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
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