oh so not cutting it today.
I'm leaving early at 3 pm today. We've had 2 phone calls in the last 2 hours. Sloooow is the word. I could be home baking cookies or doing dishes or something.
My AdSense approval from Google came through. My lack of a new job (and I ain't gonna get one before January, I just know it) and pitiful funds has lead me to make a whorish corporate CEO decision: I will be putting advertising space on this here blog. Dexter thinks it's a good idea. I have his full bio ready, and he's going to start blogging shortly before Christmas. After all, links for cat food and toy sponsors make his feline heart go pitter-patter and my bank account go kaching. He also told me he wants the new Ionic Pet Pro brush for Christmas. He does not like the metal wire thingie I've been using at all. Neither does Muffin, and her fur is so matted, it's starting to look like dredlocks.
Well, it's 11:36 am, and I really REALLY wanted a pumpkin spice latte, but eh. I'll just have to deal. So far, I paid all my bills, blogged, and cleaned off my desk with these new Windex vinegar wipes. For the first time in weeks, I'm not sneezing! All that crap was going straight into my lungs. That reminds me...dustbunnies are brewing in my hall closet. Time to break out another pack of these things, I think.
Ciao and Meow for now!
Didn't I say it first right here on this blog? Didn't I say that Nick & Jessica would be divorced or have children within five years? Well, they celebrated Anniversary #3 last month, and like, omigod, wow! They announced their separation last night. Like, I was right! Totally awesome, kiddies. THEY'RE TOO DAMN YOUNG. Wait, I take that back. SHE'S TOO DAMN YOUNG. He's 31. And can sing better. Whaddya expect when you marry a virgin with an overprotective family? Anyone notice his family was barely shown on "Newlyweds"? You saw his dad and his brother in, what, two episodes? The poor guy was overshadowed by someone less talented but with better connections. 98 Degrees is kaput, too. Let's see where his career goes. She's got Daddy holding the reins, so I'm not worried about her.
In other news, I'm at work. Can you smell the resentment? I didn't even feel like getting up to skate, but I did. Crossrolls and crossovers. Very "blah" kinda morning. The rink was warmer than it was outside! Shocking. 22 degrees does not make a happy camper of me, kiddies.
And the commercialist blitz has begun: between the replays of those poor parade-goers who got clonked on the heads with the Macy's balloon and Black Friday? It's a bit much. Technically, it's still November. That means I'm keeping the Indian, the pumpkin, and the pilgrim on my door until December 1 rolls around. Yes, I'm sitting here playing Peggy Lee's Christmas carols, but I need a pick-me-up this morning. Starbucks was closed downstairs and this weak-ass brown water they call coffee is just oh so not cutting it today.
I'm leaving early at 3 pm today. We've had 2 phone calls in the last 2 hours. Sloooow is the word. I could be home baking cookies or doing dishes or something.
My AdSense approval from Google came through. My lack of a new job (and I ain't gonna get one before January, I just know it) and pitiful funds has lead me to make a whorish corporate CEO decision: I will be putting advertising space on this here blog. Dexter thinks it's a good idea. I have his full bio ready, and he's going to start blogging shortly before Christmas. After all, links for cat food and toy sponsors make his feline heart go pitter-patter and my bank account go kaching. He also told me he wants the new Ionic Pet Pro brush for Christmas. He does not like the metal wire thingie I've been using at all. Neither does Muffin, and her fur is so matted, it's starting to look like dredlocks.
Well, it's 11:36 am, and I really REALLY wanted a pumpkin spice latte, but eh. I'll just have to deal. So far, I paid all my bills, blogged, and cleaned off my desk with these new Windex vinegar wipes. For the first time in weeks, I'm not sneezing! All that crap was going straight into my lungs. That reminds me...dustbunnies are brewing in my hall closet. Time to break out another pack of these things, I think.
Ciao and Meow for now!
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Ha!
Pre-holiday inspiration from my fave astrologer, Rob Brezsney...
"As you slip into astrological prime time, you'll be shedding inhibitions and becoming more forthright about being yourself. Secrets that were inaccessible to you until now will finally reveal themselves, spurring you to peak performances. Exciting insights you were too timid to own before will erupt, empowering you to express creativity that has been dormant. There's just one small downside: Your rise to the next level could attract the disapproval of people who prefer the safety of mediocrity. My advice? Tell them to go to hell--in the most tactful possible way, of course. (P.S. For inspiration, keep in mind this idea from Friedrich Nietzsche: "Those who were dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.")"
No more beatings from mediocrity's iron fist, kiddies! Happy Leftovers...
"As you slip into astrological prime time, you'll be shedding inhibitions and becoming more forthright about being yourself. Secrets that were inaccessible to you until now will finally reveal themselves, spurring you to peak performances. Exciting insights you were too timid to own before will erupt, empowering you to express creativity that has been dormant. There's just one small downside: Your rise to the next level could attract the disapproval of people who prefer the safety of mediocrity. My advice? Tell them to go to hell--in the most tactful possible way, of course. (P.S. For inspiration, keep in mind this idea from Friedrich Nietzsche: "Those who were dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.")"
No more beatings from mediocrity's iron fist, kiddies! Happy Leftovers...
Monday, November 21, 2005
Instant Karma's Gonna Get You
Well, I sit here with glee. Complaints of back pain did not come from me today, it came from someone else. Smug is the one term that comes to mind when I think of this person. Good. I have always enjoyed schadenfreude. I have cursed this place under my breath and out loud, maybe it's going to be an early Christmas gift? I'm loving it.
Either way, it might snow Wednesday. That gives me reason to jump with glee. It's starting to feel like that thing, WINTER. November ain't supposed to be 72 degrees.
Monkey Man Chimpareeno president (with a small 'p') tried to make a hasty exit when a reporter nailed him on this lovely war we're in. Chimpy made a comment on his "jet lag"--translation: screw you, I'm the president--and tried to make a mad dash, but the door was locked. I fell over laughing when I saw the streaming video. It's hysterical. And kudos to Rep. Murtha, who actually DID defend this country, for standing up to the bullshit rhetoric that passes for "patriotism" in the eyes of Cheney, Rumsfeld, and Monkey Man--all of whom had numerous deferments to get out of serving their country. But never fear! Like a good narcissist, he's got to celebrate someone standing up for his empty ideals, so Mongolia got a big shout-out from our Chimp. Kiddies, when you need to get support from a country that hasn't seen fame since Genghis Khan's time? It's time to pull out.
I just love selfish, spoiled, money-filled men with their parents riches protecting them. Wouldn't know hard work or decency if it came and bit them on the ass.
Quick Dexter update: he's doing fine after the hallway mishap. He hasn't gone near the door, and has promised never to speak of it. Kashi, on the other hand, is a crazy spider monkey who likes to climb things, like stairs. She's peeked her nose out the door a few times. Dex swished his tail as if to say, "Sigh...the young ones. They never learn!"
Off to lunch. All looks well today. Smuggo's going home. Should I get some Kleenex?
methinks not.
Either way, it might snow Wednesday. That gives me reason to jump with glee. It's starting to feel like that thing, WINTER. November ain't supposed to be 72 degrees.
Monkey Man Chimpareeno president (with a small 'p') tried to make a hasty exit when a reporter nailed him on this lovely war we're in. Chimpy made a comment on his "jet lag"--translation: screw you, I'm the president--and tried to make a mad dash, but the door was locked. I fell over laughing when I saw the streaming video. It's hysterical. And kudos to Rep. Murtha, who actually DID defend this country, for standing up to the bullshit rhetoric that passes for "patriotism" in the eyes of Cheney, Rumsfeld, and Monkey Man--all of whom had numerous deferments to get out of serving their country. But never fear! Like a good narcissist, he's got to celebrate someone standing up for his empty ideals, so Mongolia got a big shout-out from our Chimp. Kiddies, when you need to get support from a country that hasn't seen fame since Genghis Khan's time? It's time to pull out.
I just love selfish, spoiled, money-filled men with their parents riches protecting them. Wouldn't know hard work or decency if it came and bit them on the ass.
Quick Dexter update: he's doing fine after the hallway mishap. He hasn't gone near the door, and has promised never to speak of it. Kashi, on the other hand, is a crazy spider monkey who likes to climb things, like stairs. She's peeked her nose out the door a few times. Dex swished his tail as if to say, "Sigh...the young ones. They never learn!"
Off to lunch. All looks well today. Smuggo's going home. Should I get some Kleenex?
methinks not.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Beware the Snowman
He just peeked at me from a coffee cup. Yesterday, he wiggled in a box at Duane Reade. The day before he was staring at me from an HSN Christmas presentation. Who is this guy? Too small to be Frosty. I think I'm being followed!
And it is 45 degrees outside. This morning, I struggled out of bed stiff as a board, Dexter pushing me with his paws to get up, and saw my breath when I opened the bathroom window with a whoosh of cold air. November indeed, although it was 70 degree August on Monday.
Popped into Target and saw a giant Snow "family" made of wire and lights on skis. I swore I saw one of them wink at me.
The hardware store around the corner is selling lawn decorations--inflatable ...what else?...SNOWMEN. Eight feet tall, carrot nose, red scarf. It's an invasion.
We went from Halloween candy to the Frosty Mafia. How can this be???!!!
(the guilt I feel from just taking down my pumpkin and witch on my door and changing to a pilgrim and turkey might be the cause.)
I've only seen a few santas, maybe two reindeers, and a handful of polar bears. Are the snow "people" angry at global warming? Will it really be a cold winter? Is it a right wing conspiracy to scare us at the price of heating oil? I detect a political plot, kiddies. Will they hurl snowballs at us? AAACK!!!
Some of them are on skates. Some are in boots. Some have no legs at all. Just round bellies tucked under tufts. Standing there. Silent. Smiling.
I'm keeping my eyes out. You never know where this might lead.
And it is 45 degrees outside. This morning, I struggled out of bed stiff as a board, Dexter pushing me with his paws to get up, and saw my breath when I opened the bathroom window with a whoosh of cold air. November indeed, although it was 70 degree August on Monday.
Popped into Target and saw a giant Snow "family" made of wire and lights on skis. I swore I saw one of them wink at me.
The hardware store around the corner is selling lawn decorations--inflatable ...what else?...SNOWMEN. Eight feet tall, carrot nose, red scarf. It's an invasion.
We went from Halloween candy to the Frosty Mafia. How can this be???!!!
(the guilt I feel from just taking down my pumpkin and witch on my door and changing to a pilgrim and turkey might be the cause.)
I've only seen a few santas, maybe two reindeers, and a handful of polar bears. Are the snow "people" angry at global warming? Will it really be a cold winter? Is it a right wing conspiracy to scare us at the price of heating oil? I detect a political plot, kiddies. Will they hurl snowballs at us? AAACK!!!
Some of them are on skates. Some are in boots. Some have no legs at all. Just round bellies tucked under tufts. Standing there. Silent. Smiling.
I'm keeping my eyes out. You never know where this might lead.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Hallway Adventures
Dexter, who is dreadfully embarassed at having gotten locked out in the hall, doesn't want to write about getting stuck in a neighbor's apartment with a dog.
My neighbor, a kind Irish lady with a huge brown shaggy dog, found him stuck at Mary's door one floor below. Dex knew the door, but didn't know how to get back in, since it was THE apartment, but wrong floor. I didn't know the door closed behind him. About an hour had passed. Kashi was on the couch. Miss Muffin was in the kitchen, flumped and purring near the window.
After a frantic 15 minutes of tearing through each room--HOW can I not see a 20 lb black cat???--the horror dawned on me. Dexter is not here. He must be in the hall. I flung my door open. NO crying. NO yowl. Silence. Oh god, someone TOOK my Boo Face! I raced up to the top floor, began banging on doors--"Where's Dexter? Have you seen a huge black cat? Yellow eyes, one white whisker."
Nope.
Sorry.
Maybe he ran out the front door.
Visions of a squished cat under a speeding car fill my mind. Sweat begins to run.
I bolt down the stairs and see a pair of keys stuck in the door. Now I'm looking for my cat, and being a good Samaritan. Keys in the door = someone might break in OR maybe perhaps please GOD this person tried to grab a frightened black cat? I knock on the door, panicked beyond belief.
"yOUR KeYs aRE in the DOor. My GOd, HaVE YOU SEENMYBLACKCATHISNAMEISDEXTER!"
***insert lovely brogue here***
"Aw, dear. I have your cat. He's such a nice fella an me'dog likes him, too. We used t'have a cat, but n'more. Dexter's in the kitchen."
And there he was. Totally annoyed by this whole mess. Glaring at the dog (and then me) from under a yellow chair. I grabbed his back legs. He scratched my arm. He wouldn't move. The dog was REALLY happy with the new houseguest.
"He's such a good cat! He let me pick 'im up and didn't bite. Poor thing, he didn't know what t'do."
One long pull (and a bleeding arm) later, Mr. Boo is on my shoulders, still staring at the dog. A distinct look of 'I'm Never Going In The Hall Again' is in his eyes.
Back upstairs we go after some deep breaths and many thanks.
His tail is puffed out 4 inches and he's shaking. He retreats into a corner, obviously in shock. I drop food in the bowls and shake my head. The things I do for my fuzzers!
After doing dishes, sorting mail, and checking the answering machine, I grab a cup of tea and sit down with my knitting. He slinks up next to me and places his paw on my leg.
"Don't go by the door again, Boo."
He looks up at me and blinks. That's a 'yes' if ever there was one.
He drops his chin on my lap and purrs. All is quiet and well.
My neighbor, a kind Irish lady with a huge brown shaggy dog, found him stuck at Mary's door one floor below. Dex knew the door, but didn't know how to get back in, since it was THE apartment, but wrong floor. I didn't know the door closed behind him. About an hour had passed. Kashi was on the couch. Miss Muffin was in the kitchen, flumped and purring near the window.
After a frantic 15 minutes of tearing through each room--HOW can I not see a 20 lb black cat???--the horror dawned on me. Dexter is not here. He must be in the hall. I flung my door open. NO crying. NO yowl. Silence. Oh god, someone TOOK my Boo Face! I raced up to the top floor, began banging on doors--"Where's Dexter? Have you seen a huge black cat? Yellow eyes, one white whisker."
Nope.
Sorry.
Maybe he ran out the front door.
Visions of a squished cat under a speeding car fill my mind. Sweat begins to run.
I bolt down the stairs and see a pair of keys stuck in the door. Now I'm looking for my cat, and being a good Samaritan. Keys in the door = someone might break in OR maybe perhaps please GOD this person tried to grab a frightened black cat? I knock on the door, panicked beyond belief.
"yOUR KeYs aRE in the DOor. My GOd, HaVE YOU SEENMYBLACKCATHISNAMEISDEXTER!"
***insert lovely brogue here***
"Aw, dear. I have your cat. He's such a nice fella an me'dog likes him, too. We used t'have a cat, but n'more. Dexter's in the kitchen."
And there he was. Totally annoyed by this whole mess. Glaring at the dog (and then me) from under a yellow chair. I grabbed his back legs. He scratched my arm. He wouldn't move. The dog was REALLY happy with the new houseguest.
"He's such a good cat! He let me pick 'im up and didn't bite. Poor thing, he didn't know what t'do."
One long pull (and a bleeding arm) later, Mr. Boo is on my shoulders, still staring at the dog. A distinct look of 'I'm Never Going In The Hall Again' is in his eyes.
Back upstairs we go after some deep breaths and many thanks.
His tail is puffed out 4 inches and he's shaking. He retreats into a corner, obviously in shock. I drop food in the bowls and shake my head. The things I do for my fuzzers!
After doing dishes, sorting mail, and checking the answering machine, I grab a cup of tea and sit down with my knitting. He slinks up next to me and places his paw on my leg.
"Don't go by the door again, Boo."
He looks up at me and blinks. That's a 'yes' if ever there was one.
He drops his chin on my lap and purrs. All is quiet and well.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Stand and Salute
I did. This morning to two navy officers on their way to a memorial at Chelsea Piers. It's Veteran's Day, but you wouldn't know it at this place. We've never had this day off, which I find particularly disrespectful given this fake lie of a war we're in courtesy of the Smirking Monkey Boy Retard president (emphasizing small 'p'.)
The ranks of those from WWI and II grows thinner and thinner, and those from Vietnam might feel incredible resentment at showing their face, but those from the Gulf War and this current fuck up show their faces in true defiance. I'm proud of them.
I've never had the urge to understand the thought of voluntary enlistment and what that entails, but I understand the principle of standing up for one's beliefs even if means putting one's life on the line. Hell, that's me every day! Although you won't find me in uniform. (12 years of Catholic school is enough. No more hospital corners or starched collars for me.)
And France is blowing itself up. How quaint. I honestly wonder how long it will be before their lovely prime minister asks the USA for help. Again. If we didn't help them 60 sum-odd years ago, they'd be speaking German now. Qu'elle surprise.
In other news, it's cold out. I'm damn thrilled about it. There's nothing better than hearing the clanging hiss of heat coming up through the radiators. This sound is more comforting than anything I know, given my Dickensian childhood of cold winters and a broken boiler. Hot water is a blessing, too. One I never take for granted. That and my cats purring near me. Heaven, sweet heaven, that I can even hear that sound--so quiet and still my life has become.
It's a wonderful thing when you've taken great pains to rid one's life of chaos. No fighting, no phones ringing, no TVs blaring, no teenagers jumping and screaming, no sirens, fire trucks, or babies screeching. I live on the greatest block anywhere. Despite Mr. Puppy and the Drunk upstairs with all their footsteps and Metallica in the afternoons on weekends, this is my only complaint and how lucky I am.
The noise and insanity has folded itself up like pocket handkerchiefs and slid away. Can I be addicted to quiet? I think so. Over the last year, I've found myself at the calm mercy of libraries, churches, cemeteries. I can hear my own footsteps as well as my own voice. Knowing what I want and what I don't might have very well been the key to my current job hunt, which will be put on hold for the holidays, but hell, I can wait. I've got the spirit now--baking and knitting and counting the days to cured ham and turkey, champagne and chocolate, cookies and stockings. The seasons change and move forward. So do I.
I definitely salute that, too.
The ranks of those from WWI and II grows thinner and thinner, and those from Vietnam might feel incredible resentment at showing their face, but those from the Gulf War and this current fuck up show their faces in true defiance. I'm proud of them.
I've never had the urge to understand the thought of voluntary enlistment and what that entails, but I understand the principle of standing up for one's beliefs even if means putting one's life on the line. Hell, that's me every day! Although you won't find me in uniform. (12 years of Catholic school is enough. No more hospital corners or starched collars for me.)
And France is blowing itself up. How quaint. I honestly wonder how long it will be before their lovely prime minister asks the USA for help. Again. If we didn't help them 60 sum-odd years ago, they'd be speaking German now. Qu'elle surprise.
In other news, it's cold out. I'm damn thrilled about it. There's nothing better than hearing the clanging hiss of heat coming up through the radiators. This sound is more comforting than anything I know, given my Dickensian childhood of cold winters and a broken boiler. Hot water is a blessing, too. One I never take for granted. That and my cats purring near me. Heaven, sweet heaven, that I can even hear that sound--so quiet and still my life has become.
It's a wonderful thing when you've taken great pains to rid one's life of chaos. No fighting, no phones ringing, no TVs blaring, no teenagers jumping and screaming, no sirens, fire trucks, or babies screeching. I live on the greatest block anywhere. Despite Mr. Puppy and the Drunk upstairs with all their footsteps and Metallica in the afternoons on weekends, this is my only complaint and how lucky I am.
The noise and insanity has folded itself up like pocket handkerchiefs and slid away. Can I be addicted to quiet? I think so. Over the last year, I've found myself at the calm mercy of libraries, churches, cemeteries. I can hear my own footsteps as well as my own voice. Knowing what I want and what I don't might have very well been the key to my current job hunt, which will be put on hold for the holidays, but hell, I can wait. I've got the spirit now--baking and knitting and counting the days to cured ham and turkey, champagne and chocolate, cookies and stockings. The seasons change and move forward. So do I.
I definitely salute that, too.
Tuesday, November 8, 2005
Agencies that Suck
Career Group, Access, Strategic Workforce, Segue, Winston, A List Associates, JemWorks, Forum, OfficeTeam, CareerBlazers, Forrest Edwards.
Agencies that have helped: First Choice, Hemisphere, Execu-Search, Carol Personnel.
The holidays are upon me, which means two things--I'm still here (makes me feel like herpes) and I'm still broke.
Turkey, stuffing, trees, giftwrap, and credit card bills will be what all these places will be worried about very soon, not me actually getting a new place to work where I can be 1) well-paid and 2) happy.
So, it's back to my books and back to Monster. If ya want anything done correctly, ya gotta do it yourself, kiddies. I redid my resume yet again, and tomorrow I'm going to conquer my cover letter for the gazillionth time. I am worth more than this. I hate the auditing team who keeps thinking they know more after working here one month than I do, after working here almost five years. Pretty soon, they are going to stamp me with a bar code, tell me to change my name, and put a computer chip inside my hand and chain me to the desk. It's coming, I'm telling you. Judge Dread was a terrifying comic strip, but all citizens were tracked.
Still, I've picked up my knitting again, have started to hoard cookie recipes, and I've started to tune in to the Food Network for gingerbread/cake/holiday contests for ideas and inspiration. It sure ain't coming from other areas of my life, so in my post-mortem Halloween blues, I'll just have to think about whether I want to cook turkey or a really good chicken this year. Dexter and Kashi love when I make cornish hens with creamed gravy, maybe I'll make a plate just for them.
I won't give in and I won't give up. I refuse to stop fighting and I refuse to compromise. That will be the death of me.
Agencies that have helped: First Choice, Hemisphere, Execu-Search, Carol Personnel.
The holidays are upon me, which means two things--I'm still here (makes me feel like herpes) and I'm still broke.
Turkey, stuffing, trees, giftwrap, and credit card bills will be what all these places will be worried about very soon, not me actually getting a new place to work where I can be 1) well-paid and 2) happy.
So, it's back to my books and back to Monster. If ya want anything done correctly, ya gotta do it yourself, kiddies. I redid my resume yet again, and tomorrow I'm going to conquer my cover letter for the gazillionth time. I am worth more than this. I hate the auditing team who keeps thinking they know more after working here one month than I do, after working here almost five years. Pretty soon, they are going to stamp me with a bar code, tell me to change my name, and put a computer chip inside my hand and chain me to the desk. It's coming, I'm telling you. Judge Dread was a terrifying comic strip, but all citizens were tracked.
Still, I've picked up my knitting again, have started to hoard cookie recipes, and I've started to tune in to the Food Network for gingerbread/cake/holiday contests for ideas and inspiration. It sure ain't coming from other areas of my life, so in my post-mortem Halloween blues, I'll just have to think about whether I want to cook turkey or a really good chicken this year. Dexter and Kashi love when I make cornish hens with creamed gravy, maybe I'll make a plate just for them.
I won't give in and I won't give up. I refuse to stop fighting and I refuse to compromise. That will be the death of me.
Tuesday, November 1, 2005
It's November!
hello.
this is dexter.
I am very happee that it's November. I will try and spell better sence that is whut my too-legger wuld like.
Last nite, CatWoman came on. Wen I saw Hally Berry on the skreen, I thaut I wuld fall off the cowch. I luv this woman, I sware. My too-legger kept switcheen channils so I had to sit on the remoat. Then she pickt up her nitteen (whut a skarf is I don't knoo. I'm cuvvered in furr so I'm warm.) I wunder if there weel be a seequell. My too-legger just rolld her eyes. Whut's with that?
Anyway, it's getteen colder, so I've takin to the cowch more this week. I am very excited abot the berd, too. With the stuffeen and grayvy. Last yeer, we had cornesh hens. I thaut they werr pidjuns, but I wuz wrong. Still, I likd the grayvy and jenerally enjoyt myself.
Therr is tawk of me getteen my own blog next yeer. I'll have to theenk abot whut I reely want to discuss. I have a lot of theengs that Carmine and my other frends want to heer abot.
And thenk yoo, Ketz...Qtzl..Coatzl...um, thenk yoo, Q, for the advisse on my putenshul blog.
stay postid!
love
dexter
this is dexter.
I am very happee that it's November. I will try and spell better sence that is whut my too-legger wuld like.
Last nite, CatWoman came on. Wen I saw Hally Berry on the skreen, I thaut I wuld fall off the cowch. I luv this woman, I sware. My too-legger kept switcheen channils so I had to sit on the remoat. Then she pickt up her nitteen (whut a skarf is I don't knoo. I'm cuvvered in furr so I'm warm.) I wunder if there weel be a seequell. My too-legger just rolld her eyes. Whut's with that?
Anyway, it's getteen colder, so I've takin to the cowch more this week. I am very excited abot the berd, too. With the stuffeen and grayvy. Last yeer, we had cornesh hens. I thaut they werr pidjuns, but I wuz wrong. Still, I likd the grayvy and jenerally enjoyt myself.
Therr is tawk of me getteen my own blog next yeer. I'll have to theenk abot whut I reely want to discuss. I have a lot of theengs that Carmine and my other frends want to heer abot.
And thenk yoo, Ketz...Qtzl..Coatzl...um, thenk yoo, Q, for the advisse on my putenshul blog.
stay postid!
love
dexter
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Tales from the Gallows
Gallows humor, that is.
Let's recount my shitty week--Tuesday I'm sick, but I also scheduled two job interviews, so that was more important. I'm putting it in as a vacation day, even though I was sick. Wednesday, I'm still feeling icky. Thursday, illness/icky continues, but I get my flu shot anyway since it was free. Hell, I pay enough for health care, so fuck it, stick the damn needle in my arm and let the spores begin.
OH did they.
After a sleepless night of nausea, vomiting and other internal "shifts", shall I say, I can barely stand up without shaking because 1) I'm dehydrated; 2) I'm still nauseous; and 3) I've eaten nothing since about 5 pm the night before. So, what do I do? I cancel my skating session, and get up at my regular time bleary-eyed and dizzy. I'm so late now it's not even funny. I get on the train, hoping I don't puke. Then I do. I ask myself quite honestly, "WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING?" I call my coworker (not the shit-eating dictator) and say I'm turning around and going home. She says why the hell did I try and get out of bed at all, and I realize she's right. She's also human, and I'm not dealing with humans where I work, I'm dealing with evil pods that grew out of a cornfield. (Cornfields with split-level condos in Connecticut and New Jersey, that is.) So, I attempt to eat a paltry meal of french toast at an overpriced diner. It tastes like cardboard, but considering my lingering nausea? I've got to line my stomach before my next Linda Blair Moment.
I get on the train and get home ok. I pick up cat food. My fuzzers still need to eat, even if I can't for the rest of the day. I crawl into bed. I sit there for what seems like an eternity spinning inwardly. I collapse, yank the covers over me, and sleep finally arrives. Mom calls, I respond that I'm dead and I'll call back later. If I don't die further. It's maybe 5 pm?
I wake up that night at 8, crawl out of bed, gasping for breath, fresh air, water and almost knock Dexter into the hall. He's on four legs, I'm on two. That makes him much nimbler by default. He swishes his tail, and sulks on the couch. I proceed to gulp all ?? ounces of ?? sized glass of water in about 5 seconds flat. Pukey throat ain't funny, kiddies.
A nice bowl of oatmeal fills my turbulent stomach. Peppermint tea follows. Then the gamut of Friday night tv begins. It's nothing but Halloween programming! Oh, goodie. Blood, mayhem, ghosts, puke, guts, gore, hauntings and pain. That reminds me that my period's due soon, so more peppermint tea.
Now I have a welt from the flu shot, cramps in my stomach and my back, my left flu-vaccined arm hurts, and I have a headache. Was this a vaccine or a micronized dose of the actual flu? Is it ebola? Avian flu? Smallpox? Oopaloopalitis? What if this is a military experiment and I'm just another number on some government list? (Gotta stop watching the history channel.)
Still, I love Halloween programming: psychics, haunted houses, Edgar Allen Poe, Dracula, hell, they even showed the full three-minute Harry Potter trailer! I've got entertainment. I'll worry about how my shitty job yells at me when I get back on Monday. Which is actually Halloween. The day of witchy splendor. I'll be sure to wear black and on of my famous amulets--I've got about six of them and each one elicits strange stares when worn. I'll be sure to wear my Seal of Barbeulis, it always keeps the evil spirits at bay. CEOs my ass, I hate these petty frauds calling themselves a company.
Please, kiddies, say a prayer that I get out by Thanksgiving, or its no turkey again for me this year.
UGH
Off for more peppermint tea. I'm not sleeping, as you can see.
Let's recount my shitty week--Tuesday I'm sick, but I also scheduled two job interviews, so that was more important. I'm putting it in as a vacation day, even though I was sick. Wednesday, I'm still feeling icky. Thursday, illness/icky continues, but I get my flu shot anyway since it was free. Hell, I pay enough for health care, so fuck it, stick the damn needle in my arm and let the spores begin.
OH did they.
After a sleepless night of nausea, vomiting and other internal "shifts", shall I say, I can barely stand up without shaking because 1) I'm dehydrated; 2) I'm still nauseous; and 3) I've eaten nothing since about 5 pm the night before. So, what do I do? I cancel my skating session, and get up at my regular time bleary-eyed and dizzy. I'm so late now it's not even funny. I get on the train, hoping I don't puke. Then I do. I ask myself quite honestly, "WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING?" I call my coworker (not the shit-eating dictator) and say I'm turning around and going home. She says why the hell did I try and get out of bed at all, and I realize she's right. She's also human, and I'm not dealing with humans where I work, I'm dealing with evil pods that grew out of a cornfield. (Cornfields with split-level condos in Connecticut and New Jersey, that is.) So, I attempt to eat a paltry meal of french toast at an overpriced diner. It tastes like cardboard, but considering my lingering nausea? I've got to line my stomach before my next Linda Blair Moment.
I get on the train and get home ok. I pick up cat food. My fuzzers still need to eat, even if I can't for the rest of the day. I crawl into bed. I sit there for what seems like an eternity spinning inwardly. I collapse, yank the covers over me, and sleep finally arrives. Mom calls, I respond that I'm dead and I'll call back later. If I don't die further. It's maybe 5 pm?
I wake up that night at 8, crawl out of bed, gasping for breath, fresh air, water and almost knock Dexter into the hall. He's on four legs, I'm on two. That makes him much nimbler by default. He swishes his tail, and sulks on the couch. I proceed to gulp all ?? ounces of ?? sized glass of water in about 5 seconds flat. Pukey throat ain't funny, kiddies.
A nice bowl of oatmeal fills my turbulent stomach. Peppermint tea follows. Then the gamut of Friday night tv begins. It's nothing but Halloween programming! Oh, goodie. Blood, mayhem, ghosts, puke, guts, gore, hauntings and pain. That reminds me that my period's due soon, so more peppermint tea.
Now I have a welt from the flu shot, cramps in my stomach and my back, my left flu-vaccined arm hurts, and I have a headache. Was this a vaccine or a micronized dose of the actual flu? Is it ebola? Avian flu? Smallpox? Oopaloopalitis? What if this is a military experiment and I'm just another number on some government list? (Gotta stop watching the history channel.)
Still, I love Halloween programming: psychics, haunted houses, Edgar Allen Poe, Dracula, hell, they even showed the full three-minute Harry Potter trailer! I've got entertainment. I'll worry about how my shitty job yells at me when I get back on Monday. Which is actually Halloween. The day of witchy splendor. I'll be sure to wear black and on of my famous amulets--I've got about six of them and each one elicits strange stares when worn. I'll be sure to wear my Seal of Barbeulis, it always keeps the evil spirits at bay. CEOs my ass, I hate these petty frauds calling themselves a company.
Please, kiddies, say a prayer that I get out by Thanksgiving, or its no turkey again for me this year.
UGH
Off for more peppermint tea. I'm not sleeping, as you can see.
Friday, October 21, 2005
TGIF
And thank god for more interviews coming my way.
Monday and Tuesday! Monster's woken up and Execu-search.com is a great agency. I'm biding my time, biding my time. Word has it that we're "restructuring" yet again. Like that's going to save this place. I haven't had so many farewell party cakes in all my birthdays combined! Too many chiefs, not enough Indians as they say...
In other news, all the ice is down everywhere except Prospect Park. I can shake my jiggly tailfeather and use those things I used to live in. I think they're called skates? Maybe that would set my caboose free. My lower back is probably killing me from all the sitting I do. I'm actually happy to get home at night and stand up while doing the dishes and dancing with Dexter!
But I do love October. It's cooler outside, the heat starts to come up, and it's Halloween everywhere. It's just lovely. Tomorrow, I can officially get out my fall/winter clothes and do some massive laundry. I think the big blanket will come out of the closet, too. They've taken to climbing into my skate bag for warmth.
I've taken to sitting in hot baths for warmth, which is probably drying out my skin.
Pinochet still has all the charm of a cockroach. Just sitting here having to type this with these powermongers around me is a bit much.
Lowen's, my local drugstore, has all the witchy/froggy/kitty/pumpkin stuff in addition to orders coming in for fake Christmas trees. Last year, I felt sucky. This year, I'm ready.
I've even started uploading songs into my iTunes since the May Songs Snafu. Holiday music will be going in there soon. Now if I could only find my Charlie Brown Great Pumpkin video.
Gotta get that on DVD...
Monday and Tuesday! Monster's woken up and Execu-search.com is a great agency. I'm biding my time, biding my time. Word has it that we're "restructuring" yet again. Like that's going to save this place. I haven't had so many farewell party cakes in all my birthdays combined! Too many chiefs, not enough Indians as they say...
In other news, all the ice is down everywhere except Prospect Park. I can shake my jiggly tailfeather and use those things I used to live in. I think they're called skates? Maybe that would set my caboose free. My lower back is probably killing me from all the sitting I do. I'm actually happy to get home at night and stand up while doing the dishes and dancing with Dexter!
But I do love October. It's cooler outside, the heat starts to come up, and it's Halloween everywhere. It's just lovely. Tomorrow, I can officially get out my fall/winter clothes and do some massive laundry. I think the big blanket will come out of the closet, too. They've taken to climbing into my skate bag for warmth.
I've taken to sitting in hot baths for warmth, which is probably drying out my skin.
Pinochet still has all the charm of a cockroach. Just sitting here having to type this with these powermongers around me is a bit much.
Lowen's, my local drugstore, has all the witchy/froggy/kitty/pumpkin stuff in addition to orders coming in for fake Christmas trees. Last year, I felt sucky. This year, I'm ready.
I've even started uploading songs into my iTunes since the May Songs Snafu. Holiday music will be going in there soon. Now if I could only find my Charlie Brown Great Pumpkin video.
Gotta get that on DVD...
Friday, October 14, 2005
Which way is it?
Here are some definitions according to the Merriam-Webster dictionary...
Communication: plural but singular or plural in construction a : a technique for expressing ideas effectively (as in speech) b : the technology of the transmission of information (as by print or telecommunication.)
Miscommunication: failure to communicate clearly.
Hmmm....ever notice that the first definition might be more complicated, but ultimately leads to a clear concept and the second definition might be short and sweet, but it leads to eventual chaos?
Well, I'm not going to blog about any old thing, and Dexter just doesn't feel like writing (I trimmed his claws and he's angry at me), so I'm going to spew poetic (I don't wax anymore, summer's over.)
Today I kinda, sorta think, is supposed to be Thelma's memorial. If I'm wrong, email me. No emails, no calls, no invites. I do not read minds, or scry into crystal balls. I also don't walk into THAT building uninvited. I've got scorch marks from the evil eye various factions lasered my way the last time I was there, which is approximately three years ago. As a result, I'm not going. The weather sucks, I'm tired, and this current job (yes, I'm still stuck) reminds me vividly of the explicit reasons I left THAT job.
What do you get when a bunch of passive-agressive children who jockey for power and don't like talking to each other stop informing you of things you need to know?
MISCOMMUNICATION.
What do you get when you get off your high horse, start emailing and passing out memos, and actually give a shit about your fellow coworkers, not to mention cease being wrapped up in your exorbitant salary and meaningless title?
COMMUNICATION.
Oh, I'm sorry. Am I thinking I'm worth something again? Gee, I'll have to stop. I keep forgetting no one listens to me. I'm just an admin. We don't count.
This, plus the fact that my marvelous evaluation is right around the corner, makes me think of a lot of things.
Bag o'Rocks comments from last year will not go down blithely. I was flat-out accused of malingering when I took any sick days (which, between 2002-2003 was all of them) and I was told that I'm out of the office more than I am. The exact statements? Let me quote Sir Rocks.
"Well, if you're gonna take sick days, you've got to be sick."
To counter this, I told him sick doesn't necessarily mean tissues, coughing and sneezing. It could mean fibromyalgia (which he never heard of), a thyroid disorder (Hashimotos, look it up, Rock man), and a recurring cyst in my ovary they (my doctors) needed to watch for cancerous cells. None of these things "make" me "sick" in the eyes of this bullshit management, so I took my medical files in today and copied them. ALL OF THEM. The only thing I couldn't copy were the x-rays of my spine, hip, knees and neck, all of which are affected by fibromyalgia. I want ALL of this information with me to throw in HR's face when I leave, which will happen. I don't care how long it takes.
"You're NOT here more than you are." Hmmm...what the fuck does that mean?
I was so stunned when I heard this, I couldn't even answer. Does this relate to my sick time? The time I'm faking it and really not sick? Does this relate to the occasional day off THAT BY NEW YORK STATE LABOR LAWS I'M ENTITLED TO? This isn't fucking FRANCE, last year I got 12 days, which is still nothing. My passport has actually EXPIRED. Why, you ask? I don't make enough money to go anywhere abroad with my 12 little days. That's why I took a copy of last year's tax returns and blacked out all impertinent info and highlighted only the salary and numbers. Again, HR better be wearing goggles and a mask lest they get paper cuts when I fling this in their face.
As for my current time, I've found out I still have 9 days left for the year. I got 15 vacation days this year and sprinkled them around the 2005 calendar, much to Bag o'Rocks's dismay while he was still here. Now that the bastard's gone, I'm going for broke and using them all.
Total tally so far? 14 interviews since March. 3 jobs were eliminated before I got there, 5 were given internally, 2 I passed on (looooow salary), and the other 4 were agencies that gave me NO feedback whatsoever. If they wanted me, I guess I would've got the call. Agencies, for the most part, can go to hell for all I care. They've done nothing except waste my time.
As for next week, there's a job fair and the NYC Development committee for the Freedom tower called. They want real, common-sense, lived-here-our-whole-lives, straight-up New Yorkers. That's me, baby. Salary's great, I can certainly give 'em what they want, and I know this city and most of the boroughs (particularly Brooklyn and Manhattan) like the back of my hand.
And what did I say to them to get the day off? "I've got stuff going on with my apartment," which is true. I'm the process of hurling everything and anything with this company's logo on it RIGHT INTO THE TRASH. That makes me feel wonderful.
So that is my communication for today.
Communication: plural but singular or plural in construction a : a technique for expressing ideas effectively (as in speech) b : the technology of the transmission of information (as by print or telecommunication.)
Miscommunication: failure to communicate clearly.
Hmmm....ever notice that the first definition might be more complicated, but ultimately leads to a clear concept and the second definition might be short and sweet, but it leads to eventual chaos?
Well, I'm not going to blog about any old thing, and Dexter just doesn't feel like writing (I trimmed his claws and he's angry at me), so I'm going to spew poetic (I don't wax anymore, summer's over.)
Today I kinda, sorta think, is supposed to be Thelma's memorial. If I'm wrong, email me. No emails, no calls, no invites. I do not read minds, or scry into crystal balls. I also don't walk into THAT building uninvited. I've got scorch marks from the evil eye various factions lasered my way the last time I was there, which is approximately three years ago. As a result, I'm not going. The weather sucks, I'm tired, and this current job (yes, I'm still stuck) reminds me vividly of the explicit reasons I left THAT job.
What do you get when a bunch of passive-agressive children who jockey for power and don't like talking to each other stop informing you of things you need to know?
MISCOMMUNICATION.
What do you get when you get off your high horse, start emailing and passing out memos, and actually give a shit about your fellow coworkers, not to mention cease being wrapped up in your exorbitant salary and meaningless title?
COMMUNICATION.
Oh, I'm sorry. Am I thinking I'm worth something again? Gee, I'll have to stop. I keep forgetting no one listens to me. I'm just an admin. We don't count.
This, plus the fact that my marvelous evaluation is right around the corner, makes me think of a lot of things.
Bag o'Rocks comments from last year will not go down blithely. I was flat-out accused of malingering when I took any sick days (which, between 2002-2003 was all of them) and I was told that I'm out of the office more than I am. The exact statements? Let me quote Sir Rocks.
"Well, if you're gonna take sick days, you've got to be sick."
To counter this, I told him sick doesn't necessarily mean tissues, coughing and sneezing. It could mean fibromyalgia (which he never heard of), a thyroid disorder (Hashimotos, look it up, Rock man), and a recurring cyst in my ovary they (my doctors) needed to watch for cancerous cells. None of these things "make" me "sick" in the eyes of this bullshit management, so I took my medical files in today and copied them. ALL OF THEM. The only thing I couldn't copy were the x-rays of my spine, hip, knees and neck, all of which are affected by fibromyalgia. I want ALL of this information with me to throw in HR's face when I leave, which will happen. I don't care how long it takes.
"You're NOT here more than you are." Hmmm...what the fuck does that mean?
I was so stunned when I heard this, I couldn't even answer. Does this relate to my sick time? The time I'm faking it and really not sick? Does this relate to the occasional day off THAT BY NEW YORK STATE LABOR LAWS I'M ENTITLED TO? This isn't fucking FRANCE, last year I got 12 days, which is still nothing. My passport has actually EXPIRED. Why, you ask? I don't make enough money to go anywhere abroad with my 12 little days. That's why I took a copy of last year's tax returns and blacked out all impertinent info and highlighted only the salary and numbers. Again, HR better be wearing goggles and a mask lest they get paper cuts when I fling this in their face.
As for my current time, I've found out I still have 9 days left for the year. I got 15 vacation days this year and sprinkled them around the 2005 calendar, much to Bag o'Rocks's dismay while he was still here. Now that the bastard's gone, I'm going for broke and using them all.
Total tally so far? 14 interviews since March. 3 jobs were eliminated before I got there, 5 were given internally, 2 I passed on (looooow salary), and the other 4 were agencies that gave me NO feedback whatsoever. If they wanted me, I guess I would've got the call. Agencies, for the most part, can go to hell for all I care. They've done nothing except waste my time.
As for next week, there's a job fair and the NYC Development committee for the Freedom tower called. They want real, common-sense, lived-here-our-whole-lives, straight-up New Yorkers. That's me, baby. Salary's great, I can certainly give 'em what they want, and I know this city and most of the boroughs (particularly Brooklyn and Manhattan) like the back of my hand.
And what did I say to them to get the day off? "I've got stuff going on with my apartment," which is true. I'm the process of hurling everything and anything with this company's logo on it RIGHT INTO THE TRASH. That makes me feel wonderful.
So that is my communication for today.
Sunday, October 9, 2005
Fudley said...
Fudley was my dad's nickname on paper when he left notes for me, which were many. This is a song Ella Fitzgerald sang, Duke Ellington wrote, and Dad borrowed. I always remember the last line. And yes, he loved me madly.
Love you madly
right or wrong
sounds like a lyric of a song
But since it's so
I thought you oughta know
I love you, love you madly
Better fish are in the sea
Is not the theory for me
And that's for sure
Just like I said before
I love you, love you madly
If you could see the happy you and me
I dream about so proudly
You'd know the breath of spring
That makes me sing
My love song so loudly
Good things come to those who wait
So just relax and wait for fate
To let me see the day you'll say to me
I love you, love you madly
But since it's so
I thought you oughta know
I love you, madly
And that's for sure
Just like I said before
I love you, love you madly
If you could see the happy you and me
I dream about so proudly
You'd know the breath of spring
That makes me sing
My love song so loudly
To let me see the day you'll say to me
I love you madly
Happy Birthday, you old goat. I thought I'd see you get to 70. Guess I was wrong.
Love you madly
right or wrong
sounds like a lyric of a song
But since it's so
I thought you oughta know
I love you, love you madly
Better fish are in the sea
Is not the theory for me
And that's for sure
Just like I said before
I love you, love you madly
If you could see the happy you and me
I dream about so proudly
You'd know the breath of spring
That makes me sing
My love song so loudly
Good things come to those who wait
So just relax and wait for fate
To let me see the day you'll say to me
I love you, love you madly
But since it's so
I thought you oughta know
I love you, madly
And that's for sure
Just like I said before
I love you, love you madly
If you could see the happy you and me
I dream about so proudly
You'd know the breath of spring
That makes me sing
My love song so loudly
To let me see the day you'll say to me
I love you madly
Happy Birthday, you old goat. I thought I'd see you get to 70. Guess I was wrong.
Monday, October 3, 2005
Drafty Sam
Well, there’s still a draft near my bed. This marks the fifth dwelling I’ve lived in that has a draft near my bed. A trusty stuffed animal blocking the stream of draft usually does the trick. That’s where Sam comes in.
Sam (don’t ask me why that’s his name) came into my life almost twenty years ago, Christmas 1986. He had a ridiculous red sweater with white snowflakes on it and a red hat sewn to both ears. At some point, I un-sewed the hat (how undignified) and got rid of the sweater (polar bears don’t need sweaters.) Sam took up permanent residence in the corner that blew cold air near my old bed. The wall and floor had started to separate, thus creating a draft. Sam made a good draft-killer.
I hate to say that I need Sam’s services yet again.
He was placed in the hamper to go out with the laundry for about 4 days, and the drafties snuck in. Probably explains why my neck’s a bit stiff. He was washed with the blankets and towels and had a nice spritz of Downy (Snuggle is a potential rival.) Last night, he made his October debut, crammed into the side of my bed. No draft! Plus the fact that Dexter likes sleeping on him, which is why I had to launder Sam in the first place. Cat hair on a stuffed bear = too much hair!
In other news, more people are jumping ship. It’s joyous to see good people who’ve had enough stand up and say, “You’ve GOT to be kidding me!” Three more interviews on Wednesday. I have nine vacation days. Use ‘em or lose ‘em, so Wednesday’s as good a day as ever.
And I can hear Bag O’Rocks voice in my head, “Well, you’re NOT here more than you are.” That choice comment made its way onto my last “evaluation.” NOT here more than I am. That’s toooo funny. Whatever the hell that meant, I’ve no idea.
(as I count the years since my last real vacation. HA!)
Sam (don’t ask me why that’s his name) came into my life almost twenty years ago, Christmas 1986. He had a ridiculous red sweater with white snowflakes on it and a red hat sewn to both ears. At some point, I un-sewed the hat (how undignified) and got rid of the sweater (polar bears don’t need sweaters.) Sam took up permanent residence in the corner that blew cold air near my old bed. The wall and floor had started to separate, thus creating a draft. Sam made a good draft-killer.
I hate to say that I need Sam’s services yet again.
He was placed in the hamper to go out with the laundry for about 4 days, and the drafties snuck in. Probably explains why my neck’s a bit stiff. He was washed with the blankets and towels and had a nice spritz of Downy (Snuggle is a potential rival.) Last night, he made his October debut, crammed into the side of my bed. No draft! Plus the fact that Dexter likes sleeping on him, which is why I had to launder Sam in the first place. Cat hair on a stuffed bear = too much hair!
In other news, more people are jumping ship. It’s joyous to see good people who’ve had enough stand up and say, “You’ve GOT to be kidding me!” Three more interviews on Wednesday. I have nine vacation days. Use ‘em or lose ‘em, so Wednesday’s as good a day as ever.
And I can hear Bag O’Rocks voice in my head, “Well, you’re NOT here more than you are.” That choice comment made its way onto my last “evaluation.” NOT here more than I am. That’s toooo funny. Whatever the hell that meant, I’ve no idea.
(as I count the years since my last real vacation. HA!)
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Hey Howie Part II
Well, this time my Hawaii buddy got me on the cell phone! It was amazing to hear his voice in real time after not speaking to him for 10 years. He was stunned to hear my dad died, and not surprised Mom went to Florida.
He's doing well with his new wife and daughter on his 2 acres of land, but he was worried about me for some reason. Don't block the "messages" I say, and when I told him about my current battle with fibromyalgia, he told me he knew a great product with glyconutrients in it from a company called Mannatech.
I clicked on the website, and the testimonials were there. This stuff ain't cheap, but that's $40 a bottle I'm willing to spend. If I spend $22 per pop on all my current medications, what's one more charge on my Visa card? I'm drowning in debt anyway. Maybe if this stuff actually works, I'll have the energy to get a second job until real employment comes in.
I told Howie my salary and he almost fell over. Even he's done better than that!
He's going to get his computer up and running, extend his phone line, and we can chat via email, since there is a 6-hour time difference.
I forgot to ask him if he still doesn't wear socks.
But I've got his number now, and the pics of the family can't be too far off.
Off to Mannatech I go, la la la...
He's doing well with his new wife and daughter on his 2 acres of land, but he was worried about me for some reason. Don't block the "messages" I say, and when I told him about my current battle with fibromyalgia, he told me he knew a great product with glyconutrients in it from a company called Mannatech.
I clicked on the website, and the testimonials were there. This stuff ain't cheap, but that's $40 a bottle I'm willing to spend. If I spend $22 per pop on all my current medications, what's one more charge on my Visa card? I'm drowning in debt anyway. Maybe if this stuff actually works, I'll have the energy to get a second job until real employment comes in.
I told Howie my salary and he almost fell over. Even he's done better than that!
He's going to get his computer up and running, extend his phone line, and we can chat via email, since there is a 6-hour time difference.
I forgot to ask him if he still doesn't wear socks.
But I've got his number now, and the pics of the family can't be too far off.
Off to Mannatech I go, la la la...
Friday, September 23, 2005
September Survival
Back pain, slowly approaching a waddling mess. Too jiggly I am. Gotta get back to Pilates. My knees and back, the constant struggle.
No one, and I mean no one is here today. Just me and a few admins. That's it! Everyone's off on the Annual Meeting, and I could care less about work. Yesterday was a lovely three-hour respite from orders and carpal tunnel in my right wrist to set up for the Annual Meeting. I'll take a tired headache and an afternoon of running around senseless over sitting here while my back bacon grows.
I'm getting too fat, plain and simple. I used to look like Pamela Anderson Lee, but I've spent too much time snarfing down Sara Lee for dinner. Who the hell has time to cook when you walk in at 7:30 at night? I think I'll take a page from my "little girl" life: I ate tuna and salmon constantly from about age 4 to about 19. Thin as a rail. Carbs are killing me, and my coffee habit's gotta go, too.
I'm sure all this is not helping with my energy "load" (or lack thereof.)
Rejections, Schmections. More jobs that don't want me. NEXT! As Thelma would say.
I think I'll rip apart my apartment this weekend and clean ruthlessly. I mean windows, curtains, even flip the damn mattress. Recycling, dishes, and mopping just ain't enough.
If I'm not happy (and oh boy I ain't), other areas of my life will just HAVE to come together.
My guilty pleasure has been Janice Dickinson wiping the floor with Omarosa on vh1's Surreal Life. Old Horse Face reminds me so much of Princess Brat, I just can't get enough. I am DEFINITELY ordering this DVD when it comes out. It's just great! Janice reminds me so much of the late Gia Carangi, it's almost painful. But the book about Gia's life was one of my favorite reads, I'll think I'll give Janice's book a shot. She's got one helluva personality, I'll say that much.
And I dreamed Jason Newsted (formerly of Metallica) was electrocuted in a pool last night, and Harry Potter wanted to hug me. What the hell is it with my brain while I sleep?
No one, and I mean no one is here today. Just me and a few admins. That's it! Everyone's off on the Annual Meeting, and I could care less about work. Yesterday was a lovely three-hour respite from orders and carpal tunnel in my right wrist to set up for the Annual Meeting. I'll take a tired headache and an afternoon of running around senseless over sitting here while my back bacon grows.
I'm getting too fat, plain and simple. I used to look like Pamela Anderson Lee, but I've spent too much time snarfing down Sara Lee for dinner. Who the hell has time to cook when you walk in at 7:30 at night? I think I'll take a page from my "little girl" life: I ate tuna and salmon constantly from about age 4 to about 19. Thin as a rail. Carbs are killing me, and my coffee habit's gotta go, too.
I'm sure all this is not helping with my energy "load" (or lack thereof.)
Rejections, Schmections. More jobs that don't want me. NEXT! As Thelma would say.
I think I'll rip apart my apartment this weekend and clean ruthlessly. I mean windows, curtains, even flip the damn mattress. Recycling, dishes, and mopping just ain't enough.
If I'm not happy (and oh boy I ain't), other areas of my life will just HAVE to come together.
My guilty pleasure has been Janice Dickinson wiping the floor with Omarosa on vh1's Surreal Life. Old Horse Face reminds me so much of Princess Brat, I just can't get enough. I am DEFINITELY ordering this DVD when it comes out. It's just great! Janice reminds me so much of the late Gia Carangi, it's almost painful. But the book about Gia's life was one of my favorite reads, I'll think I'll give Janice's book a shot. She's got one helluva personality, I'll say that much.
And I dreamed Jason Newsted (formerly of Metallica) was electrocuted in a pool last night, and Harry Potter wanted to hug me. What the hell is it with my brain while I sleep?
Sunday, September 18, 2005
I guess nobody ever told you...
All you must hold onto
is you
is you
Erykah Badu gives me some sanity. Another whacked-out spiritualist Pisces like myself helping me sift out Friday. More bullshit agencies. Oh, they are PISSED off when I say I'm not interested in Finance or Real Estate!
"Well, how do you KNOW you wouldn't like it?" asked Ms. Strauss (with nary a waltz in sight.)
Um, because I have a SOUL, that's why. I don't give two rats asses about people buying and selling money.
Same thing with job interview #10, it's a holding company with cyclical mandatory overtime I don't get paid for. I would just be sitting at a desk all day anticipating someone's needs. I need the money, but the idea of 2 weeks out of a month every month getting home at 9 or 10 pm at night will seriously hurt my health. Let's see if they take me. Maybe I'll like the money, stick it out for a year or six months, and find another job after that. I don't don't don't like the sound of it.
In other news, I was supposed to volunteer at a skating competition, but due to my back pain, was unable to get out of bed. I feel like a hammer was wedged in my shoulder blades. Not good. What is this lower back pain everyone talks about? I get it from the neck to the shoulder blades to right above my hips. What's with that? So much for my $500 mattress. I keep seeing this ad for the Tempurpedic mattress, maybe that will be my next purchase? Is there anything that could make my body stop beating itself up? Just one respite, please.
Plus the fact that I took Friday off, I just don't care. I was tired and in pain. It's just too much.
I don't want to be at this company anymore, but should I jump to one of these crap places? I'm in a bind. Continual unhappiness is really taking it out of me.
is you
is you
Erykah Badu gives me some sanity. Another whacked-out spiritualist Pisces like myself helping me sift out Friday. More bullshit agencies. Oh, they are PISSED off when I say I'm not interested in Finance or Real Estate!
"Well, how do you KNOW you wouldn't like it?" asked Ms. Strauss (with nary a waltz in sight.)
Um, because I have a SOUL, that's why. I don't give two rats asses about people buying and selling money.
Same thing with job interview #10, it's a holding company with cyclical mandatory overtime I don't get paid for. I would just be sitting at a desk all day anticipating someone's needs. I need the money, but the idea of 2 weeks out of a month every month getting home at 9 or 10 pm at night will seriously hurt my health. Let's see if they take me. Maybe I'll like the money, stick it out for a year or six months, and find another job after that. I don't don't don't like the sound of it.
In other news, I was supposed to volunteer at a skating competition, but due to my back pain, was unable to get out of bed. I feel like a hammer was wedged in my shoulder blades. Not good. What is this lower back pain everyone talks about? I get it from the neck to the shoulder blades to right above my hips. What's with that? So much for my $500 mattress. I keep seeing this ad for the Tempurpedic mattress, maybe that will be my next purchase? Is there anything that could make my body stop beating itself up? Just one respite, please.
Plus the fact that I took Friday off, I just don't care. I was tired and in pain. It's just too much.
I don't want to be at this company anymore, but should I jump to one of these crap places? I'm in a bind. Continual unhappiness is really taking it out of me.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Squoonchy Kisses to all of you!
Sometimes, Brezsny's right on the money...
A blogger named Allison wrote this about me and my horoscopes at Beautifulsurprise.blogspot.com: "Brezsny's a little loopy. A little out there. A little 'I would have stopped for that red light, officer, but little green men from my personal goddess realm on the fifth parallel told my cat that I should be taking echinacea and bee pollen for my sniffles, and I didn't think it prudent to ignore such a suggestion.'" Here's my reaction: Like all of us, I periodically come across people who have a very different concept of me than I have of myself, but this discrepancy is extreme. In my own eyes, I'm grounded and full of common sense. And while I appreciate the New Age, I don't use its vernacular or share all of its values. I mention this, Pisces, as an example of your assignment in the coming week. Identify people with cracked notions about you, and either correct them or separate yourself from them.
Courtesy of freewillastrology.com.
The separation has begun!
In other news, the bathrooms here have stopped working. We can't run water or flush. This place is a joke.
Like they say, "You can't spell 'cheap' without AP!"
A blogger named Allison wrote this about me and my horoscopes at Beautifulsurprise.blogspot.com: "Brezsny's a little loopy. A little out there. A little 'I would have stopped for that red light, officer, but little green men from my personal goddess realm on the fifth parallel told my cat that I should be taking echinacea and bee pollen for my sniffles, and I didn't think it prudent to ignore such a suggestion.'" Here's my reaction: Like all of us, I periodically come across people who have a very different concept of me than I have of myself, but this discrepancy is extreme. In my own eyes, I'm grounded and full of common sense. And while I appreciate the New Age, I don't use its vernacular or share all of its values. I mention this, Pisces, as an example of your assignment in the coming week. Identify people with cracked notions about you, and either correct them or separate yourself from them.
Courtesy of freewillastrology.com.
The separation has begun!
In other news, the bathrooms here have stopped working. We can't run water or flush. This place is a joke.
Like they say, "You can't spell 'cheap' without AP!"
Friday, September 9, 2005
We’re the song inside the tune/full of beautiful mistakes
Don’t ask my why I’m in a good mood, but I am. And not because it’s Friday.
I think it’s a combination of seeing Johnny Weir on the cover of Blades (tomorrow marks 1 year when we spoke), the fact that I watched the entire Serious Skin Care presentation without actually purchasing anything, and getting no sleep, but still waking up to skate this morning. I know what I love.
Then, the curious moment: Dance magazine popped into my head, I googled this month’s issue, and Gelsey Kirkland made the cover! It’s the first time since 1986 she’s given a full interview. Almost 20 years. It made me so happy, I can’t even explain it. I’ve been blasting Chaka Khan on my RealPlayer, too. She’s like coffee: gotta have it.
Great interview yesterday, too: the woman I was supposed to meet with kept me waiting, but her director took me in. Turns out she’s the head of the department, so it was better that I spoke with her. Let’s hope. I will jump at the first offer. I’m not kidding. Two new agencies called, too: First Choice (Jane’s a crazy cat lady, too. HA!) and Citistaffing on Monday. I updated everything on Monster and now they’re out there calling me. Now that’s PROGRESS.
There’s also my kitten card from Mom in Florida. It’s a black and white Siamese/tuxedo mix with blue eyes and a pink nose. So squoonchable! And of course, October is next month. That’s when I come back to life.
The Post had an article today that Stevie Wonder will be playing selections from his new album on Bobby Short’s piano at the Carlysle hotel next Friday. That’s just beautiful. Not because it’s Stevie, but because they’re letting him use Bobby’s piano instead of his signature Casio keyboard.
So, I’m tired yet alive. I’ve been smiling a lot lately, too. Premonition on good things to come? I had a miserable summer, but my mood’s lifted considerably. I just don’t know what it is. Johnny’s article said how much he changed when he broke all ties with a really bad rink. I did that 6 years ago, but I wasn’t happy. I also glanced at something that said he got rid of all negativity and started thinning the ranks in terms of his handlers, website, even friends. Makes sense. I’ve cleaned house now about 4 or 5 times since 1995. Is that what this is? The result?
And it turns out my Mom loves Kathy Griffin’s reality show. Who knew we were watching it on Bravo at the same time? We laughed when Kathy ranked out Britney Spears. Mom agrees Britney’s going to be a washed up entertainer, and that Christina Aguilera has more of a future. HOW DOES MY MOTHER KNOW ABOUT CHRISTINA? My, my…the things one learns.
Makes me want to hum…
and tomorrow we might awake on the other side…
I think it’s a combination of seeing Johnny Weir on the cover of Blades (tomorrow marks 1 year when we spoke), the fact that I watched the entire Serious Skin Care presentation without actually purchasing anything, and getting no sleep, but still waking up to skate this morning. I know what I love.
Then, the curious moment: Dance magazine popped into my head, I googled this month’s issue, and Gelsey Kirkland made the cover! It’s the first time since 1986 she’s given a full interview. Almost 20 years. It made me so happy, I can’t even explain it. I’ve been blasting Chaka Khan on my RealPlayer, too. She’s like coffee: gotta have it.
Great interview yesterday, too: the woman I was supposed to meet with kept me waiting, but her director took me in. Turns out she’s the head of the department, so it was better that I spoke with her. Let’s hope. I will jump at the first offer. I’m not kidding. Two new agencies called, too: First Choice (Jane’s a crazy cat lady, too. HA!) and Citistaffing on Monday. I updated everything on Monster and now they’re out there calling me. Now that’s PROGRESS.
There’s also my kitten card from Mom in Florida. It’s a black and white Siamese/tuxedo mix with blue eyes and a pink nose. So squoonchable! And of course, October is next month. That’s when I come back to life.
The Post had an article today that Stevie Wonder will be playing selections from his new album on Bobby Short’s piano at the Carlysle hotel next Friday. That’s just beautiful. Not because it’s Stevie, but because they’re letting him use Bobby’s piano instead of his signature Casio keyboard.
So, I’m tired yet alive. I’ve been smiling a lot lately, too. Premonition on good things to come? I had a miserable summer, but my mood’s lifted considerably. I just don’t know what it is. Johnny’s article said how much he changed when he broke all ties with a really bad rink. I did that 6 years ago, but I wasn’t happy. I also glanced at something that said he got rid of all negativity and started thinning the ranks in terms of his handlers, website, even friends. Makes sense. I’ve cleaned house now about 4 or 5 times since 1995. Is that what this is? The result?
And it turns out my Mom loves Kathy Griffin’s reality show. Who knew we were watching it on Bravo at the same time? We laughed when Kathy ranked out Britney Spears. Mom agrees Britney’s going to be a washed up entertainer, and that Christina Aguilera has more of a future. HOW DOES MY MOTHER KNOW ABOUT CHRISTINA? My, my…the things one learns.
Makes me want to hum…
and tomorrow we might awake on the other side…
Sunday, September 4, 2005
Harry & Wynton
Do you know what it means to miss new orleans
And miss it each night and day
I know I’m not wrong... this feeling’s gettin’ stronger
The longer, I stay away
Miss them moss covered vines...the tall sugar pines
Where mockin’ birds used to sing
And I’d like to see that lazy mississippi...hurryin’ into spring
The moonlight on the bayou.......a creole tune.... that fills the air
I dream... about magnolias in bloom......and I’m wishin’ I was there
Do you know what it means to miss new orleans
When that’s where you left your heart
And there’s one thing more...i miss the one I care for
More than I miss new orleans
(instrumental break)
The moonlight on the bayou.......a creole tune.... that fills the air
I dream... about magnolias in bloom......and I’m wishin’ I was there
Do you know what it means to miss new orleans
When that’s where you left your heart
And there’s one thing more...i miss the one I care for
More.....more than I miss.......new orleans
Louis Armstrong wrote this. Harry Connick and Wynton Marsalis sang it Friday night on the Katrina relief special. I like to think Todd, Greg Garvin, my dad, Howie, and Nettie were singing along. They were all affected by Nawlins (come on, that's the spelling) by birth, visits, weekends, honeymoons, and slavery. Nettie was the granddaughter of Quadroon slaves. Lots of food, memories and strange mixing went on in her family. Food, jass (now we say "jazz"), voodoo, tears, harmony, and hope. Lots of mixing indeed.
I met Harry on August 22, 1994. He was promoting his album Star Turtle at Tower Records's new home in Trump Plaza. I was third in line. I regaled him with a short tale of how my friends made fun of me for listening to Duke Ellington, Sarah Vaughn, Billie, Willie "The Lion" Smith, and Hank Jones. He shook his head and laughed in that inimitable drawl, "Ahh know. Me too. Yah juss keep lissenann tuh that good stuff naw, ya heah?" He signed 4 cds, a program from a show Howie and I went to and I got to stare at those huge piano monsters he calls hands. He hadn't married Jill Goodacre yet, so there was no wedding band. That came later.
I met Wynton on January 17, 2001. He was at a New York City ballet discussion in the NY State theater. He was joined by Peter Martins, a moderator from the orchestra, and two ushers who were taking questions. Wynton and Peter had collaborated back in 1992 on an experimental piece called Jazz. Wynton did the music, Peter did the choreography. It was a moderate success, and the public asked for more. Wynton was commissioned to do another piece, which came out in 2002, and he was there to discuss its structure. My question was simple.
"What kind of music do you listen to when you're creating something?"
I did not go up to the mike. I did not defer to the ushers. I was raised with him, Delfeayo, Ellis, and his brother Brandon, so I knew what he'd say. I was also sitting dead-center in row 12, right in the middle. He heard me fine.
"Well, I don't really indulge at all. I gotta keep my notes straight in my head. It's like cooking. You need your ingredients, but you can't mess it up with the hot sauce too soon, ya know?"
The audience laughed. I knew he'd put food and music in the same category. That's what Nawlins folk do.
And so I sat with a lump in my throat on Friday at seeing Harry and Wynton play together. Ellis, Wynton's dad, gave Harry his last classical compositions to practice when he was a boy. Paid off, too. Harry's one of the better piano players to carry on the southern jazz traditions. Frank Sinatra comparisons, my ass. Frank is great, but he never arranged for orchestra, played Avalon with a loose left hand, or had a thirteen-piece brass band doing the Stomp onstage with him.
I had my chance to go down there about 9 years ago, but I had to work that summer. I was very very pissed off. And now, doubly so, because anything past this point will be "Before and After", just like NY City and 9/11. Not that I'm making a comparison to crazy people flying a plane into buildings and a natural disaster, but you KNOW those levees weren't properly maintained. Sad, but true.
And thank god I've got three days off. More time to rest and recover. Why is August such a bitch?
And miss it each night and day
I know I’m not wrong... this feeling’s gettin’ stronger
The longer, I stay away
Miss them moss covered vines...the tall sugar pines
Where mockin’ birds used to sing
And I’d like to see that lazy mississippi...hurryin’ into spring
The moonlight on the bayou.......a creole tune.... that fills the air
I dream... about magnolias in bloom......and I’m wishin’ I was there
Do you know what it means to miss new orleans
When that’s where you left your heart
And there’s one thing more...i miss the one I care for
More than I miss new orleans
(instrumental break)
The moonlight on the bayou.......a creole tune.... that fills the air
I dream... about magnolias in bloom......and I’m wishin’ I was there
Do you know what it means to miss new orleans
When that’s where you left your heart
And there’s one thing more...i miss the one I care for
More.....more than I miss.......new orleans
Louis Armstrong wrote this. Harry Connick and Wynton Marsalis sang it Friday night on the Katrina relief special. I like to think Todd, Greg Garvin, my dad, Howie, and Nettie were singing along. They were all affected by Nawlins (come on, that's the spelling) by birth, visits, weekends, honeymoons, and slavery. Nettie was the granddaughter of Quadroon slaves. Lots of food, memories and strange mixing went on in her family. Food, jass (now we say "jazz"), voodoo, tears, harmony, and hope. Lots of mixing indeed.
I met Harry on August 22, 1994. He was promoting his album Star Turtle at Tower Records's new home in Trump Plaza. I was third in line. I regaled him with a short tale of how my friends made fun of me for listening to Duke Ellington, Sarah Vaughn, Billie, Willie "The Lion" Smith, and Hank Jones. He shook his head and laughed in that inimitable drawl, "Ahh know. Me too. Yah juss keep lissenann tuh that good stuff naw, ya heah?" He signed 4 cds, a program from a show Howie and I went to and I got to stare at those huge piano monsters he calls hands. He hadn't married Jill Goodacre yet, so there was no wedding band. That came later.
I met Wynton on January 17, 2001. He was at a New York City ballet discussion in the NY State theater. He was joined by Peter Martins, a moderator from the orchestra, and two ushers who were taking questions. Wynton and Peter had collaborated back in 1992 on an experimental piece called Jazz. Wynton did the music, Peter did the choreography. It was a moderate success, and the public asked for more. Wynton was commissioned to do another piece, which came out in 2002, and he was there to discuss its structure. My question was simple.
"What kind of music do you listen to when you're creating something?"
I did not go up to the mike. I did not defer to the ushers. I was raised with him, Delfeayo, Ellis, and his brother Brandon, so I knew what he'd say. I was also sitting dead-center in row 12, right in the middle. He heard me fine.
"Well, I don't really indulge at all. I gotta keep my notes straight in my head. It's like cooking. You need your ingredients, but you can't mess it up with the hot sauce too soon, ya know?"
The audience laughed. I knew he'd put food and music in the same category. That's what Nawlins folk do.
And so I sat with a lump in my throat on Friday at seeing Harry and Wynton play together. Ellis, Wynton's dad, gave Harry his last classical compositions to practice when he was a boy. Paid off, too. Harry's one of the better piano players to carry on the southern jazz traditions. Frank Sinatra comparisons, my ass. Frank is great, but he never arranged for orchestra, played Avalon with a loose left hand, or had a thirteen-piece brass band doing the Stomp onstage with him.
I had my chance to go down there about 9 years ago, but I had to work that summer. I was very very pissed off. And now, doubly so, because anything past this point will be "Before and After", just like NY City and 9/11. Not that I'm making a comparison to crazy people flying a plane into buildings and a natural disaster, but you KNOW those levees weren't properly maintained. Sad, but true.
And thank god I've got three days off. More time to rest and recover. Why is August such a bitch?
Friday, September 2, 2005
Hey Howie
Oh, my. Howie Rosin called.
Howie's a guy I knew way back from 1988. Just the voice I needed to hear on my answering machine last night. We met outside L'amour on May 30, 1988. Tommy Cassidy was there, too. With a big guy named Al.
My number pops into his head every now and then, and it popped up yesterday afternoon. He's still in Hawaii after having been in the Navy, and basically following the Grateful Dead around the country before Jerry Garcia died. The last time I heard his voice was May 31, 2001. The next day I found out my father died.
Howie, an Italian Jew descended from Rossini, has acquired two acres of land and is married with a daughter, Irie Jade. That's just wonderful. I love knowing where my Brooklynites have gone. He used to live in Luna Park before his brother got married and his parents moved to Arizona. His mom had lupus and needed a warm climate.
We used to laugh and laugh. It's so good to know my past hasn't forgotten me. (I also met Danny & Chris 18 years ago today at the St. Rosalia feast.)
And Monster's finally working! More phone calls. September's looking like it's gonna be nice.
(and keanu reeves is 41 today. whoah)
Howie's a guy I knew way back from 1988. Just the voice I needed to hear on my answering machine last night. We met outside L'amour on May 30, 1988. Tommy Cassidy was there, too. With a big guy named Al.
My number pops into his head every now and then, and it popped up yesterday afternoon. He's still in Hawaii after having been in the Navy, and basically following the Grateful Dead around the country before Jerry Garcia died. The last time I heard his voice was May 31, 2001. The next day I found out my father died.
Howie, an Italian Jew descended from Rossini, has acquired two acres of land and is married with a daughter, Irie Jade. That's just wonderful. I love knowing where my Brooklynites have gone. He used to live in Luna Park before his brother got married and his parents moved to Arizona. His mom had lupus and needed a warm climate.
We used to laugh and laugh. It's so good to know my past hasn't forgotten me. (I also met Danny & Chris 18 years ago today at the St. Rosalia feast.)
And Monster's finally working! More phone calls. September's looking like it's gonna be nice.
(and keanu reeves is 41 today. whoah)
Thursday, September 1, 2005
Throwing In the Towel
Well, I'm having myself a good day so far: another person in HR is leaving. This one's only been here for under two years. I thought she could handle anything, but I guess not! Oooowwwweee that makes me happy.
As for CBGB's? I knew they'd let the place die. Joey's dead. Dee Dee's dead. Tommy's dead. Johnny Thunders is dead. CBGB is now a shirt teenagers under the age of 16 wear. And, they got the shirt off eBay. It's a sad state of affairs, but I enjoy schadenfreude.
Baldo, Sad Sack, and the jockeying narcissists stand near me in their $1,000 suits. I sneer silently at them. I am also thrilled because it is September, and I have more emails and interviews coming. Like my little HR friend, I might have to wait for opportunities, but they're coming!
I've decided I'm going to print out ALL the "new postings" about internal jobs where people have left the company. I printed out about 20 this morning, and that's only from July! Last month. If we're losing on the average of 10 people a month AND some of these posts are RE-postings, WHAT THE HELL does that say about this place? Like I have anything to be worried about? No one else is doing the work! It won't get done with all these people flying out the door. And oooh, lookie...more admins are approaching my desk. Out of six of them, I know for a fact three are looking to leave, and they've been here less than a year! LMAO
Oh, I am lovin' this!
And tomorrow I skate in the morning and have a half day! I'm filled with undeniable JOY. Entropy is such a gorgeous monster.
As for CBGB's? I knew they'd let the place die. Joey's dead. Dee Dee's dead. Tommy's dead. Johnny Thunders is dead. CBGB is now a shirt teenagers under the age of 16 wear. And, they got the shirt off eBay. It's a sad state of affairs, but I enjoy schadenfreude.
Baldo, Sad Sack, and the jockeying narcissists stand near me in their $1,000 suits. I sneer silently at them. I am also thrilled because it is September, and I have more emails and interviews coming. Like my little HR friend, I might have to wait for opportunities, but they're coming!
I've decided I'm going to print out ALL the "new postings" about internal jobs where people have left the company. I printed out about 20 this morning, and that's only from July! Last month. If we're losing on the average of 10 people a month AND some of these posts are RE-postings, WHAT THE HELL does that say about this place? Like I have anything to be worried about? No one else is doing the work! It won't get done with all these people flying out the door. And oooh, lookie...more admins are approaching my desk. Out of six of them, I know for a fact three are looking to leave, and they've been here less than a year! LMAO
Oh, I am lovin' this!
And tomorrow I skate in the morning and have a half day! I'm filled with undeniable JOY. Entropy is such a gorgeous monster.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Why Is It Always About You?
That's the title of one of the best books I have by Sandy Hotchkiss. It's a laymen's book on what she calls the Seven Deadly Sins of Narcissism: Shamelessness, Magical Thinking, Arrogance, Envy, Entitlement, Exploitation, and Bad Boundaries. There's also Lack of Empathy, which is sorely missing from this treatise.
I gave this book to a coworker, and now I have it back. It's definitely worth reading again. If only I had this ten years ago, I might not have made the choices I did. It's also a lovely bolster to all the coworkers, bosses, and general relationships--god, how I use that term loosely--over the years.
The first three items describe my current and former working environment at my last 3 jobs, the next two describe false friends I have gotten rid of since 1995, the last two describe members of my own immediate and extended family. It's such a useful book, I can't recommend it enough.
Even with all the setbacks, disappointments, hurdles and losses in my life, I was not shielded from the truth. I was not shielded from making sense of things myself, and I was never given special treatment. These things, as I have learned in this book, are the exact opposite of what the narcissist lives in. It's all about me, me, me, power and control.
The latest asshole with a violent sense of "me" entitlement is that serial killer in Wichita, Kansas. I won't mention his name since he's probably sitting in prison right now (and he got 175 years) googling his own name. This militant megalomaniac asshole sat in court two weeks ago and bragged about how he strengthened his hands to more efficiently kill his victims. Most serial killers suffer from narcissism at the extreme end, which is malignant and sociopathic. His victims were objects, the surviving children and the one guy who survived were just useless cockroaches who were lucky to escape. Nice, guy, huh? And the media plays right into it--the last thing anyone should ever do is mention this guy's name ever again, it's what he wants.
And to think, I thought I was NUTS. I might have a messy apartment, sleep too much, and buy waaay too much crap on ebay, but I'm no where near as bad as these people. They'd tell me the exact opposite, but that's why books like this are written.
If you're living in Asshole Central, I recommend it: Why Is It Always About You? The Seven Deadly Sins of Narcissism by Sandy Hotchkiss, LCSW. It's cheap on amazon.com. Take a look, you won't regret it.
I gave this book to a coworker, and now I have it back. It's definitely worth reading again. If only I had this ten years ago, I might not have made the choices I did. It's also a lovely bolster to all the coworkers, bosses, and general relationships--god, how I use that term loosely--over the years.
The first three items describe my current and former working environment at my last 3 jobs, the next two describe false friends I have gotten rid of since 1995, the last two describe members of my own immediate and extended family. It's such a useful book, I can't recommend it enough.
Even with all the setbacks, disappointments, hurdles and losses in my life, I was not shielded from the truth. I was not shielded from making sense of things myself, and I was never given special treatment. These things, as I have learned in this book, are the exact opposite of what the narcissist lives in. It's all about me, me, me, power and control.
The latest asshole with a violent sense of "me" entitlement is that serial killer in Wichita, Kansas. I won't mention his name since he's probably sitting in prison right now (and he got 175 years) googling his own name. This militant megalomaniac asshole sat in court two weeks ago and bragged about how he strengthened his hands to more efficiently kill his victims. Most serial killers suffer from narcissism at the extreme end, which is malignant and sociopathic. His victims were objects, the surviving children and the one guy who survived were just useless cockroaches who were lucky to escape. Nice, guy, huh? And the media plays right into it--the last thing anyone should ever do is mention this guy's name ever again, it's what he wants.
And to think, I thought I was NUTS. I might have a messy apartment, sleep too much, and buy waaay too much crap on ebay, but I'm no where near as bad as these people. They'd tell me the exact opposite, but that's why books like this are written.
If you're living in Asshole Central, I recommend it: Why Is It Always About You? The Seven Deadly Sins of Narcissism by Sandy Hotchkiss, LCSW. It's cheap on amazon.com. Take a look, you won't regret it.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
My Beautiful Laundrette
at 7:30 a.m.
Got home too late last night to do the clothes, so I got up this morning at 7 a.m. to do them. Not bad, either. I just ran out of time and barely made it to my train. But my clothes were fresh out of the dryer. It was me, an old woman, two sleeping cats, and that fabulous Lotto commercial with the dog--on Telemundo.
"Perrrro???!!" the guy says as the dog goes by with the french poodles in the limo. It's funnier in Spanish, I swear.
My chomped-up leg is still purple and red, but the itching has gone done. I should've done my sheets, too--they're covered in Cortaid ointment. It works, but it's messy.
What I'm enjoying most is going on various websites to find the shortest most curt version of a resignation letter I can find. I've seen "friendly but stylish", "helpful yet elegant", and going-out-on-a-limb-before-I-leave, which I ain't doing. I want the Dry As Dirt version. I think that could be lovely.
And then of course, the thing I didn't think of---the 401K rollover. I don't want the check. I don't want the tax penalty. I also don't want them keeping my $ while I'm at a new place. I think I want the Roth IRA. I'll have to set up something with my bank. Just poke around and see what they offer. Then if I have my own Roth IRA, I can sign up for whatever comes my way at the new place. More sources of moolah.
My allergies are also back--this time it's my eye. I literally peeled my lids open due to pollen gunky weirdness. That can be my lovely excuse for tomorrow's meeting downtown. Ahh, the gunky web I weave...
Got home too late last night to do the clothes, so I got up this morning at 7 a.m. to do them. Not bad, either. I just ran out of time and barely made it to my train. But my clothes were fresh out of the dryer. It was me, an old woman, two sleeping cats, and that fabulous Lotto commercial with the dog--on Telemundo.
"Perrrro???!!" the guy says as the dog goes by with the french poodles in the limo. It's funnier in Spanish, I swear.
My chomped-up leg is still purple and red, but the itching has gone done. I should've done my sheets, too--they're covered in Cortaid ointment. It works, but it's messy.
What I'm enjoying most is going on various websites to find the shortest most curt version of a resignation letter I can find. I've seen "friendly but stylish", "helpful yet elegant", and going-out-on-a-limb-before-I-leave, which I ain't doing. I want the Dry As Dirt version. I think that could be lovely.
And then of course, the thing I didn't think of---the 401K rollover. I don't want the check. I don't want the tax penalty. I also don't want them keeping my $ while I'm at a new place. I think I want the Roth IRA. I'll have to set up something with my bank. Just poke around and see what they offer. Then if I have my own Roth IRA, I can sign up for whatever comes my way at the new place. More sources of moolah.
My allergies are also back--this time it's my eye. I literally peeled my lids open due to pollen gunky weirdness. That can be my lovely excuse for tomorrow's meeting downtown. Ahh, the gunky web I weave...
Monday, August 22, 2005
I'm Alive
Barely.
Some huge bug chomped on my leg. I prefer "chomp" rather than "feed." That's a bit too Bram Stoker for me.
I could not get out of bed yesterday. At ALL. I literally slept on and off from about 4 am Saturday to 7 am this morning. Strange dreams plagued me, too.
Lots of my childhood house, more marauding elves, dark streets, sewers, towers, and me being 4 ft. tall. No spicy food, either. In fact, I didn't eat at all yesterday. Once glass of water at 11:15 pm, and that was it.
I think I'm making up for all the years of sleep I didn't get. It comes on like exhaustion, too. I literally can't move.
Applied to a lovely Reuters position this morning. Since half my company is going over there, does it matter? I don't think so. Our resident closet Queen, JD, is leaving. Wonder where his bubblehead assistant is going to go. She came back after not working here for one year to specifically work for him. She has all the intelligence of a shoe string. Plenty of people are probably dancing in the aisles that he's gone. He had the charm of a (drag queened) cockroach. Good riddance, I say.
The mental burden of still being here is too much.
Off to Borough Hall on Wednesday. Let's see what happens there.
Some huge bug chomped on my leg. I prefer "chomp" rather than "feed." That's a bit too Bram Stoker for me.
I could not get out of bed yesterday. At ALL. I literally slept on and off from about 4 am Saturday to 7 am this morning. Strange dreams plagued me, too.
Lots of my childhood house, more marauding elves, dark streets, sewers, towers, and me being 4 ft. tall. No spicy food, either. In fact, I didn't eat at all yesterday. Once glass of water at 11:15 pm, and that was it.
I think I'm making up for all the years of sleep I didn't get. It comes on like exhaustion, too. I literally can't move.
Applied to a lovely Reuters position this morning. Since half my company is going over there, does it matter? I don't think so. Our resident closet Queen, JD, is leaving. Wonder where his bubblehead assistant is going to go. She came back after not working here for one year to specifically work for him. She has all the intelligence of a shoe string. Plenty of people are probably dancing in the aisles that he's gone. He had the charm of a (drag queened) cockroach. Good riddance, I say.
The mental burden of still being here is too much.
Off to Borough Hall on Wednesday. Let's see what happens there.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
A Lesson in Faith
Well, this whole week has been very sad for me.
The final toy and trinket count for Thelma is one Christmas ornament, one purple bear, one stuffed cat, three Christmas cards, one keychain, one pencil set with a notebook covered in angels, and an 8-inch poseable scarecrow. Most of them are on display and still used--except the ornament, which is packed away in my holiday "closet." She really has been with me all along.
I got up this morning and had to get my hair done, which is perfect timing: another job interview Monday. The tiny place is called Pier Luca, and if you can imagine sinks and blow dryers inside a tiny church? That's it: ornate, gold, littered with statues of angels, candle, depictions of Padre Pio (I kid you not), St. George, St. Michael, Mary, and the Infant of Prague. Given my solemn mood, it was nice to be near my old neighborhood and surrounded by the Catholic icons of my childhood.
There was only thing to do afterwards: visit St. Finbar's, the church where I was baptized and attended mass until I was 9 years old. Today, in Indiana, Thelma was laid to rest at Trinity Baptist church. This was all I could think about. A heavy feeling hit me, and it was more than humidity as I ascended the stairs. Amazingly, a mass in Italian was taking place. I passed the stations of the cross, a statue of Mary and Padre Pio (he's everywhere, I guess), and took a seat. From what I could understand, it was for a couple. Not a wedding, but something else-- then I saw two well-dressed seniors in take the altar. The priest began speaking in English about how they were there again where they were married to celebrate their 50th anniversary with all they knew. Almost half the church was filled, and it was clear I was not family. I smiled and nodded at those who turned around. The priest continued with an incredible sermon. I scribbled some of it down.
"Today we mark 50 years of faith for this loving couple. Faith and faithfulness are not popular things in today's world, but it is God's love and faith for each and every one of us that allows a successful union among those who believe. If you can believe, even in difficulty and in sorrow, the years pass maybe not with ease, but with strength. Strength comes from faith."
He quickly broke into Italian, and they re-dedicated their vows to each other. There was much weeping, myself included. It suddenly seemed strange that I was crying amongst strangers, so I left. As I turned the block, I stopped in a new restaurant (it wasn't there a few months ago) and had a plate of pasta. In honor of all my Italians. Good food, good life they used to say.
I turned up my old block to see my first butterfly of this summer. Two little girls told me they adopted a caterpillar and the cocoon broke open. This tiny black and yellow creature sat on the girl's finger perched like a sparrow. Shame that butterflies don't live very long, I thought. As if reading my thoughts, she said, "I think we'll have him a long time." Ah, children. They believe no matter what.
And that's what summed up my day--the faith that while Thelma's body finally gave out, her spirit remains. It is only with news of her passing, that I can think of how steeped she in my mind, my memory, my life. This was a woman who gave and gave with what she saw as an unlimited amount of strength, but it was her faith that truly allowed her to keep going. When we knew she might collapse from exhaustion, she did not.
I will always see her toys and cards and think of the incredible cheekbones and laugh filling the 6th floor studio as she grabbed hot chocolate in the morning, and tea in the afternoon. Her perfect teeth and burgundy lipstick as she smiled and laughed. Her long, curved fingers in that exact shade of golden bronze nail polish. The encouraging notes she left me when I told her I was leaving that job. The cartoons we shared, the puns, the jokes...all of it still fresh--always fresh--in my mind. She told me I had to have the courage to ask for more. In my paycheck and in life. "Why settle? There's always gonna be someone who wants it more than you," she told me. "Get ON with it!" she would say, and how I laughed. She was right of course, and my current job search certainly exemplifies this point. I must have faith that things will improve, and that the right moment will turn my way. Plenty of events in my life tell me otherwise, but that's what I need to block out. I am lucky that time moves forward and does not stand still.
A passing, an anniversary, a memory, a butterfly. There is always hope.
The final toy and trinket count for Thelma is one Christmas ornament, one purple bear, one stuffed cat, three Christmas cards, one keychain, one pencil set with a notebook covered in angels, and an 8-inch poseable scarecrow. Most of them are on display and still used--except the ornament, which is packed away in my holiday "closet." She really has been with me all along.
I got up this morning and had to get my hair done, which is perfect timing: another job interview Monday. The tiny place is called Pier Luca, and if you can imagine sinks and blow dryers inside a tiny church? That's it: ornate, gold, littered with statues of angels, candle, depictions of Padre Pio (I kid you not), St. George, St. Michael, Mary, and the Infant of Prague. Given my solemn mood, it was nice to be near my old neighborhood and surrounded by the Catholic icons of my childhood.
There was only thing to do afterwards: visit St. Finbar's, the church where I was baptized and attended mass until I was 9 years old. Today, in Indiana, Thelma was laid to rest at Trinity Baptist church. This was all I could think about. A heavy feeling hit me, and it was more than humidity as I ascended the stairs. Amazingly, a mass in Italian was taking place. I passed the stations of the cross, a statue of Mary and Padre Pio (he's everywhere, I guess), and took a seat. From what I could understand, it was for a couple. Not a wedding, but something else-- then I saw two well-dressed seniors in take the altar. The priest began speaking in English about how they were there again where they were married to celebrate their 50th anniversary with all they knew. Almost half the church was filled, and it was clear I was not family. I smiled and nodded at those who turned around. The priest continued with an incredible sermon. I scribbled some of it down.
"Today we mark 50 years of faith for this loving couple. Faith and faithfulness are not popular things in today's world, but it is God's love and faith for each and every one of us that allows a successful union among those who believe. If you can believe, even in difficulty and in sorrow, the years pass maybe not with ease, but with strength. Strength comes from faith."
He quickly broke into Italian, and they re-dedicated their vows to each other. There was much weeping, myself included. It suddenly seemed strange that I was crying amongst strangers, so I left. As I turned the block, I stopped in a new restaurant (it wasn't there a few months ago) and had a plate of pasta. In honor of all my Italians. Good food, good life they used to say.
I turned up my old block to see my first butterfly of this summer. Two little girls told me they adopted a caterpillar and the cocoon broke open. This tiny black and yellow creature sat on the girl's finger perched like a sparrow. Shame that butterflies don't live very long, I thought. As if reading my thoughts, she said, "I think we'll have him a long time." Ah, children. They believe no matter what.
And that's what summed up my day--the faith that while Thelma's body finally gave out, her spirit remains. It is only with news of her passing, that I can think of how steeped she in my mind, my memory, my life. This was a woman who gave and gave with what she saw as an unlimited amount of strength, but it was her faith that truly allowed her to keep going. When we knew she might collapse from exhaustion, she did not.
I will always see her toys and cards and think of the incredible cheekbones and laugh filling the 6th floor studio as she grabbed hot chocolate in the morning, and tea in the afternoon. Her perfect teeth and burgundy lipstick as she smiled and laughed. Her long, curved fingers in that exact shade of golden bronze nail polish. The encouraging notes she left me when I told her I was leaving that job. The cartoons we shared, the puns, the jokes...all of it still fresh--always fresh--in my mind. She told me I had to have the courage to ask for more. In my paycheck and in life. "Why settle? There's always gonna be someone who wants it more than you," she told me. "Get ON with it!" she would say, and how I laughed. She was right of course, and my current job search certainly exemplifies this point. I must have faith that things will improve, and that the right moment will turn my way. Plenty of events in my life tell me otherwise, but that's what I need to block out. I am lucky that time moves forward and does not stand still.
A passing, an anniversary, a memory, a butterfly. There is always hope.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Funeral news
For those of you who visit here often, this is the info.
Thelma's viewing will take place tomorrow from 2-8 pm at Guy & Allen Funeral Home,
2959 West 11th Avenue in Gary, Indiana (46404).
The mass will be Saturday at Trinity Baptist Church, 1831 Virginia St. (46407).
It's easier than sending tons of emails. The zip codes are here, too, for those of you who want to send flowers. 1800flowers.com does same-day delivery.
Last night, I found a Christmas card from 1999. What I really want to find is the purple teddy bear she made a joke about. The memories are coming...
Thelma's viewing will take place tomorrow from 2-8 pm at Guy & Allen Funeral Home,
2959 West 11th Avenue in Gary, Indiana (46404).
The mass will be Saturday at Trinity Baptist Church, 1831 Virginia St. (46407).
It's easier than sending tons of emails. The zip codes are here, too, for those of you who want to send flowers. 1800flowers.com does same-day delivery.
Last night, I found a Christmas card from 1999. What I really want to find is the purple teddy bear she made a joke about. The memories are coming...
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Meditations on Thelma
This one will take more than one entry, so this is a primer.
A friend and former co-worker passed away this weekend. I got word on Monday about it. She's been on my mind, and I keep her trinkets and toys that she gave me on display in my apartment.
I think I'm going to describe them in the coming days. Let it be "Meditations on Thelma."
It's going to be funny, too. She was a teacher, actress, earth mother, chef, prankster, diva and sargeant to us all. Friends, students, coworkers...anyone who crossed her path can hear her laugh and see those incredible cheekbones lifted into a smile, or sharply set into a stare.
There's a scarecrow she gave me for Halloween 1999. I think I'll start there.
Stay tuned...
A friend and former co-worker passed away this weekend. I got word on Monday about it. She's been on my mind, and I keep her trinkets and toys that she gave me on display in my apartment.
I think I'm going to describe them in the coming days. Let it be "Meditations on Thelma."
It's going to be funny, too. She was a teacher, actress, earth mother, chef, prankster, diva and sargeant to us all. Friends, students, coworkers...anyone who crossed her path can hear her laugh and see those incredible cheekbones lifted into a smile, or sharply set into a stare.
There's a scarecrow she gave me for Halloween 1999. I think I'll start there.
Stay tuned...
Monday, August 8, 2005
Se Poun Fe?
That is what I said as I exited a cab this morning. The driver's name was Roger Hippolyte. How a Haitian man ended up with a greek name is beyond me, but then again, my friend Patrick was named after St. Patrick and his family is steeped in Voudoun tradition.
How did I know he was Haitian? He had a cd of "Haiti musique" dangling from his mirror. I could not find the strength to walk 5 blocks in this heat, so I took a cab. I tipped him well, embarassed that my legs no longer work like they used to. He said in accented English, "You err day best." To which I said, "Se Poun Fe?", which is Creole slang for 'What's happening?' He burst into laughter and clapped, shouting "I love you! I love you!" He waved and drove off smiling.
I then stepped up onto the building ramp, looked down, and saw a penny. I picked it up as a lady passed. I looked at her and said, "Who knows? It might help."
"Damn straight," she answered.
I am wearing one of my pendants today, an Abramelin seal of the Earth, in order to bring good spirits near me. It's a feeble attempt to stave off the sorrow I feel upon hearing Peter Jennings had died last night. His voice was the one that took me through 9/11 coverage, the evening news, international correspondence, and charming chatter during Olympics, the Gulf War, and the invasion of Iraq. His mellifluous Canadian tones are the ones that comforted me, and I'd say he is this generation's Walter Cronkite. A visibly upset Diane Sawyer spoke of his attention to detail, but the camera did not cut away fast enough at 12:10 a.m. last night--you could see her break into a sob as Barbara Walters called in.
There are some guys that are irreplaceable. Both Koppel and Rather came off as smarmy old guys trying to fit in. Jennings sat there as if he stumbled upon the job and was merely making commentary while impeccably coiffed in a suit. I'd say the only other newscaster that makes me feel comfortable is Stone Phillips. Other than that, it's a great loss.
So, I'm doing my best to seem upbeat today. I'm trying to smile. But like seeing my old boss two months ago, Jennings passing reinforces what I've known for a long time: there is no substitute for excellence. I sit here, day after day, toiling away planning my escape and I watch high-paid pretenders jockeying for the throne. There are some, like Jennings, who sit in that throne as if it were an easy chair. They don't even notice the gilt and velvet since it isn't their focus. They are trying to connect, trying to make sense of the world. The more questions they ask, the more questions they have.
Jennings said there was no "absolute truth." It is always tinted and cast by opinion, experience, geography. The world as we know it is many things to many people, but he tried to connect. With young and old, common and noble. Today I strive for that.
Whether it's a penny I might need or a language I speak sparingly. I don't like people all the time, but I try to understand.
How did I know he was Haitian? He had a cd of "Haiti musique" dangling from his mirror. I could not find the strength to walk 5 blocks in this heat, so I took a cab. I tipped him well, embarassed that my legs no longer work like they used to. He said in accented English, "You err day best." To which I said, "Se Poun Fe?", which is Creole slang for 'What's happening?' He burst into laughter and clapped, shouting "I love you! I love you!" He waved and drove off smiling.
I then stepped up onto the building ramp, looked down, and saw a penny. I picked it up as a lady passed. I looked at her and said, "Who knows? It might help."
"Damn straight," she answered.
I am wearing one of my pendants today, an Abramelin seal of the Earth, in order to bring good spirits near me. It's a feeble attempt to stave off the sorrow I feel upon hearing Peter Jennings had died last night. His voice was the one that took me through 9/11 coverage, the evening news, international correspondence, and charming chatter during Olympics, the Gulf War, and the invasion of Iraq. His mellifluous Canadian tones are the ones that comforted me, and I'd say he is this generation's Walter Cronkite. A visibly upset Diane Sawyer spoke of his attention to detail, but the camera did not cut away fast enough at 12:10 a.m. last night--you could see her break into a sob as Barbara Walters called in.
There are some guys that are irreplaceable. Both Koppel and Rather came off as smarmy old guys trying to fit in. Jennings sat there as if he stumbled upon the job and was merely making commentary while impeccably coiffed in a suit. I'd say the only other newscaster that makes me feel comfortable is Stone Phillips. Other than that, it's a great loss.
So, I'm doing my best to seem upbeat today. I'm trying to smile. But like seeing my old boss two months ago, Jennings passing reinforces what I've known for a long time: there is no substitute for excellence. I sit here, day after day, toiling away planning my escape and I watch high-paid pretenders jockeying for the throne. There are some, like Jennings, who sit in that throne as if it were an easy chair. They don't even notice the gilt and velvet since it isn't their focus. They are trying to connect, trying to make sense of the world. The more questions they ask, the more questions they have.
Jennings said there was no "absolute truth." It is always tinted and cast by opinion, experience, geography. The world as we know it is many things to many people, but he tried to connect. With young and old, common and noble. Today I strive for that.
Whether it's a penny I might need or a language I speak sparingly. I don't like people all the time, but I try to understand.
Sunday, August 7, 2005
Take Life One Donut at a Time
That's the logo on my Garfield sleep-shirt. It's pink, it's funny, he's slurping down Dunkin' Donuts coffee. I love Garfield. I also realized I love Kmart, since it reminds of that old Brooklyn staple, Korvettes. Anyone with me? Wasn't that the greatest store ever? Walmart and Target just doesn't give me that Korvettes vibe.
In my quest to reconnect with my city of yore, I rented two NYC gems last night on DVD: Taxi Driver and Night Shift. Both show how boring the hellish gentrification Times Square has become. Bring back the deuce, it was waaay more entertaining. Robert DeNiro in his twenties, Cybil Shepard pre-Moonlighting, Michael Keaton after Mr. Mom but before Batman, and the Fonz as a straight-up businessman with a funky prostie neighbor. Every now and then, I need to take a break and look back. It soothes me. Before Duane Reades, before Starbucks, there was the smelly, scary pit that Travis Bickle complains about in an old checkered Taxi. He makes a crack about making good money: "I can make $300, $350 a week if I work long hours." Funny, people are still making that now, with the same hours. Unless you're a yuppie. Then the money's supposed to be handed to you.
As for the pseudo-NYers that interviewed me on Friday, one was from Queens (and he couldn't be bothered talking to me, he wanted to talk about himself), one was from California (she had no idea there were ice rinks in NY--that's what I get for dragging my skate bag with me with resumes shoved underneath), one was from Boston (although she's lived rent-stabilized on the West side since the 60's), and the receptionist was a straight-up homeboy from S.I. (imagine Puff Daddy answering the phones). They weren't too clear on what they wanted: a receptionist who HR can borrow to read resumes who can also work to edit the guy who liked talking about himself--he said he hates writing, then compares himself to Hemingway in the sense that he stands up when he writes (?????)--and the Bostoner/West Sider who didn't like it when I said doing reception is actually a step back for me so I can help her out on their outdated computer system. (AADA, anyone? Hell? Punishment? Thankless dead end? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?.....Bueller?) I'm clear on what I want. They weren't. I pointed out their rather confusing advertising, and I got the "that's too bad face." A limp handshake from Ms. Why-do-you-have-skates-in-August and a "We'll be in touch" pretty much tells me all I want to know. I had a feeling I didn't want to work there, but I won't say no to an interview. I get to polish my verbal "package."
I remember when this used to be a straight-up no-prisoners kind of town. But, with the gentrification, brings with it the pigheaded disgusting melange of "Well, where WE'RE from, people aren't like that." Yes, my pretty yuppies, but it's New York you're coming to. What ever happened to When in Rome, etc. ? Isn't it when you go to a new place, you try and adopt the way that place is? Oops, sorry, wrong meeting. I keep making sense. Ridiculous.
So, I sit, ready to shop in the supermarket Duane Reade will buy out, across the street from my former sushi heaven which is now a Starbucks and wonder what tack I should take now. I also have to do laundry.
Sundays just keep getting stranger.
In my quest to reconnect with my city of yore, I rented two NYC gems last night on DVD: Taxi Driver and Night Shift. Both show how boring the hellish gentrification Times Square has become. Bring back the deuce, it was waaay more entertaining. Robert DeNiro in his twenties, Cybil Shepard pre-Moonlighting, Michael Keaton after Mr. Mom but before Batman, and the Fonz as a straight-up businessman with a funky prostie neighbor. Every now and then, I need to take a break and look back. It soothes me. Before Duane Reades, before Starbucks, there was the smelly, scary pit that Travis Bickle complains about in an old checkered Taxi. He makes a crack about making good money: "I can make $300, $350 a week if I work long hours." Funny, people are still making that now, with the same hours. Unless you're a yuppie. Then the money's supposed to be handed to you.
As for the pseudo-NYers that interviewed me on Friday, one was from Queens (and he couldn't be bothered talking to me, he wanted to talk about himself), one was from California (she had no idea there were ice rinks in NY--that's what I get for dragging my skate bag with me with resumes shoved underneath), one was from Boston (although she's lived rent-stabilized on the West side since the 60's), and the receptionist was a straight-up homeboy from S.I. (imagine Puff Daddy answering the phones). They weren't too clear on what they wanted: a receptionist who HR can borrow to read resumes who can also work to edit the guy who liked talking about himself--he said he hates writing, then compares himself to Hemingway in the sense that he stands up when he writes (?????)--and the Bostoner/West Sider who didn't like it when I said doing reception is actually a step back for me so I can help her out on their outdated computer system. (AADA, anyone? Hell? Punishment? Thankless dead end? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?.....Bueller?) I'm clear on what I want. They weren't. I pointed out their rather confusing advertising, and I got the "that's too bad face." A limp handshake from Ms. Why-do-you-have-skates-in-August and a "We'll be in touch" pretty much tells me all I want to know. I had a feeling I didn't want to work there, but I won't say no to an interview. I get to polish my verbal "package."
I remember when this used to be a straight-up no-prisoners kind of town. But, with the gentrification, brings with it the pigheaded disgusting melange of "Well, where WE'RE from, people aren't like that." Yes, my pretty yuppies, but it's New York you're coming to. What ever happened to When in Rome, etc. ? Isn't it when you go to a new place, you try and adopt the way that place is? Oops, sorry, wrong meeting. I keep making sense. Ridiculous.
So, I sit, ready to shop in the supermarket Duane Reade will buy out, across the street from my former sushi heaven which is now a Starbucks and wonder what tack I should take now. I also have to do laundry.
Sundays just keep getting stranger.
Thursday, August 4, 2005
A Welcome Respite
Pinochet’s out today. What a relief. She’s a nightmare. I can’t remember the exact moment I decided to stop talking to her, but it’s because she has a tendency to jump down people’s throats. I’m not the only one with this problem. I’m tired of the snobbery, the holier-than-thou attitude and being corrected on things I know due to my four and a half years on this job. Just yesterday I was corrected on a name that I know damn well how to spell SINCE I WORKED WITH THE PERSON. She's never met him, but I don't know how to spell his name? Grrrr...
Another one of Bag of Rocks wondrous decisions. They—these women--just keep getting worse. We do nothing but wade through tough contractual language, a myriad of lingo and niche services and what did he want? Someone in a nice skirt. Ridiculous. Aoife (Effa) deserved the job. Yes, she was Irish. Yes, she was built like a workhorse. Yes, she was a strong personality who had a film background of 3 months here, 4 months there. That’s the nature of indie filmmaking. She wanted stability. Did she get it? No.
The REAL reason she wasn’t hired? She was a strong woman. Aoife, my former co-worker, and myself were too much for Bag O’Rocks. Long hair, legs, high heels, and an indecipherable accent are infinitely preferable to the King’s English. His statement? She worked for four years at her previous job. Took care of her boss. Like IN THE HOSPITAL. Brought him food, visited him, cleaned up the room. Um, is that part of the job description? Or is this just another ass-kisser? You decide.
My former co-worker laid into Bags on the day I wrecked my shoulder, and I heard there were fireworks. Women have a tendency to make sense on matters of detail. Men? Well, some of them can only think with blinders on. Particularly if six-inch patent leather heels are involved.
I am really tired of myopic views and misanthropic people. I’ve gotten nothing but pre-judgment and nastiness over the years, and she is but one more example.
Which leads me to a strange thing: last night, I stopped to pet a black Pomeranian. I had an entire convo with the person holding the leash without looking at her. Or was it him? Don’t know. Wasn’t interested. I stopped to pet my black cat at the Arabic fruit & nut store, and again, didn’t look up. A man owns it, can’t tell you who he is. Not interested. There’s a pug in my building who’s walked by a thoroughly nasty woman. I know this because I’ve had altercations with her slamming the door on me and complaining about the junk mail all over the hall. She’s not nice, but I’ve figured it out: she doesn’t like people either. Just animals. Her pug is lovely: friendly, bouncy, pleasant. What does this tell me? Doggy is taken care of very well. If not, he’d be miserable like her. So, even though I don’t speak to her, she doesn’t bother me. We kind of agree on things, in principle.
And that’s kinda how I feel. The facts and my opinion, from everyone else around here, are starting to add up. I’m not the only one who’d had run-ins with her. It’s good to know I’m not crazy. I'm really starting to enjoy animals more than people. It's more than a phase.
Another nonprofit called. Interview tomorrow. Let’s see how this goes. They liked my writing sample, so I’ve got a chance to construct grant letters as I did ten years ago. That could be fun. Let’s see…
Another one of Bag of Rocks wondrous decisions. They—these women--just keep getting worse. We do nothing but wade through tough contractual language, a myriad of lingo and niche services and what did he want? Someone in a nice skirt. Ridiculous. Aoife (Effa) deserved the job. Yes, she was Irish. Yes, she was built like a workhorse. Yes, she was a strong personality who had a film background of 3 months here, 4 months there. That’s the nature of indie filmmaking. She wanted stability. Did she get it? No.
The REAL reason she wasn’t hired? She was a strong woman. Aoife, my former co-worker, and myself were too much for Bag O’Rocks. Long hair, legs, high heels, and an indecipherable accent are infinitely preferable to the King’s English. His statement? She worked for four years at her previous job. Took care of her boss. Like IN THE HOSPITAL. Brought him food, visited him, cleaned up the room. Um, is that part of the job description? Or is this just another ass-kisser? You decide.
My former co-worker laid into Bags on the day I wrecked my shoulder, and I heard there were fireworks. Women have a tendency to make sense on matters of detail. Men? Well, some of them can only think with blinders on. Particularly if six-inch patent leather heels are involved.
I am really tired of myopic views and misanthropic people. I’ve gotten nothing but pre-judgment and nastiness over the years, and she is but one more example.
Which leads me to a strange thing: last night, I stopped to pet a black Pomeranian. I had an entire convo with the person holding the leash without looking at her. Or was it him? Don’t know. Wasn’t interested. I stopped to pet my black cat at the Arabic fruit & nut store, and again, didn’t look up. A man owns it, can’t tell you who he is. Not interested. There’s a pug in my building who’s walked by a thoroughly nasty woman. I know this because I’ve had altercations with her slamming the door on me and complaining about the junk mail all over the hall. She’s not nice, but I’ve figured it out: she doesn’t like people either. Just animals. Her pug is lovely: friendly, bouncy, pleasant. What does this tell me? Doggy is taken care of very well. If not, he’d be miserable like her. So, even though I don’t speak to her, she doesn’t bother me. We kind of agree on things, in principle.
And that’s kinda how I feel. The facts and my opinion, from everyone else around here, are starting to add up. I’m not the only one who’d had run-ins with her. It’s good to know I’m not crazy. I'm really starting to enjoy animals more than people. It's more than a phase.
Another nonprofit called. Interview tomorrow. Let’s see how this goes. They liked my writing sample, so I’ve got a chance to construct grant letters as I did ten years ago. That could be fun. Let’s see…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)