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Marie Bess Jesse Alison Explodingdog Anti-Hipster Miz_a Fulltilt Gwenworld Savecraig |
Sweet Enough to Make you Throw I am throughly sick of it being cold. I am completely tired of having to wear more layers than humanly possible. Can we get a break? A few days of above-40 temperatures just as a teaser until March is ready to break into warmth and, gasp, above 50 temperatures? "My mother really wants to meet you. She stuffed me with ziti last night and talked and talked about you and me. The conversation was 90 percent about you, 9 percent about her job, 0.9 percent about birds, which is actually about you too and 0.1 percent about me thanking her for feeding me, telling her how good the food was. That equally 100 right? If it doesn't, the remaining percentages were about you."I suggested, and he agreed, that maybe, just maybe, our parents see something in us when we walk about each other that is just different, maybe even special. "Yeah, my mom wants to know what's behind the sparkle in my eyes." I, however, find it more important that he meets my other boyfriend: the big, black, loving, hairy dog Bailey. This will happen this weekend. Thursday, February 27, 2003 I just found out I have 13 personal days I can use between now and the time I decide to leave my job. This is not including the vacation days that will number approximately 14 before I leave and can "cash out" for nearly a pay check. One day is on tentative hold for a possible weekend excursion. The other 12 are use-it-or-lose-it. What to do, what to do? I do have a feeling that I may be "sick" some day in the next two weeks. Really, I feel something coming on and it might not make me "ill" for another week or so. Wednesday, February 26, 2003 This morning, I put on the cardigan part of my dusty blue twin set inside-out. I then put on my zip-up hooded sweater, coat, scarf and mittens. I did not notice that my cardigan was inside out until I got to work, took off my mittens, scarf, coat, zip-up sweater and went to make myself a cup of tea because, despite all the layers I was wearing, I was chilled throughly. I noticed then, when trying to adjust my sweater, that the buttons were facing towards me rather than the world. Dusty blue twin sets, pearl earrings, and plaid cuffed pants aren't as charming when you fail to know how to put your clothing on like some ADHD four year old. In the past, I have discussed how I cannot drink coffee, I wrote love letters to Juan Valdez and described adventures in decaf. Fuck it. I cannot become sufficiently caffinated these days and generally have a cup of tea or coffee in the am followed by another cup of one or the other when I get to work. Sometimes, I over caffinate myself. Those are funny times as I truly turn into a ADHD four year old. Saturday morning,Jersey boy and I woke too early and had a couple of cups of coffee. When he did not have enough quarters for laundry, he went to a diner to scrounge up some and returned with more coffee and breakfast "sweet things"/danish. By the time I left to go to Costco with my sisters and mother, I was crawling out of my skin and my eyes were spinning in circles involuntarily (not really, but it's a great description). Before shopping for huge stock piles of toiletries, cleaning products, cereal and what-nots, we had lunch. At the table I sat singing to myself, primiarily "Low rider" mostly for the little electronic sounds in it. I kept my family laughing. Later, I zoomed around the store, laughing at product and the stupid things only I can laugh at. Coming off my high several hours later, I got into a huge fight with my sister regarding her fiance who I think can be a real ass at times. They are at the "nobody can ever find fault in you because you are perfect and if they dare to I will attempt to maim or kill in defending your honor" stage in their relationship. This stage will end approximately 3 to 6 months after they get married and the forever-ever of the situation settles in. The fact that both are flawed humans will be re-established for the first time since they began to have to put down huge depostits for the wedding. This stage can also be called "we cannot lose the wedding deposits" stage in a relationship. My current stage in my Jersey boy relationship is "I am aware of my flaws and will appologize for them immediately whenever I believe that you confuse my flaws with me not liking you." Post Script / p.s.: I have been accepted to two Master's programs. I have about 7 weeks to decide my future. I am elated/terrified. In 7 weeks the next 12 to 24 months of my life will be planned. In 7 weeks, I'll know when I can tell them 2Point5 is out of here. Wednesday, February 26, 2003 To my car-driving, fossil-fuel-burning associates: Sorry but you're going to have to pay another 4 cents a gallon. There's a big fire in Staten Island at an oil refinery, leading to less oil and any excuse for the oil industry to up the prices. My mother informaed me of this when I called to ask her about my tax-returns and student aid. I asked how bad it was. She said "hold on, let me check out my window." I can't believe in South Central NJ you can see to Staten Island, but you can. The limits of the horizon always boggle me in my urban verticle world. Friday, February 21, 2003 I must say, our President is the smartest man, ever. He shows such brillancy and innovation. He impresses me with every single word that comes out of his mouth. "The cornerstone of good economic policy recognizes the money in Washington, D.C. is not the government's money, it's the people's money," Bush said, "and the more of it you have in your pocket, the more likely somebody's going to have a job."Trickle-down theory, anyone? Reganomics, anyone? Return to 1980s era of greed where the rich where the only people who saw any improvement in their lives while the middle class continued to loose ground, faster and faster, anyone? Thursday, February 20, 2003 Damn you, Charlie, for not winning. On The Bachelorette, I was completely convinced that Charlie with his squinty eyes and slicked back hair would be the winner and have to deal with Trista's horse-like voice for the rest of his life or until they decide they don't like each other, really. I even put a wager on him winning. [I will now blatantly talk about my boyfriend and delete this entry at will] For several weeks running, I've been in NJ on Wednesday nights and have made the boy watch The Bachelorette. When he saw the commerical for the final episode this weekend, he insisted that I be at his house for the show as he had become addicted and could not watch the show on his own as a matter of integrity. When the show had just begun, he decided we should make a wager as to who she'd pick, not money but anything we'd like. He believed Ryan would win and requested that I make him dinner at his house, anything he requested. I added a "no ground beef" clause as ground beef makes me feel. Convinced that Charlie would win and not wanting him to have to do anything too costly, time consuming or horrible, I chose having dinner at Grimaldi's Pizza under the Brooklyn Bridge followed by romantically gazing at the city from the little dock at the water's edge. We shook hands and settled in to watch. Charlie answered the question of what type of husband he'd be with the first word of "fidelity" which is just horrible since that's precisely what one would say when you have issues with being faithful. Ryan asked Trista's father permission to marry her, a 5-star move that outweighed his shyness compared to Charlie's chatty demeanor. Charlie lost, Ryan won. I lost, Jersey boy won. I lost my first bet ever. He: Mmmm, now let's see [rubbing hands together]. Anything I want you to cook. Like a big t-bone and some mashed potatoes. A nice salad. What else, what vegetable? When we go to the store to buy the groceries I'll decide. No, I want peas and carrots. Can you make brown gravy? I want loads of gravy for my potatoes. Thursday, February 20, 2003 The events leading up to me injuring my right arm and being somewhat sore today and willing to pimp myself out for a shoulder rub: Step 1: MTA planning meeting in 1997 to discuss updating the 34th Street F,B,D,N,R (and now Q, V, W) and Path station lead by a new young guy with solid ideas and an older guy trying not to loose his job to the new guy by being innovative and smart. Under debate is what type of flooring the station should have. Old dude: We need to be innovative, and fresh. We need for people to look at our subway and see it as clean and safe. Concrete slabs get so dirty with gummy marks, random stains and generally don't hold up. I think we should stop using the subway station standard of concrete.Step 2: Please refer to any weather report for the NY Metro area from Sunday the 16th though Monday the 17th. It snowed the most since 1996. Everyone was wearing boots. The amount of salt thrown about the sidewalks made the salt-makers in Salt Lake (if that's where it comes from) rub their hands together with greed. Step 3: I walk down the slick tiled surface on a low-grade decline trying to get home after a very long and very tiring day. I cautiously take each step and watch everyone else wonder why there just aren't stairs, concrete or something that isn't like the surface of the suburban backyard sensation: Slip'n'Slide. I slip, I slide, I grab the banister and yank my arm. While not badly injured, not even in great pain, but mildly discomforted, I wanted to share the idiocy of whomever decided that tile was a good thing to put in a high traffic area. Do you think concrete was used in nearly every subway station for the past 100 years without reason, old dude? Wednesday, February 19, 2003 In an effort to stop sounding like a stupid girl all of the time, I have edited previous posts. By editing, I mean deleting. By deleting, I mean I was embarassed by them. By embarassed by them, I mean I cannot deal today. I spend a whole lot more time editing, censoring myself these days. I do not think I can be completely honest or otherwise indulge in entertaining the masses. I feel as if a lot of what I have to say is relatively boring, nauseating or plain old stupid. Grad school is boring. Talking about one's boy is infinitely stupid, but amusing stories featuring friends are not so idiotic. I shall only post love letters to inanimate objects such as my Horizontal Folder Divider or re-countings of emotionally detached situations.) Tuesday, February 18, 2003 Setting: Small Italian restaurant.The previous scene would be mentioned frequently as my "get out of jail" card for later moments of aggrivation such as the cranky mood I was in this morning which caused me to say "I hate you and you can't make me take a shower if I don't want to," then get up, turn on the coffee, have a cigarette, and get in the shower. I was forgiven, "because you stole that cheese, just took it in a flash of a second." Sunday afternoon: While Jersey boy is mocking a silly dance I did several days beofre, wagging his arms crazily and shouting "wine store! we're getting wine!" as we skip, run, and march across the parking lot, a small blond haired girl becomes very frightened by him. When we enter the store, a bit more composed after our bout of spastic energy, I notice the small blond-haired girl clutching her mother's coat tightly upon seeing us. She continues to eye us suspiciously until she leaves the store. Tuesday, February 18, 2003 I have been trying to starting paying nearly as many bills as possible on-line for no reason other than the fact that I want to be that person who pays as many of her bills as possible on-line. However, the wireless service provider I use has had a non-functioning sign-in process for several days now and I was forced to walk down 34th Street, the evening before Valentine's Day with fuck-wits over-running the streets looking for something under $40 to buy their "loved ones" and pay my bill in person at the wireless service provider store. The store has this machine where you can pay with cash, check or credit. Supopsedly, you don't even need to fill out your check, just sign it and the machine will fill out date, amount, to whom. I went through the whole process of touch-screening all the information they required and then tried to place my check, face down, into the check-acceptor. Nothing happened. I hit cancel and started all over. Nothing happened. The security guard / bill payment station assistant came over. There was now a line behind me. Why won't it accept my check?I walked away form her, enraged. I hate talking down to people (despite the fact that Jersey boy says I do it so well). I hate treating stupid people like stupid people. I walked to the front where the guys who help people sign up for new service hang out. I walked up to two guys and said to the first, "The machine won't take my check," as the security guard glared at me from the back of the store. "You need to fill it out." I was about ready to run out of there crying, to scream that it doesn't need to be filled out. However, the boy from Queens with gelled hair intervened, seeing my frustration ozzing from every pore. "Let me help you." I explained how it wouldn't take it two separate times. I explained how I would like the internet to work so I wouldn't have to deal with actual people. He then motioned to a box, "You can just fil out your check and drop it in that box." I wondered why no one told me that, why the indiscreet black box sat in a corner, no big signs denoting that one could, indeed, just put their filled-in check in an envelop and drop it in the box. I filled out my check with the eyes of the security guard burning into, boring into me. I could hear the muderous thoughts in her head. I could smell the sweat of anger coming from her. I was not an arrogant white bitch, I was not a nasty cunt. But they situation played out that way, and I dropped my envelop in the slot and marched quickly out of the store. Friday, February 14, 2003 Dear Horizontal Folder Divider: I am so happy to have found you. You have changed the view I see day in and day out. You are the ultimate organizing machine, the way you hold my folders on their spines on the top of my desk, metal dividers separating thought from thought, task from task. I love you, Horizontal Folder Divider. Shall reminisce about when we first met, this morning? How I decided I needed you, with the piles of folders slowly taking over my desk until there was barely room to spill coffee and browse the internet. And I pillaged; like a low-life, I pillaged. From empty office to empty office, I looked for you, the vacant air left by depating staff dry and cool. I knew asking for you from the supply room would take days, weeks, of sheer disorganization that eats away at my brain. And finally, in the deep dark corners, behind long-closed office doors, I found you, emptied you of your former dusty contents and dashed with you, gleeful, back to my office. It was beautiful, wasn't it, when we met? It was beautiful to find you, to hold you up two flights of stairs and then lovingly fill your cold empty slots with my overstuffed manila folders with ominous quotations around "to do" and irregular capitalizations like "UPCOMING papers." I rearranged my entire desk to make room for you, my little Horizontal Folder Divider, or as I like to call you HFD. Forget the Verticle Folder Divider over on my shelf. The papers it hold are old and yellowing, it is rarely used and rarely looked it. It holds only style guides and manuals, references. You hold my day, my meat, my needs and tasks. You are the best HFD. All my love, Tara Thursday, February 13, 2003 I am mildly obsessed with the Westminster Dog Show. It may just have to do with the fact that I love dogs; I get all cheesed out when I see the commercials before the show is to take place. "Dog show" "Dog Show!" "dogshow" I say over and over again. I've been reprimanded for this behavior. But it's the dog show! Lovely dogs running around filling me with childish glee as I repeated yet again "dog show" especially during the larger breeds. Whenever they get to the Labrador Retrievers, I humphf and say that my Bailey is so much more handsome, better built, musclelier, best in breed. Monday, coming out of Penn Station, I was given a real treat. From whatever hotel is crazy enough to allow hundred of dogs to stay to Madison Square Garden, the dog show contestants were on the move. Toy dogs in kitty-like crates that I could see, which doesn't matter because I don't like them any how, Great Danes sniffing in my direction, hounds with their noses 3 inches from the ground since the New York sidewalks aren't that interesting to smell any how. My favorite, of this pristinely clean and polished dogs, was the Irish Wolfhound. It had decided, somewhere from the hotel door to the Garden entrace, that drinking city-street water was a good idea and the hairs hanging around its mouth were matted and dark from the filth flowing through the streets. Some people think dog shows are horrible, exploitative. Little Junior Miss pagents, Vogue and E! however are a bit more so, and these are humans being paraded instead of dogs. Muscled, pampered, strong dogs are so much more interesting to look at than underfed humans. My family likes to watch me cringe in embarassment, my wine-flushed cheeks turn redder and generally try to see how badly they can tease me. Jersey boy did not join the large family gathering last night and for this I was relentlessly teased. Where was he? Was my family an embarassment? Was he an embarassment? When would they meet him? Since I am that girl who doesn't carry a purse, always giving friends and family a handful of things for them to carry in their purses for me, my cell phone was purse-squatting in my younger sister's purse during dinner. Between the meal and coffee, she decided that she wanted to take Jersey boy's phone number from my phone; he calls her sometimes, but she's never taken down his number. This turned into my older sister's fiance adding Jersey boy's number to his cell phone, Jersey boy's number in my mother's cell phone, my cousin's, in every frigging cell phone at the table. As I blushed, stammered, pouted. Why can't I just keep him to myself? They were teasing me just because they could. Wednesday, February 12, 2003 I never knew there was anyone else who could describe the differences between a real and a fake bagel. Or anyone else who really cared. To find this out is much like finding someone else who also believes the sun, not the earth, is the center of the solar system and objects fall at consistent rates or other truisms that everyone else doubted at one point or another. And during this conversation about the boiled versus machine bagel, a new term came: flagel. A flat bagel they say, looks like a minature man-hole cover, a bagel with less flour, or water, or dough, kosher for Passover. Flagel? I have been away from high-quality bagel shops for too long. I, the bagel snot, takes what she can get. There are no high-quality places to get bagels in my daily life. Boiled bagels must be sought out and being just bagels, rarely are. However, a new movement has begun and I had yet to partake. The word flagel would float through my mind of the next 12 hours. I wanted tuna, on white toast, so I was driven to the bagel shop. "There's a flagel! Right there, a flagel!" I couldn't believe what they looked like: flat, wider, mishappen, browner bagel-things. When paying for my sandwich, he asked "What are these things called?" to which the guy behind the counter responded "flagel." We cracked up, essentially laughing in his face upon hearing their name. "What?" "Flagel." The second time, the guy behind the counter understood we were laughing at the name, not him. "Fucking-bagel," the wise-ass every deli keeps behind the counter, piped in, over-hearing our conversation. Part of me thinks I should have tuna on a flagel. "Bagels are like jeans. They're so popular that everyone wants to try to come up with something new. Acid wash, extra dark, torn, or bagel chips, bagel sticks, flagels. They're all just trends while you can always get 501s and a regular bagel." Monday, February 10, 2003 I feel as if I am becomming the exact girl I have always hated. The girl that drops her friends for a boy, but tha's not me. I fear that I am doing the things I never understood and scowled at other girls for. But at the same time, this has not been going on for so long, this can't go on this way forever. I don't call people back, but since when did they call me that often anyhow? I don't spend time with people I used to spend time with, but how often did I spend time with them to begin with? When I was lonely, when sidewalks were my only friend, where were they? When someone says "I love you," I always assumed you should want to answer with the same. Instead, I can only be flattered and want to bury my face in his chest, blushing from feeling loved. I miss being alone; I miss the state of aloneness. Maybe 2 or 3 days is too much time for me to spend around another person. When I went to Haiti for 2 weeks with 2 friends, I wanted to be alone for 10 minutes so badly. After living in this head for so long, sometimes I want to just occupy that space. Monday, February 10, 2003 |
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2003 2/7 _ 1/21 2002 12/18 _ 11/21 _ 11/7 _ 10/16 9/24 _ 9/4 _ 7/31 _ 7/11 6/19 _ 5/28 _ 5/9 _ 4/11 3/27 _ 3/13 _ 2/19 _ 1/28 2001 12/31 _ 12/3 _ 11/1 _ 10/23 10/7 _ 9/17 8/22 _ 7/25 _ 6/21 _ 5/25 Extended Play The Essentials |
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