A phone call to my Dad’s house:
My grandmother: Hello?
Me: Hi Nonny! Whatcha doing?
My grandmother: I’m about to go cook steak on the George Forman Grill.
Me: Are you allowed to do that? Where’s Dad?
My grandmother: Asleep. I’ll go get him.
(goes and gets him)
Dad: Hello?
Me: Yo, you realize she’s about to use the grill?
Dad: No, I didn’t. Ma, don’t use the grill.
Me: Nice save.
Dad: Right…who is this?
Really? REALLY?
I have some happy thoughts and some morbid thoughts. Let’s start with the morbid.
I found a blog, 90dayjane.com (which I think has actually been taken down), about a girl documenting the last 90 days of her life before she kills herself. I don’t know if this is real, a cry for help, begging for attention or some sick movie promo. But I do know this site is obviously getting way more hits and comments than mine.
Do I have to be morbid to be interesting? Should I have a countdown to my inevitable starvation and poverty? Because that I can do.
Happy thought: I found a really really gorgeous house in the New York Times. Here is the link to the article:
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/02/13/greathomesanddestinations/13gh-france.html?hp
It makes me happy just to read it. Look at all the yummy oranges on the trees!
And lastly, is it better to have warm white wine, or no white wine at all?
“I sold the memoirs of my sex life to a publisher – they are going to make a board game out of it.” –Woody Allen
To anyone who thinks they are in like, in love, or in a relationship they think can go the distance, I challenge you to live for any prolonged period of time in a 9 x 19 ft Manhattan studio (somewhere someone living in a spacious farmhouse or sprawling ranch is reading this while their brain implodes trying to imagine such nonsense).
Technically I don’t live here at all. I have my own place several subway stops away, write my own rent checks and own my own furniture. But I don’t live there. I choose to live at The Boyfriend’s miniscule studio, you know, to test the limits of human interaction in an apartment (I use the term loosely) that equates its two residents to a tall person’s two legs in an economy airline seat during the 6-hour flight from New York to LA. It’s hard to understand exactly how the pair can cram into that tiny space, but by some feat of science, it somehow just works.
Yet I’ve become oddly accustomed to living in such a tight space; it’s like camping, or living in a dorm room with really nice stuff and a big screen TV. And with only a few weeks left before The Boyfriend moves out, I’m almost sad to see this little sardine can go.
Over the past few weeks we’ve been indulging in board games. We set up a table in the “living room” side of the studio, listen to music, drink and indulge in healthy competition. I like to think my trash talking is superior, but I think he might disagree. Of course, he likes to tell people my name is “Lady of Back-scratching and Beer-fetching” while I might tend to think otherwise. So as you can see our relationship involves healthy debate.
And I’d like to get into more detail, but I have to go strategize as to how to manipulate him into selling me Baltic Avenue.
Today New York City forcibly beat the shit out of me with its cold, hard fists. Any New Yorker can tell you that once in a while, well, the city just does that. Just when you finally get a day off, your ambition takes over and you think, “Today is errand day! I’m going to hit the bank, Duane Reade, the cleaners, the gym!” And then the city throws a gold-toothed smirk your way and reminds you, “No, insignificant slob, today is blizzard day,” and before you know it your running shoes are frozen to the dirty ground and people plow into you as they zip through the storm.
It wasn’t NYC’s Blizzard Fist that ritualistically beat me today, it was its arguably kinder sibling, the Spitting Rain Fist. I left The Boyfriend’s apartment today with only a blazer on because I heard it was going to be unseasonably warm today. Correct. But as I stepped out the front door of the building and noticed the drizzle I was confronted with an all too familiar debate: to return to the apartment, wait for the insufferable elevator and grab one of the 6 million cheap drug store umbrellas I’ve acquired, go to the drug store and buy another umbrella, bringing the grand total to 6 million and one, or get drizzled on for my entire 15 minute walk. I recently solemnly swore I would not purchase another umbrella until my stock has dwindled to less than three, so purchasing another one was out. I chose to walk. To get spit on for 15 minutes while smarter city folks eased by with their umbrellas. Blow number one.
At work we now have meetings about The End, about what will happen to us when the Mother Ship that is my job ceases to exist. They verbally notified all us disposable employees of our termination. They mailed us personally addressed termination notices, and just in case we didn’t get it they hand delivered termination notices to us individually. Like, “Hey, in case you didn’t notice, you’re dumped. HA!” I didn’t really know what to with this supreme waste of trees, so I left it on my desk all day until 3:30pm, aka Rice Krispie Treat time, rolled around. And then I noticed the genius secret purpose of the termination notice: I can put my Rice Krispie Treat down while I type while simultaneously protecting it from the sticky surface of my desk. It doubles as a Rice Krispie Treat holder. Ah, the meaning of life: a series of hidden meanings in seemingly meaningless objects. Ah. Ah.
On the way home the city committed numerous other violations including continuing to spit on me (My fault for forgetting my office umbrella at the office? Well, then it wouldn’t be an office umbrella, now would it?). Other New Yorkers buzzed by me at the speed of thought, the commonly accepted speed limit for pedestrians in New York (others are to be shot, or at least bumped into or shoved if not run over entirely). But the most horrible, unforgivable violation Manhattan committed against me today was to deny me…. COOKIES ‘N’ CREAM ICE CREAM! This flavor, commonly found in freezers around the god damn country was absent from not only the grocery store, but two delis after it. Each location stocked with a handful of brands and dozens of flavors. But no creamy delicious cookies ‘n’ cream.
NEW YORK, SOME DAYS I JUST DON’T GET YOU. Now please apologize so we can have make-up sex and get on with our lives. Thank you.
After getting off the phone with me to go eat lunch, The Boyfriend, King of One-Liners, texts me with this:
“Bet you’re jealous of my pickle.”
Why yes, yes I am.
“If at first you don’t succeed, try again. Then quit. No use being a damn fool about it.” –W. C. Fields
I shall hereby refer to today as Quitting Day.
The reasons for this are threefold. I should have known today was quitting day when one of my worst recurring nightmares (of which there are many) almost came true on the way to work. I was walking near the west side of Manhattan and suddenly a gust of wind so powerful it was causing street signs on metal posts to sway back and forth literally almost blew me away. As in almost knocked me off my feet, most likely to be swept up in some sort of whirlwind of New York trash of discarded coffee cups, sewer grime and flyers for free stuff no one wants. I continued the few more blocks to my office with my face looking like I was soaring down the peak of a rollercoaster. Right then, I should have taken a good look around and though “Ah, quitting day. Right,” and gone back home to bed where I belong on such an occasion. No such wisdom came to me.
Reason #1 that today is Quitting Day: I walked past the stack of newspapers among the sea of cubicles in my office and noticed the headline “The Fat Lady’s Singin’!” in reference Giuliani most likely dropping out of the GOP presidential race. I pondered the absurdity of The Daily News’ titles as I made my morning tea and then went to my cubicle. So a big “Thank You!” to Rudy for kicking off Quitting Day.
Reason #2 that today is Quitting Day: Baby-faced John Edwards “stepped aside,” as he put it and bowed out of the race for the Democratic nomination. I was pretty mesmerized by the TV watching Edwards make his speech while his supporters continued to cheer him on throughout. And while I won’t go so far as to call Edwards a quitter (I think he will remain dedicated to the war on poverty) he did partake in quitting day.
Reason #3 that today is Quitting Day: There is little in life I would enjoy more thoroughly than to say today is Quitting Day because I told my boss to take my low-paying, errand-running, gopher job and shove it. I want to say I stood up on my desk in the middle of my department, tossed office supplies in the air, ripped off my blazer and danced topless in celebration. Sadly I did not quit my job today, could not possibly have quit my job today, because today, my job quit me.
And I don’t mean to imply that I got fired. I am actually an exceptionally talented gopher/jamba juice-fetcher/printer paper-changer/crap-organizer. I mean my job, along with everyone else’s who works with me, will cease to exist in probably two months. I would go into more detail, but the internet scares me, and I’m trying to stick with professionalism and avoid legal stickiness that I’ve seen invade other bloggers’ lives. The important part is that my job announced it is quitting me in a few short months before walking out, slamming the door in my face and sticking its tongue out at me.
So I’m going to have to either A) find new TV job in the near to distant future, B) start figuring out creative ways to make money, like being hired at fetish parties to let people paint/lick/smell/rub my toes or worse, being one of those people in the subway who paint themselves and stay still for 6 hours at a time for quarters, or C) obtain a mutt for protection before joining a community of homeless youth that live under a bridge and eat squirrel for sustenance.
Today I hope for option A. Tomorrow, who knows.
“It is impossible to enjoy idling thoroughly unless one has plenty of work to do.” –Jerome K. Jerome
I would categorize myself as a person who enjoys laziness, perhaps more than any one person should. I find immense pleasure in spending a Saturday morning curled up on the couch watching Girls Next Door or 90210 marathons on TV. In order to correctly enjoy a Saturday such as this, delivery food should be ordered and minimal effort should be made when paying for your delicious meal. Showers should not be taken. Phones should not be answered. Cleaning will certainly not take place. Changing the channel and feeding oneself are the only allowable exertions of energy. Anyone who attempts to engage in any real activity in the Room of Lazy will be stopped in the manner requiring the least amount of energy.
Sadly for me, my Saturday mornings consist of me sleeping in one whole extra hour (!) more than weekdays, waking up to my ear-piercing cell phone alarm (note to self: buy proper alarm clock), showering against my will, putting clothes on against my will, packing a bag against my will and most unwillingly of all, I go to the soul-sucking Pit of Despair, more commonly referred to as my weekend place of employment where I bring people heaping piles of food and they give me disproportionate amounts of money.
This past Saturday was particularly wretched due to my brain-squeezing, stomach churning hangover. I arrived in the locker room at the soul-sucking Pit of Despair, put on my all-black uniform a la Johnny Cash and resisted the urge to slam my head into the lockers just to make it. Stop. Hurting. I consider myself the champion of self-discipline for having dragged my hung over self out of bed and walked my lazy ass all the way to the Pit of Despair.
Events of the previous night include consuming many alcoholic beverages in my shoebox apartment, each one making the idea of going to a real live bar after all the more appealing. One drink at the bar miraculously warped into many, many drinks out. More drinks than I had intended to have, and certainly more drinks than I had intended to throw up all over The Boyfriend’s bathroom floor. Don’t worry though—being the kindhearted girlfriend I am I cleaned in thoroughly, on Sunday morning.
If all of this soul sucking and food slinging has taught me anything though, it’s the value of a good, hard long day’s laziness spent on my couch. And I think I speak for many people my age when I say that I miss college, when my obligations were optional and their weight constantly hanging over my head only made sitting on my ass all the sweeter.
“I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive.” –Henry Miller
I’m wondering if living paycheck-to-paycheck, happy to find enough money to support my drinking and eating habits is actually the happiest way on earth to live. Not everyone can rejoice at the $10 bill they found in the pocket their jeans from last week, right? And having enough to cover my happy hour tab and leave a nice tip? That’s cause for celebration! Small victories, people, small victories.
I’ve gotten in this horrible habit of coming home form work, eating an enormous meal while watching some familiar programming on tv, leaning over ever so subtly and then passing the f out. I’d say this lasts from about 8pm until 10:30. Which means, of course, I wake up refreshed and ready to take on the day about the time normal people retire for the night. And thus the late night blogging! I’ve been a blog admirer for a few years now, so I thought it might be time to make my own.
Also I’m probably the biggest procrastinator on earth. Which means that although this is probably not the best first post in the world, it’s a start, right? Ending on a positive note.