Life Listed - Chronologically

When I entered the vestibule yesterday night, I immediately noticed that the door to upstairs was left opened. I put down my bag and went upstairs with Edward. We looked around the apartment, which was filthy, scummy and not as homey or cool as ours. By cool I mean literally cool, because living on the middle floor in a brick row house, you are completely insulted from a lot of the heat. Upstairs, the black tar roof is just abouve you, beating down all day. Among the problems with the apartment:

1-The bathroom wall paper is literally coming off. It needs to be removed.
2-There is a hole in one of Edward's closets, which was "patched" with a piece of cardboard. The ceiling to this closet goes to the roof, but the access is covered with hastily hammered dry wall.
3-The shower stall floor is dirtier than a fraternity at a state school. It has a crappy caulking job and I'm afraid that the floor might fall through to the second floor one day as there is a leak in my apartment right now.
4-The toilet leaks & the tile is cracked as a result.
5-The stove in the kitchen is circa 1945, covered in about 3/4 inch of scum and the doors are badly aligned.

While my apartment was pretty filthy when I moved in, I managed to scrub it to a shine. I did not have cracked tiles, open holes in the walls (even if it is in a closet), a stove from hell and so on. Really, that land-lady better be prepared to do so repairs before I nudge. Because I've been really nice about all this and she knows I'll tear down the wall paper in the kitchen & bathroom, paint the walls pretty colors and lemon oil the wood floors to keep it nice. This apartment is not the same condition as the other one, plain and simple. It's sub-par, not such an easy shine-up job and maybe we need to talk about lowering the rent. Or getting me a new stove. With hi/med/low on the knobs instead of scum.

p.s. Marie, the DB story was beaten out of me by Richie and Bess really. They were choking me a stuff, going to kill me if I didn't tell Richie the story. But, you know, know they know my little secret and how I hardly act like a MJ fan when confronted with my superstars.

Tuesday, June 18, 2002

I came to a conclusion this weekend. I had a realization, revelation, unveiling of what I know but never really confront. I am not saying this in a whining, complaining or other realted matter that makes this fact unpleasant. Rather, what I have to say I find clears a lot of problems, sets my firmly on my feet and allows me to march forward.

Life is tough.

That's what is it: tough. It is not easy or comfortable. It's just tough. And it's good that it is that way, it's what makes it life and not a simulacrum of living through fashion magazines, the Wall Street Journal, $4 coffee made by $5.50/hr workers, class reunions, strip malls and all this other padding we put around life.

I was quietly thinking about the way things are and they way they will be and what I plan on doing about this when I finally decided that life is just tough. It tests us, confronts us and forces us to toughen up our hides. It's beautiful, making us go past our limits to be something. If we let it. If we don't resist, or hide, or pretend as if it doesn't happen and act traumatized every time life gets too real on us. I don't know where to go on from here.

Monday, June 17, 2002

If I wore a "Free Palestine" t-shirt or attached a button to my shoulder bag, would I get shot? How badly would I be harassed? I am sick of hearing pro-Israeli sentiments spoken in trains, stores, lines, television while pro-Palestinian words are spoken among friends, in Europe and the occasional Devil's advocate on television. I'm really sick of it and if I can insure that no bodily harm will be inflicted on me, then I will go ahead. At the same time, if bodily harm was inflicted upon me, I think my argument would be won.

Last night, while smoking cigarettes on Katie's screened porch and feeling the temperature drop about 30 degrees while the Nets lost to the Lakers, we talked about girl stuff. Because that's what 3 girls together occasionally talk about (well, frequently). While on that general topic of the feminine, Marie asked if my baby sister was currently having her period, which is of course something I don't keep track of. When I go home, I noticed a tampon on my sister's dresser and I said that Marie knew she was menstruating.
"What the hell, what is she? Miss Cleo?"

As Marie is opening herself to the possibility of getting a new job, I think my sister stumbled across the perfect one: dial-up psychic. All she needs to do is perfect either (a)the Amy Fisher or (b) Latina with attitude in her and she would have commericals all over cable. "Child, you are supposed to have your Aunt Flo now, right? But you don't, do you? It's not your husband's either, girl, huh?" I'd call her 3 or 4 times a day.

Thursday, June 13, 2002

Um, I'd like to inform the world that I was thinking about posting the lyrics to a certain song by Bruce Springstein but thought better of it. It has been in my head since I was standing in the shower, humming until and song came to mind. It spent a while looking for the full lyrics and also browing some of the other songs, having a concert in my brain. And then I check out Bess's not a page/page and see the exact same song I was thinking about just a few short hours ago. Is Bess tracking my every move of the internet or is today just one of those Springstein/hot/on fire days? I would have posted this as a comment on her page but her tentative/transistional phase/page won't allow this.

Wednesday, June 12, 2002

This afternoon, I have to withdrawl most of the money I have in the bank in order to pay for the deductible on my mother's car. For that "ooops I drove over a metal plate and the exhaust system didn't survive" situation. Eddie at the auto shop informed that they only take cash. So I need several hundred dollar in cash to go to East Harlem/El Barrio to pick up this car. I'm trying to be as unconspicious as possible.

I don't live near the ghetto any more, the closest I see of it on a week-to-week basis is either a) Canal Street area or b) any of the immediate areas surround NJ hometown. I forget the rules and am apprehensive about walking down the street. It's some place I've never been, in an area I just don't know and many blocks away from the subway. I know I'll be pleasantly surprised and possibly charmed at children running around, men sitting in front of bodegas chatting and women walking seemingly aimlessly running the errands that keep their families going.

I need to leave work early. Because once I pay Eddie at the auto shop most of the money I have in the bank, in cash, this car needs to get to Jersey. If I try to accomplish at the very end of the day, I have a feeling the car might end right back up with Eddie before I get to the West Side. It's once thing to drive in New York City, where your exhaust system can be torn out while driving down the street in a sudden flash, but driving out of the city at rush hour is not something I'm up to.

Maybe if I was still a daily driver, someone who battled for position on I-80 or -78 every day, I could handle NY rush hour. I did drive out of the city at rush hour several times when I was a Jersey temp. Because I was in top driving form. I knew the car, it's dimensions, how to squeeze and not get hit, I knew how to handle heavy volume.

Since I've moved, besides getting into two separate "accidents", driving is strictly of the Sunday variety. Trips around the hometown, being Marie's chaffuer when she isn't in the mood to be behind her wheel and the occasional spin around Brooklyn. The idea of jockeying my way onto any of the out-bound crossings at 5 pm or later, in the predicted rain makes me nervous, or maybe want to cry or at least feel pretty sure I'll arrive at my parents' home and immediately seek my baby sister's stash of mild illegal drugs and pour myself a tall cocktail, like in one of the 30 oz plastic cups. So I will leave early, drive home through Newark rather than the interstates that force you to swing around it and avoid all possibilities of traffic. Really, I just am not ready to see any greys.

Wednesday, June 12, 2002

How Compatible are You with me?

Tuesday, June 11, 2002

My officemate wants to see me hurl, barf, whatever on my desk that is overflowing with papers. This is the only thing I can guess, this is the only plausible explanation for the way he is eating right now. Granted, I'm probably more prone today to hurl thanks to a medical issue that requires I down the most hated cranberry juice, but still. I've told him that I thought the nail clipping was completely revolting, I've audibly "UGH"ed when he slurps his tea. I've walked out of the room and have seen that he does indeed chew with his mouth wide open. It's just gross, absolutely vomit inducing.

There is a 5,000 percent chance that I'll be very busy at the end of this week, so busy in fact that I'll regret every second I've spend the last two days not diligently working. When there's shit to do here, there's usually a lot of it.

Lately, I've been thinking I need to get out of NYC. I need to move. I know this is the fleeting thought all NYers have as part of loving this place. But lately, it's been more often than not. I sort of want a mountain with a cabin, a rocking chair on the porch and being afraid of getting sprayed by skunks rather than anthrax or undisclosed subway delays. Maybe a trip to the Delaware Water Gap or something is in order.
7 weeks until vacation.

Tuesday, June 11, 2002

Work today has involved finding exact who is this other Tara is NYC who has my name and was already in the H&M and some other random store data base which prompted me to get a credit check thinking someone stole my credit because they have my name. It also involved finding a nice online fabric store which made me think of making bags and quilts and Bess's endeavors. There's also this place which is just as throughly funkdafied. I am supposed to make this old sorority t-shirt quilt for my sister and have been enjoying sewing more than crocheting lately (gasp!)
Monday, June 10, 2002

Last night, it smelled like summertime. I couldn't pick out the specific plant, animal, mineral responsible for these smells other than the occasional wiff of honeysuckle, but it was clearly summertime. Like sex smells and subway smells, the scents of summer are reminders of life. They are more intoxicating then three beers for lunch and three beers for dinner with no actual solid food in between. I'm jealous of the recent growth spurts my house plants have had. They seem richer in color, stronger, more lovely just because they get more sun. I just seem to get sun burned lips.

Now that the windows remain open day and night, I do not hear any of the other sounds in the house when I'm lying in my bed, pretending that I can't wake up. I can only hear the outside world, the birds and cars weaving their way through Brooklyn streets to the BQE to take bridges into Manhattan. I tell myself that I am thinking about what to wear even when I'd decided this the night before. Or think that the new roommate might be shaving so there'd be no point in moving if I couldn't get into the bathroom. Sometimes, I'm just afraid that I might hear my back creak, or pop or do something as it can and has done just to remind me that I'm not as young as I think.

I made a bee-line out of Manhattan, not stopping to browse windows, investigate goods offered for sale, get water for my parched lips that were surely sun burning. Canal Street slowed me with women peddling useless crap to fill their homes. But I wove through the people and made my way down the empty streets of downtown. I smiled at poilice officers bored resting their asses on their squad cars while crossing and uncrossing their arms. I think we need proper guards like they have at Buckingham Palace, with uncomfortable uniforms and ceremonies to change who is watching over us. I walked over the Brooklyn Bridge and took group photographs for tourists that wanted the empty skyline behind their heads. Later, I could taste dried sweat above my sore lips.

Where is Bess's page? No farewell notice, no Dear John or letter of temporary resignation, explanation of leave? Just a Monday looking at the Time instead of Bess's page.

Monday, June 10, 2002

This is the week of zero luck. I messed up my mother's car (see below), received notice from the insurance company from my last accident that I signed something saying it was my fault even though the it had been deemed based on the dynamics & physics of scratches to not be, my powerpoint is screwed making me loose several hours worht of this mornings' work, someone offened me this week and I'm not sure how to amend this, and generally I'm ready for it to be 5 pm. If one more thing goes wrong, I might cry.
Friday, June 7, 2002

No Friday beer party! What type of hell has been brought upon me? No free cheap beer among co-workers? When I planned to stay and have a few, go back to my desk and work on speadsheets, checking other people's spreadsheets and emailing complex and annoying questions since I know I won't have to deal with the answers until Monday. But no Friday beer party is the verdict passed down from high up. Why do they think I took this job? We blew a transformer on one of the floors which requires the displacement of 1/3 of our staff onto the other floors and apparently also makes beers on Friday an impossibility. I have no positive motivation now, no goal orientation, no beer at the end of the day. I might as well slack off a bit and let it sail on by.
Friday, June 7, 2002

There this commercial I saw last night whilst watching the Nets loose to the Lakers & sewing while my roommate built a desk. It was for Discover Card or Visa Card or American Express Card, maybe even Master Card but there was no "cost of making you want this credit card: priceless" at the end. It was about the cash back bonuses you get every time you use said credit card. The commercial featured a guy dating, talking about how credit card will give you cash back on your adventures in dating so one day you'll have the money to afford the engagement ring. There was a series of girls, each obviously not good enough until the last girl who when she was asked what she did for a living replied "lawyer" as commercial guy was also a lawyer. And their eyes just sparked across the table at each other. (barf).

Which, in the end, it tells me what you really want is someone of the same status as you. Sharing the same profession fulfills the sufficient conditions of suitability for breeding. In the end, you only want to buy yourself a wife that is worthy of your education. The other problem is that all of dates he had in this montage of dates gone wrong were in the same restaurant.
Thursday, June 6, 2002

The song that's going through my head today is "By Your Side" by Sade. Maybe it's because I'm the most listeningest white girl of R&B around. While everyone else was buying Pearl Jam cds in high school I was collecting Aaron Hall & Gerald Levert. This also effects my ability to deal with boys since no one actually approaches you like an R&B song.

Or maybe because I generally know all the words to some of the most off-color, left field, non-mainstream songs ever. Not that Sade is that off color but I am not a 47 year old white woman living on West End Avenue & 83rd with 3 kids under 10, an MBA and a taste for psycho-pharms, Andre Bocelli and Diana Krall. But that's what I'm singing today, in case you hear it walking down the street and wonder why someone would choose that tune. I have no choice in the songs in my head, they pop out in the morning, much like the dreams of the evening come fully formed. I wonder how many of my dreams have background music?

My new roommate is really into asking me about the type of boys I like. Which inevitably comes to the fact that I've never dated a white boy. And how much I enjoy the working class spirit. And basically I'm everything but what he as a Fordham kid who went to Bronx Science for high school should expect from a Barnard girl. He's pretty pre-occupied with the need to find me someone to fuck. He's only been there for 3 evenings.

And on the plus side, I fixed and now understand the operating mechanisms of my 1930s sewing machine and my bag-making business is, well, back in business. I actually understand how to thread bobbins, adjust tension, manipulate the machine which is good news. I finished 1 bag last night for a student of my sister, a wee girl who lost her mommy this winter. I'm a sucker. I'm a sucker who wakes up with the most random songs in her head. And they just don't go away (Yes, the song has been going through my head this entire time).

Thursday, June 6, 2002

Last night, while sitting in the living room & chatting with the new roommate, a cat walked into our kitchen. Just like that, I looked up and saw a white & orange cat standing right in the kitchen looking up at Conrad's cage. I kept the back door open, giving the carious bugs of summer entry to my house, allowing air to flow through the apartment and generally liking to have a door wide open to the back yard in New York. I should have closed it when I was done cooking & then smoking out back but I forgot.

And a wee kitty decided it looked nice and jumped from fence to fence and walked right. It ran away when I looked in it's eyes and said hey. My new roommate's back was to the kitchen and he did not see the cat in the kitchen. He may think I'm crazy as only people in the woods have animals just walk right in. I might have kept it if it didn't run away.

While sleeping, I had nightmares about the roaches/ugly large water bugs that aren't "roaches" but look enough like roaches and bigger than roaches so that water bugs aren't creepy enough of a word to explain that they are in fact roaches. In this dream, there was a small crack along my bedroom wall and when I passed a light over it, I found an entire breeding ground, throbbing with so many of these sleek brown fuckers, just waiting until I turned my back to enter my house. It was a pretty large hole, with various items like a t-shirt, napkin holder, shoe and so forth amongst the roaches. When I woke, I thought I should go check along the wall in my dream until I realized that the wall is brick and therefore and unlikely place for a gaping hole with roaches and lost items.

I was excessively tired on the train ride, after an evening of strange dreams and rest-less sleep, but was unable to fully nod off until 34th Street was a few stops away. I was falling fastly into a coma-like state, quickly crossing the border of keeping my eyes closed and a full on-dream when kitties, tons of them like the throb of roaches from the previous nights' dreams began running into the subway, under the seat and taking over. I woke just as quickly as I fell asleep, snapped away, eyes wide open in a second and realized I was now fully awake (this lasted until about an hour ago.)

Wednesday, June 5, 2002

In 8 weeks, I am going to be in Haiti. I will be there for 2 weeks since my parents decided not to go on vacation. I'm going to a Third World country which requires I finally go to a doctor to get pills in case I get malaria or something. I'm going places where my life is not middle-class but beyond imagination for most people. I'm going places where most people know English but the don't necessarily speak it to each other much like Catholics used to know Latin back in the day. My friend is excited to the point of giggles, completely mind-boggled that her friends of Northeastern priviledge are accompanying her to her home country where political and social unrest were common when she was growing up. I want to see things I don't really understand. I want to experience through my eyes, my friends' eyes. I cannot wait.
Tuesday, June 4, 2002

I would have been so on time today, maybe even a little early. The benefit of the new roommate is that he actually wakes up before noon. For the past year, I was the first person up in my house, no one moving upstairs or down or in the confines of my apartment. Hearing someone else up & about motivated me out of bed. I was showered, dressed, bag packed before 8:15. I was going to actually be on time.

After lifting the sheet of Conrad's cage, I saw a roach scurry along the wall in the kitchen. A roach. I hate, fear and freak out about roaches. I can't just step on them and kill them. I am too afraid for that. I can't just let them run under the sink and stay there, I'd never return home. I took Conrad out of the kitchen, got out a can of Raid and killed the fucker.

Then I had to mop the kitchen. Because Raid can also kill birds, dead. At 8:20 am I was moping my floor, enough to clean off any roach spray. Exactly what I needed to be doing. I put Conrad in front of the windows in the living room and hope he's still alive when I return home. to clean the entire house even though it is already clean. Now it will be immaculate.

3 roaches in one year isn't too bad but it makes my skin crawl and I think about just crying. How frustrating for it to happen when I finally thought I broke the spell I've had since the terrorist attacks. I finally thought I would get to work on time. Maybe the world just doesn't want me to.
Tuesday, June 4, 2002

I've been thinking that Captain Caveman was one of the coolest cartoons. I can still hear the echo of "Caaaveemaaan!" from me screaming along with the television.

When everything seems fucked, seems to go wrong, sometimes your pain in the ass friend pulls through and reminds you why you keep him around.
Monday, June 3, 2002

I'm addicited to products. I think they are lovely. I love the promises each bottle or tube holds to clean, refine, tone, beautify and generally make me worth-while in the eyes of the world. Really, I just like products. Trying out new ones until my body tires of them. I'm convinced they have a built-in failure rate where after a few month they no longer work, forcing you back to Duane Reade. I've settled down with a few like L'occitane hand creme and would like to commit to this one shampoo but it's from a pharmacy in the UK. Although I've decided not to buy anything for a while, I found this page were you can custom design product for yourself, and just might buy something there soon. I'm pretty convinced they may have the magic solution. I'm so easily bought by clever marketing. Plus, it's fun with play with the "customized" quizes when you're are bit bored.
Friday, May 31, 2002

Conrad is a brat. He's a big snot. He's rude to all but a few people. When Angel moved out, I asked him if he wanted the bird but then changed my mind about giving Conrad away. I've had him for 6 years, how can I just pass him along? I felt bad about giving him away. I regret this decision today.
Friday, May 31, 2002

"Now how many of your other fiances sisters' have ever taken you to a playoff game"
"I've never done this before. She's the only one. I own her now."
"I thought the ring meant I love you?"
"No, it means I bought you, you are mine."

The future of my familial gene-pool will be tangled with this guy. We had fun, drank beers. He was disappointed that I wasn't loud & rowdy like my sister apparently is. I'm quiet, completely taken back by the whole situation. The people, the game, how it only takes a few steps for these guys to clear a court. It's surreal. Sure, I shout and all but I don't talk trash. I let him in on some secrets.

Tonight, I'm blasting my music. I'm dancing around my apartment. I will be swinging my hips while I sweep and shaking my rump while I scrub. I will not answer my phone or make any calls. I will make my abode shine. Really, I will.
Thursday, May 30, 2002

I'm just frustrated. With everything. And my prescription is currently being filled. I'm going to a basketball game tonight. The Eastern Conference Finals. With my sister's boyfriend since Angel is having adult responsibility issues. My sister thinks I should call him her fiance, but that's too pretentious. I pronounce it fionce to rhyme with Bionce from that trio of funky girl singers. Yelling and screaming at basketball players, cheering and booing will be good for me. The crowd, of Jersey folks unaccustomed to moving in such a group, will hopefully not piss me off.

I have several occasions to relax, have fun, things I've already paid for. Baseball game on Friday, taking the boat regardless of what the other attendees think will happen because I do not want to get onto the crowded subway ("Last time I went, it wasn't too bad" "Yeah? It was a day game.") New Deal & Jersey-kids staying over on Saturday. If all of this can't unwind me, I might just spin counter-clockwise for a couple of hours.
Wednesday, May 29, 2002

Apparently, on 34th street between the Avenues of 6/Broadway and Fifth, three manhole covers exploded this morning around 9 am. I did not know this as my subway train crawled from West 4 to 34. I did not know this as I was diverted from underground tunnel to underground tunnel towards the PATH entrance before being allowed to exit to the street. From 32 and Broadway, to 34 between 5 and Madison, next to the Staples, I did not know why there were street closures, crowds of people on the side walk and everyone on their cell phones. I found out on the elevator ride to my office.

Am I stressed out? I have a very low tolerance and working next to the biggest building in the city makes me nervous. I never ever go to work at 9 am (9:15 to 9:45) and today I would have been on time, if the subway didn't crawl and I didn't have to walk around subway exit & street closures. For the first time since the terrorist attacks. I give up.

I've always been pretty scornful/indifferent/loathsome towards the ESB. Then I found out that the original Waldorf-Astoria was torn down in order to build the monstrosity. The W-A moved uptown and they tore down this old beautiful building. There aren't too amny pictures but there's one if you look down this page and trust me, it was a beauty.
Wednesday, May 29, 2002