Yes, kiddies, the bizarre existence that IS my life continues in ever-flowing fashion.
I went out last night for a walk to clear my head with cd player in tow—the batteries quickly died. I had just purchased them. They were dead. I was now musicless. Not good. This was not good because Ms. Cachina (as G calls her), my coworker, broke her tailbone over the weekend. How that happened, I don’t care, but it means that I am here alone. Baldo wants me in from 8.30-6 pm every day, without overtime pay. Um, FUCK HIM, I say.
So, I continued along my trail, musicless, with thoughts of how Cachina needs to stop wearing high heels if she’s so clumsy, how the fuck I’m going to get out of this job, and how much $ it’s going to take to either get new batteries or a new cd player?
And then, I came across a pink duck in someone’s window. Very NOT Martha Stewart. Just plain ugly. It was not a flamingo, or an exotic swan, it was a pink DUCK. Uuuuugly!
I continued to fret because I had a doctor’s appointment ***wink wink*** this morning. One I couldn’t cancel. And wouldn’t cancel upon threat of death. So, after calling one of the execs and HR to complain yet again about Baldo’s antics, I was told this afternoon upon my arrival that a temp would be available for phone coverage this week. Then Bag O’Rocks asks me if Cachina called in. Um, why don’t YOU call her, Baggy? You hired her and her high heels. I’m not picking up that phone. Baldo’s due back in the office tomorrow and I might just barf.
GHI called me, which means if I can sneak out, I might just be back in the swing of things, job interview-wise. Many of my doctor’s don’t take GHI, but it a union job. I’ll see if they want to see me and we’ll go from there. GHI is 1 block away. My commute wouldn’t change, but my salary would bump up about $13K more than what I’m making now. Sweet! Of course, I’d have to get a new set of doctors. Ugh. That always sucks.
We’ll see. Whatever shall I do about pink ducks….
Monday, April 25, 2005
Friday, April 22, 2005
Fukitol
That's the pill I need, starting at the medium dosage for a day like today. The only thing that is truly making me laugh is a very silly site called funnyjoke.com, courtesy of RD. Click, it's a gem!
Kitty Cat Dance
Ah, the power of photoshop with animation.
Baldo did not come in. So much for his bullshit "Be Here At 8:30 Because I Said So, and I AM GOD" decree. No one was on the floor, and I picked up the phone just to see if there was a dial tone, it was so quiet. Authoritarian powermongering narcissist. We're filled to the friggin' gills up here with 'em. One of them left today to transfer to a different department. Good--let someone else suffer. These people want me to bend to their every whim? Nope, I turn to ice. I was not made to supplicate and tap dance on a dime. The Rockettes, maybe, but not me, kiddies! My nickname, courtesy of my father, was "The Queen." A very famous fight from 1986 gave me this splendid moniker.
After another knock-down drag-out fight in the kitchen of 6B, the apartment from hell, the battleground erupted over the lack of food in the fridge, Taffy's illness, my staying up late, wearing too much makeup, and me bitching him out after a particularly messy hangover for which I was blamed (HAH! He's hung over, it's my fault? Nuh Uh!!!)and gave Dear Old Dad all the ammunition he needed to blurt out the most famous sentence ever....
"You think you're a Queen, don't you? You're worse than your mother AND the fuckin' cat! I swear!!!" ****insert slamming door here***
I smirked and stood my ground. Unbeknownst to me, my neighbor, who was around the same age as me, heard this argument from the hall window, adjacent to my kitchen. She told a guy named Herbie, who told my friend Dawn. Herbie and Dawn became an item for a short while in the Summer of '86. My neighbor was NOT happy, since that was her boyfriend, but at that point, it was Dawn and not me who specialized in terrorizing people. I was shocked when a few weeks later I complained about some piddling thing and she made a mocking British accent..."What dyoo think y'are? A QUEEN?"
I was taken aback. Where the hell did she get that from?
It was Herbie, she said to me. Herbie, of course, heard it from his girlfriend, my neighbor. OUT THAT DAMN KITCHEN WINDOW.
The Queen stuck as a nickname for a loooong time. I won a Halloween costume contest one year, and I acquired a full set of "queens" for my chess set. No knights, no pawns, no kings. Just queens. Took me a few years to fill all those squares.
I had a good laugh over this when I stood in front of Buckingham palace with a friend back in 1999--it was deja vu. I swear I knew St. James's Park backward and forward. Spooky, indeed.
I've always been inspired by three famous female monarchs: Victoria, for her love of cats; Elizabeth, for her longevity and cunning; and Catherine, for pretty much everything she did. Colorful women who learned to circumnavigate the stupid men who had "divine" inspiration to rule and "fix" things, since women couldn't possibly be that smart.
HAH.
If Baldo calls tonight, he's gonna get a voice mail. I'm outta here at 5:30, my usual time.
Kitty Cat Dance
Ah, the power of photoshop with animation.
Baldo did not come in. So much for his bullshit "Be Here At 8:30 Because I Said So, and I AM GOD" decree. No one was on the floor, and I picked up the phone just to see if there was a dial tone, it was so quiet. Authoritarian powermongering narcissist. We're filled to the friggin' gills up here with 'em. One of them left today to transfer to a different department. Good--let someone else suffer. These people want me to bend to their every whim? Nope, I turn to ice. I was not made to supplicate and tap dance on a dime. The Rockettes, maybe, but not me, kiddies! My nickname, courtesy of my father, was "The Queen." A very famous fight from 1986 gave me this splendid moniker.
After another knock-down drag-out fight in the kitchen of 6B, the apartment from hell, the battleground erupted over the lack of food in the fridge, Taffy's illness, my staying up late, wearing too much makeup, and me bitching him out after a particularly messy hangover for which I was blamed (HAH! He's hung over, it's my fault? Nuh Uh!!!)and gave Dear Old Dad all the ammunition he needed to blurt out the most famous sentence ever....
"You think you're a Queen, don't you? You're worse than your mother AND the fuckin' cat! I swear!!!" ****insert slamming door here***
I smirked and stood my ground. Unbeknownst to me, my neighbor, who was around the same age as me, heard this argument from the hall window, adjacent to my kitchen. She told a guy named Herbie, who told my friend Dawn. Herbie and Dawn became an item for a short while in the Summer of '86. My neighbor was NOT happy, since that was her boyfriend, but at that point, it was Dawn and not me who specialized in terrorizing people. I was shocked when a few weeks later I complained about some piddling thing and she made a mocking British accent..."What dyoo think y'are? A QUEEN?"
I was taken aback. Where the hell did she get that from?
It was Herbie, she said to me. Herbie, of course, heard it from his girlfriend, my neighbor. OUT THAT DAMN KITCHEN WINDOW.
The Queen stuck as a nickname for a loooong time. I won a Halloween costume contest one year, and I acquired a full set of "queens" for my chess set. No knights, no pawns, no kings. Just queens. Took me a few years to fill all those squares.
I had a good laugh over this when I stood in front of Buckingham palace with a friend back in 1999--it was deja vu. I swear I knew St. James's Park backward and forward. Spooky, indeed.
I've always been inspired by three famous female monarchs: Victoria, for her love of cats; Elizabeth, for her longevity and cunning; and Catherine, for pretty much everything she did. Colorful women who learned to circumnavigate the stupid men who had "divine" inspiration to rule and "fix" things, since women couldn't possibly be that smart.
HAH.
If Baldo calls tonight, he's gonna get a voice mail. I'm outta here at 5:30, my usual time.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
I dig German Shepherds
Dogs, not popes. RATZINGER. Does he zing rats? Whatta name! I was sure Tettamanzi was going to get it, too. Oh well. Even the Columbian guy was pretty good. Oh well, life goes on.
In my ongoing effort to “play the game”, I am practicing my “game show host” voice when speaking with agencies and potential interviews on the phone. It’s fake, phony, and makes the veins pop out on my neck, but I gotta be in to win it. Speaking of winning it, I think I’m going to catch up on my lottery ticket purchases. RD is right, this whole “work” thing keeps getting in the way of living my life.
If I won tomorrow? I’d tell Baldo and Bag O’Rocks to go shove it, and visit Gus’s family in Churchill, Canada. (If this last reference threw any of you, Gus is the polar bear in Central Park. Natural Habitat Adventures has a 10-day trip to visit the bears in their home setting. You go out onto the land in a cocooned buggy, almost a two-ton tank, and they poke their killer paws and heads around the windows. Punk rock!) Then I’d proceed to Prague, Moscow, Yalta in summer, Alaska (Bullwinkles abound!), Bermuda—again, Mexico, Spain, Italy, Nepal, Bombay, Morocco, Kenya, Hong Kong, Australia, Monte Carlo (RD, wanna join me?), Paris, Germany, Korea, Ireland, Scotland, and the Cayman Islands. And Jamaica. In that order.
The Scratch and Stiff game, as the NY Post calls it, still HASN’T settled with their supposed winners from March 19’s drawing. If no closure arrives, I hear Eliot Spitzer’s getting involved. Our loving litigious pit bull will certainly halt future games or at least tear some hair out over the middle class getting fucked out of their rightful cash. He’s also making a nice run for governor, and that makes me oh SO happy! His website is quite the adventure, with lots of links, questions, comment sections, and his very own blog.
As for our lovely weather, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was going to rain out there. 74 degrees and it’s not even May! I smell a killer summer coming to get us…
And I did a lovely Janis Powell this morning and walked in half an hour late. I’m leaving at 5:40 to go to knitting today. Nothing is going to stop me, even the fact that I lied about the class. They sure as hell wouldn’t let me out of here early for a knitting class, so I told them I was taking a class downtown. Adult Education. Computers. HTML. Design. They were impressed. I am amused. Knittin’ Kitten is sharpening her claws!
Let’s see what Meredith from Atrium staffing has in store for me. I wrote a lovely email last night about all the reasons WHY I need to get the fuck out of here. I’m seriously considering leaving even if they DON’T offer me 40K. 39? 38? Buh Bye. It’s still more than what I have now. And less headaches will make me more productive.
The big question is, should I bring a camera to capture the Kodak moment for when I tell them I’m leaving?
Oh, that’s going to be soooo much fun.
In my ongoing effort to “play the game”, I am practicing my “game show host” voice when speaking with agencies and potential interviews on the phone. It’s fake, phony, and makes the veins pop out on my neck, but I gotta be in to win it. Speaking of winning it, I think I’m going to catch up on my lottery ticket purchases. RD is right, this whole “work” thing keeps getting in the way of living my life.
If I won tomorrow? I’d tell Baldo and Bag O’Rocks to go shove it, and visit Gus’s family in Churchill, Canada. (If this last reference threw any of you, Gus is the polar bear in Central Park. Natural Habitat Adventures has a 10-day trip to visit the bears in their home setting. You go out onto the land in a cocooned buggy, almost a two-ton tank, and they poke their killer paws and heads around the windows. Punk rock!) Then I’d proceed to Prague, Moscow, Yalta in summer, Alaska (Bullwinkles abound!), Bermuda—again, Mexico, Spain, Italy, Nepal, Bombay, Morocco, Kenya, Hong Kong, Australia, Monte Carlo (RD, wanna join me?), Paris, Germany, Korea, Ireland, Scotland, and the Cayman Islands. And Jamaica. In that order.
The Scratch and Stiff game, as the NY Post calls it, still HASN’T settled with their supposed winners from March 19’s drawing. If no closure arrives, I hear Eliot Spitzer’s getting involved. Our loving litigious pit bull will certainly halt future games or at least tear some hair out over the middle class getting fucked out of their rightful cash. He’s also making a nice run for governor, and that makes me oh SO happy! His website is quite the adventure, with lots of links, questions, comment sections, and his very own blog.
As for our lovely weather, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was going to rain out there. 74 degrees and it’s not even May! I smell a killer summer coming to get us…
And I did a lovely Janis Powell this morning and walked in half an hour late. I’m leaving at 5:40 to go to knitting today. Nothing is going to stop me, even the fact that I lied about the class. They sure as hell wouldn’t let me out of here early for a knitting class, so I told them I was taking a class downtown. Adult Education. Computers. HTML. Design. They were impressed. I am amused. Knittin’ Kitten is sharpening her claws!
Let’s see what Meredith from Atrium staffing has in store for me. I wrote a lovely email last night about all the reasons WHY I need to get the fuck out of here. I’m seriously considering leaving even if they DON’T offer me 40K. 39? 38? Buh Bye. It’s still more than what I have now. And less headaches will make me more productive.
The big question is, should I bring a camera to capture the Kodak moment for when I tell them I’m leaving?
Oh, that’s going to be soooo much fun.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Spreeng is Heer
hello.
this is dexter.
i am very happee becauz spreeng is heer. a nest of berds has moved in across the glass box and they are littel and brown. i haff to watch my nose becuz i smasht into the glass box wen i tryed to jump at them too weeks ago.
unlike last yeer, there are no hally berry movees for me to see, but i'm hopeen my two-legger will rent somtheen soon.
kashi the moron got stuck with a rustle bag arond her head again. my two legger lafft and said YOO IDIET! i sniffed and went bag to bed. she's just so sillee somtimes. stickeen her head in bags. i fell off the cowch wunce but that was becauz i wuz asleep. my belly gets in the way.
it's such nice wether, too. maybe my two-legger will let me go in the hallway tonite. that wud be grate!
gotta go. kashi is lookeen at another rustle bag.
idiet.
bye
love dexter.
this is dexter.
i am very happee becauz spreeng is heer. a nest of berds has moved in across the glass box and they are littel and brown. i haff to watch my nose becuz i smasht into the glass box wen i tryed to jump at them too weeks ago.
unlike last yeer, there are no hally berry movees for me to see, but i'm hopeen my two-legger will rent somtheen soon.
kashi the moron got stuck with a rustle bag arond her head again. my two legger lafft and said YOO IDIET! i sniffed and went bag to bed. she's just so sillee somtimes. stickeen her head in bags. i fell off the cowch wunce but that was becauz i wuz asleep. my belly gets in the way.
it's such nice wether, too. maybe my two-legger will let me go in the hallway tonite. that wud be grate!
gotta go. kashi is lookeen at another rustle bag.
idiet.
bye
love dexter.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Standards
I have them. Other people don't. This may hurt me in the long run, but I gotta be me.
Yet another fun morning at yet another agency. I made Becca laugh in her lovely gray and pink boucle suit, but I can tell these people don't know what to do with me. You'd think in a land of idiots, poseurs, and shitheads who can barely look you in the eye, they'd LOVE someone as direct and open as me.
NO.
They want some sheepfaced twit who is thin, quiet, pretty, and meek to fit into their existing power structure. I MEAN LIKE, PUUUUHHHHLEASE!!!
And more Bag O'Rocks adventures. Today, I was told that the existing admins on this floor will have one evaluation "date", which is March 1 for every year going forward. TRES AMUSANT. This also means my "pay" (which is currently at the volunteer level) will go up for half a year to just $1,000 more. Factoring in the NY State tax rate, the health care increase, the group life insurance and my 401-not-o-K, it's still ridiculous. But this is "incentive" to keep us in the wake of a sterling mass exodus. I'm worth sooo much more. Even Shine from the mailroom feels I'm worth 60K.
Kiddies, let me put this plainly for you to read...
$1,000 on top of what I make is like offering wax fruit to a emaciated concentration camp survivor. However, I suspect other people will be making less, so this is supposed to shut me up and make me feel better.
And on top of the cutesy look-at-me-I'm-an-executive way around here, we had cake and Moet champagne this afternoon for 2 women who are married--one got back from her honeymoon, the other is hitching up in Frisco in a week. Hey, I'm all for cake--hell, I'm a size 16 for chrissake--but can we try and celebrate the other workers around here for what they do day in and day out and not someone who has a nice fat chunk o'carbon and a pat on the head from society? I mean, is this possible?
Oh. Sorry. Wrong meeting.
This is Bizarro World. I'll see Captain America with a backwards octagonal flag drift by me any moment now.
I will no re-enact a scene from my favorite childhood play, Oliver.
"Please, sir, may I have sommore?"
(Money, not cake.)
Yet another fun morning at yet another agency. I made Becca laugh in her lovely gray and pink boucle suit, but I can tell these people don't know what to do with me. You'd think in a land of idiots, poseurs, and shitheads who can barely look you in the eye, they'd LOVE someone as direct and open as me.
NO.
They want some sheepfaced twit who is thin, quiet, pretty, and meek to fit into their existing power structure. I MEAN LIKE, PUUUUHHHHLEASE!!!
And more Bag O'Rocks adventures. Today, I was told that the existing admins on this floor will have one evaluation "date", which is March 1 for every year going forward. TRES AMUSANT. This also means my "pay" (which is currently at the volunteer level) will go up for half a year to just $1,000 more. Factoring in the NY State tax rate, the health care increase, the group life insurance and my 401-not-o-K, it's still ridiculous. But this is "incentive" to keep us in the wake of a sterling mass exodus. I'm worth sooo much more. Even Shine from the mailroom feels I'm worth 60K.
Kiddies, let me put this plainly for you to read...
$1,000 on top of what I make is like offering wax fruit to a emaciated concentration camp survivor. However, I suspect other people will be making less, so this is supposed to shut me up and make me feel better.
And on top of the cutesy look-at-me-I'm-an-executive way around here, we had cake and Moet champagne this afternoon for 2 women who are married--one got back from her honeymoon, the other is hitching up in Frisco in a week. Hey, I'm all for cake--hell, I'm a size 16 for chrissake--but can we try and celebrate the other workers around here for what they do day in and day out and not someone who has a nice fat chunk o'carbon and a pat on the head from society? I mean, is this possible?
Oh. Sorry. Wrong meeting.
This is Bizarro World. I'll see Captain America with a backwards octagonal flag drift by me any moment now.
I will no re-enact a scene from my favorite childhood play, Oliver.
"Please, sir, may I have sommore?"
(Money, not cake.)
Monday, April 11, 2005
The Apocalypse is NEAR
How do I know this?
COOKIE MONSTER WILL SOON BE CUTTING BACK ON COOKIES AND SINGING ABOUT FRUITS AND VEGETABLES.
Yes, kiddies, the p.c. police have decided that it's time NOT for parents to get their fat-assed Gameboy-loving brats to exercise, but it's Jim Henson and Co. that should do this job. They've caved, Mr. Monster is doing Atkins, and there will be less blue shag carpeting when we look at him. That's like Voltron deciding he needs to wear more plastic and Thundercats feeling the need to trim their claws, put down their weapons and nap more in the sun! WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK????
God forbid someone's feelings get hurt. What overwhelming bullshit.
And Bag O'Rocks is TRULY annoying me today. I can't wait to leave before he does, that is, if someone sees fit to hire me at all. Which I'm hoping and praying for, but won't be easy in this market.
My ceiling's caving in and Mr. Puppy and the Drunk upstairs are really getting on my nerves. Have I metioned that I once saw (through my peephole) his friend CARRY him up the stairs passed out on a Friday night at about 2 am? He's a police chief or something. Who doesn't walk his dog enough, or I'd see them constantly. Instead, I hear this dog running to and fro constantly and now my ceiling has chips left and right. For the rent I pay, I'm living in Tenement Central. I mean, Please, ok?
Enough.
COOKIE MONSTER WILL SOON BE CUTTING BACK ON COOKIES AND SINGING ABOUT FRUITS AND VEGETABLES.
Yes, kiddies, the p.c. police have decided that it's time NOT for parents to get their fat-assed Gameboy-loving brats to exercise, but it's Jim Henson and Co. that should do this job. They've caved, Mr. Monster is doing Atkins, and there will be less blue shag carpeting when we look at him. That's like Voltron deciding he needs to wear more plastic and Thundercats feeling the need to trim their claws, put down their weapons and nap more in the sun! WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK????
God forbid someone's feelings get hurt. What overwhelming bullshit.
And Bag O'Rocks is TRULY annoying me today. I can't wait to leave before he does, that is, if someone sees fit to hire me at all. Which I'm hoping and praying for, but won't be easy in this market.
My ceiling's caving in and Mr. Puppy and the Drunk upstairs are really getting on my nerves. Have I metioned that I once saw (through my peephole) his friend CARRY him up the stairs passed out on a Friday night at about 2 am? He's a police chief or something. Who doesn't walk his dog enough, or I'd see them constantly. Instead, I hear this dog running to and fro constantly and now my ceiling has chips left and right. For the rent I pay, I'm living in Tenement Central. I mean, Please, ok?
Enough.
Tuesday, April 5, 2005
The joke is on...them
Well, my job hunt is as stagnant as old sewer water. It seems all of NYC is ok with making 35K or less.
I'M NOT.
But, in the scheme of things, the turnover rate is about to get even higher: I've spoken to three new hires who are already planning to leave by year's end just to get one year on their resumes. Funny, huh? They've figured out the deal, and have kept their info current! How many jobs did I have where I did that? 4? 5? Got hired for a new job and carried my resume with me, just like I do now, every day.
Marge is my favorite agent so far. Rachel looks like she's going to be good, but can't get my name straight. I am not Anne Marie. What the fuck is so difficult about slapping two old-fashioned names together? Why can't people remember correctly? If I had some impossible vowel-less name from Khazakstan plus a zero with a slash through it, I'd bet they'd pronounce and spell it correctly. What gives?
Bag of Rocks is making me eternally ill with comments about everything plus hither and thither. This is proof he doesn't care about what happens. I had to laugh out loud last night when his wife made a comment about me picking up the phone at 6:12 pm last night. "But it's after 5:30, why are you still there?"
"Because Wick [Temple] is dead and Lou [Boccardi] is gone, " I wanted to answer, but I didn't. It's truthful and not politically correct, but that's the way it is. I marveled at the surprise of this comment, which tells me that Bag O'Rocks not only likes clueless women in the office, he likes them at home, too.
And L, my co-worker is on her second day at the new job. Making 25K more than what they gave her here.
But wait! That's not all--I got my Natural Habitat catalog in the mail last night. The Churchill Canada polar bear adventure is $3,795 for an 8 day stay. I could visit Gus's relatives and tell them how he is in Central Park swimming all day. But that's not going to happen. Not with my salary. I hope to god, heaven and all the saints I don't have to settle. This sucks ass. What do I have to do to see better wages?
Someone please shoot me.
I'M NOT.
But, in the scheme of things, the turnover rate is about to get even higher: I've spoken to three new hires who are already planning to leave by year's end just to get one year on their resumes. Funny, huh? They've figured out the deal, and have kept their info current! How many jobs did I have where I did that? 4? 5? Got hired for a new job and carried my resume with me, just like I do now, every day.
Marge is my favorite agent so far. Rachel looks like she's going to be good, but can't get my name straight. I am not Anne Marie. What the fuck is so difficult about slapping two old-fashioned names together? Why can't people remember correctly? If I had some impossible vowel-less name from Khazakstan plus a zero with a slash through it, I'd bet they'd pronounce and spell it correctly. What gives?
Bag of Rocks is making me eternally ill with comments about everything plus hither and thither. This is proof he doesn't care about what happens. I had to laugh out loud last night when his wife made a comment about me picking up the phone at 6:12 pm last night. "But it's after 5:30, why are you still there?"
"Because Wick [Temple] is dead and Lou [Boccardi] is gone, " I wanted to answer, but I didn't. It's truthful and not politically correct, but that's the way it is. I marveled at the surprise of this comment, which tells me that Bag O'Rocks not only likes clueless women in the office, he likes them at home, too.
And L, my co-worker is on her second day at the new job. Making 25K more than what they gave her here.
But wait! That's not all--I got my Natural Habitat catalog in the mail last night. The Churchill Canada polar bear adventure is $3,795 for an 8 day stay. I could visit Gus's relatives and tell them how he is in Central Park swimming all day. But that's not going to happen. Not with my salary. I hope to god, heaven and all the saints I don't have to settle. This sucks ass. What do I have to do to see better wages?
Someone please shoot me.
Saturday, April 2, 2005
Je mal a la coeur
Sitting last night watching CNN, a torrent of emotions hit me as I watched the pope's coverage from Rome. The essence of my reaction can be traced to a little school, Visitation Academy, and a little year, 1979. The pope took over that year, and my school was buzzing with energy over it. This year, and the pope's visage, fills me with memories.
That was my first year, having survived a harrowing experience in Adelphi Academy, just two blocks away. I was little, blond, shy, and scared. People towered over me. All the students attended first Friday mass in the chapel that was connected to the school (it was a converted convent.) There were pictures of John Paul in at least four offices. He was the first Polish Pope, and Sister Anne Marie and Sister Rita seemed overjoyed, since that was their nationality.
1979 was a strange year. I had to get used to this itchy navy blue uniform, keeping my stringy hair neat (lest I get yelled at in gym class), and conquering my fear of this school, with its incredibly strange girls and its incredible grounds. The willow tree was near a patch of lavendar-blue hydrangea. It would change from white to pink, to deep pink, to lavendar, to blue. It smelled wonderful in the spring. The tree had been planted sometime early in the century. I remember fondly sitting next to it and a spiral concrete stairway. It's a fragrance that will never leave me.
My yearbook that June was filled with an entire spread of photos of the pope. From his youth, to his seminary photo, to his full garb, replete with hat and staff. His life story was splashed across 4 pages. Quite odd for a yearbook, but the nuns insisted. I think that book ended up being discarded with the 6B move to 2E, which means it's in a landfill somewhere, but those photos are still seen to this day. I saw two of them last night. The first was when the pope was a boy, the next when he graduated from the seminary. He will always represent that year to me, framed in my tiny hands.
Back then, I lived in a tiny house in Bensonhurst. My cats were Butchy and Fluffy (yes, only two.) Dawn, Catherine, and Wendy hadn't moved in yet (they arrived at the end of April.) We were in the midst of the cold war, I had started rollerskating in the summers to offset my ice time in the winter, and I collected teddy bears, not Barbies. 1980 was the prospect of hope for NY state, since the winter Olympics were in Lake Placid the next February, and it would also begin a new decade. The 70's were over, disco was declining (although my Italian goombah neighbors didn't think so), and the only thing I worried about was how I could keep my ballet slippers from cracking at the toe, and maintaining my white ice skates. I also worried Butchy would swallow my marble collection and choke, so I stopped collecting them.
It did seem the pope was everywhere. Even my parents, who balked at some of Vatican II's changes, noticed how he seemed to be in the papers, on tv. I think Newsweek did a story on him, too. He did seem to reach out to people more than his predecessors. Until the day he was shot, he would drive by standing openly on top of that little car. Newsreels showed the attempt on his life repeatedly. Between that and Reagan in 1981, it was scary. He seemed approachable. So many of the clergy in my neighborhood and my school did not. They were tall, stoic, and cold. Not very welcoming for one as tiny as me.
I remember vividly when the pope passed through New York--or was it Colorado?--in 1987. I was going out with a guy named Chris, and his mother was annoying him by coming into his room every 15 minutes or so with a "pope" report. I thought it was hysterical. Chris rolled his eyes. It was really a big deal how much this man travelled. CNN stated it was something like 179 countries? WOW.
Yes, I disagree with the standings of women in the church, abortion, and gay marriage. Years of dance and skating upheld women and gay men in a way no other portion of society could, in my mind. Women were powerful, and most of the queens I knew, cashed in on this in a BIG way. Definitely not the church's teachings! But I respect John Paul, for reaching out. I have far too many memories of those dark, silent corridors in that little school with crosses staring down at me. Intimidation is not the word for it. It's more like terror. I still have dark dreams about the upper chapel. Yet, I think of the pope's smiling face, all the hands he shook, and the children he kissed, and I can't be angry. Yes, I walked away from Catholicism years ago, but that was my past. It's a part of me and my girlhood that can't be erased.
And now it's April. Easter has passed. John Paul will, too. Those hydrangeas will bloom in about a month.
I'll think of him when I see the colors change.
That was my first year, having survived a harrowing experience in Adelphi Academy, just two blocks away. I was little, blond, shy, and scared. People towered over me. All the students attended first Friday mass in the chapel that was connected to the school (it was a converted convent.) There were pictures of John Paul in at least four offices. He was the first Polish Pope, and Sister Anne Marie and Sister Rita seemed overjoyed, since that was their nationality.
1979 was a strange year. I had to get used to this itchy navy blue uniform, keeping my stringy hair neat (lest I get yelled at in gym class), and conquering my fear of this school, with its incredibly strange girls and its incredible grounds. The willow tree was near a patch of lavendar-blue hydrangea. It would change from white to pink, to deep pink, to lavendar, to blue. It smelled wonderful in the spring. The tree had been planted sometime early in the century. I remember fondly sitting next to it and a spiral concrete stairway. It's a fragrance that will never leave me.
My yearbook that June was filled with an entire spread of photos of the pope. From his youth, to his seminary photo, to his full garb, replete with hat and staff. His life story was splashed across 4 pages. Quite odd for a yearbook, but the nuns insisted. I think that book ended up being discarded with the 6B move to 2E, which means it's in a landfill somewhere, but those photos are still seen to this day. I saw two of them last night. The first was when the pope was a boy, the next when he graduated from the seminary. He will always represent that year to me, framed in my tiny hands.
Back then, I lived in a tiny house in Bensonhurst. My cats were Butchy and Fluffy (yes, only two.) Dawn, Catherine, and Wendy hadn't moved in yet (they arrived at the end of April.) We were in the midst of the cold war, I had started rollerskating in the summers to offset my ice time in the winter, and I collected teddy bears, not Barbies. 1980 was the prospect of hope for NY state, since the winter Olympics were in Lake Placid the next February, and it would also begin a new decade. The 70's were over, disco was declining (although my Italian goombah neighbors didn't think so), and the only thing I worried about was how I could keep my ballet slippers from cracking at the toe, and maintaining my white ice skates. I also worried Butchy would swallow my marble collection and choke, so I stopped collecting them.
It did seem the pope was everywhere. Even my parents, who balked at some of Vatican II's changes, noticed how he seemed to be in the papers, on tv. I think Newsweek did a story on him, too. He did seem to reach out to people more than his predecessors. Until the day he was shot, he would drive by standing openly on top of that little car. Newsreels showed the attempt on his life repeatedly. Between that and Reagan in 1981, it was scary. He seemed approachable. So many of the clergy in my neighborhood and my school did not. They were tall, stoic, and cold. Not very welcoming for one as tiny as me.
I remember vividly when the pope passed through New York--or was it Colorado?--in 1987. I was going out with a guy named Chris, and his mother was annoying him by coming into his room every 15 minutes or so with a "pope" report. I thought it was hysterical. Chris rolled his eyes. It was really a big deal how much this man travelled. CNN stated it was something like 179 countries? WOW.
Yes, I disagree with the standings of women in the church, abortion, and gay marriage. Years of dance and skating upheld women and gay men in a way no other portion of society could, in my mind. Women were powerful, and most of the queens I knew, cashed in on this in a BIG way. Definitely not the church's teachings! But I respect John Paul, for reaching out. I have far too many memories of those dark, silent corridors in that little school with crosses staring down at me. Intimidation is not the word for it. It's more like terror. I still have dark dreams about the upper chapel. Yet, I think of the pope's smiling face, all the hands he shook, and the children he kissed, and I can't be angry. Yes, I walked away from Catholicism years ago, but that was my past. It's a part of me and my girlhood that can't be erased.
And now it's April. Easter has passed. John Paul will, too. Those hydrangeas will bloom in about a month.
I'll think of him when I see the colors change.
Friday, April 1, 2005
Deep Hollow Sharpness
Schiavo. The Pope. Johnnie Cochran.
and now for something completely different...
I finally got my skates sharpened. Correctly. I wore them for the first time this morning and almost shit myself trying to do crossovers. My instructor looked on, frightened. I didn't stop. Well, not a hockey stop, anyway. A "please-hold-my-hand-I'm-gonna-die-now"-slamming-into-the-boards-kinda-stop. It was sad.
And that was my morning. I'm still here, trying to finish baseball orders.
L's first week off. I'm thrilled that she's gone off to do better things.
In other news, the GYM called me. I "need" to sign up for April. "Um," I calmly stated, "I'm in the middle of a job hunt. I'm not going to be around much longer."
Shocked silence.
"We'll make note of it in your file."
LIKE I WANT THESE ASSHOLES PUTTING ANYTHING IN MY FILE. I can't skate, I can't stop, and now I have a FILE I DON'T WANT.
Could someone be kind enough to shoot me???!!!!
Ugh. It's just....
More crap tomorrow. I'll be here.
Again.
Not getting paid overtime.
So I can catch up with work.
I don't want to do.
Buh Bye, as RD says to me.
and now for something completely different...
I finally got my skates sharpened. Correctly. I wore them for the first time this morning and almost shit myself trying to do crossovers. My instructor looked on, frightened. I didn't stop. Well, not a hockey stop, anyway. A "please-hold-my-hand-I'm-gonna-die-now"-slamming-into-the-boards-kinda-stop. It was sad.
And that was my morning. I'm still here, trying to finish baseball orders.
L's first week off. I'm thrilled that she's gone off to do better things.
In other news, the GYM called me. I "need" to sign up for April. "Um," I calmly stated, "I'm in the middle of a job hunt. I'm not going to be around much longer."
Shocked silence.
"We'll make note of it in your file."
LIKE I WANT THESE ASSHOLES PUTTING ANYTHING IN MY FILE. I can't skate, I can't stop, and now I have a FILE I DON'T WANT.
Could someone be kind enough to shoot me???!!!!
Ugh. It's just....
More crap tomorrow. I'll be here.
Again.
Not getting paid overtime.
So I can catch up with work.
I don't want to do.
Buh Bye, as RD says to me.
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