8.29.2002

Bahahahaha. A dear chum of mine is coming to visit me this fall, and I had to promise her that we would not have a repeat performance of her visit years ago.

We ended up hitting the lower east side lounge scene. And how. Where there were men in flat-front trousers drinking martinis, we were there. C'mon- gimme a break, it was my first year living here. Nonetheless, the bar became mobbed at the obvious 11:30ish hour. Even though she was plopped on the stool next to me, I couldn't see her as there were suddenly at least three other people in between us. I leaned way back to catch a glimpse, and there she was, sipping some sort of highball, giggling incredulously with (at?) some stripey-clad Oasis looking fellow. He was all up in her grill. He kept suggesting that the two of us to go with him and his Italian brother and party down in some penthouse in midtown. ? The best part? His name, he said, was Pino Vagi. Again: Pino Vagi.

In order to extracate ourselves from the pushy pair of Italians, we parted and she gave Pino her number- not thinking he would call as she lived many hours away. Oh, but he did call. He would call, and in thick Italian accent and barely audible & breathy, he would explain that it was "Pino-- Pino Vagi calling" and then shortly thereafter ask her about her underwear. That was the end of Pino. Still lives on in my mind. Brilliant.

8.28.2002

In a flurry of group emails yesterday, Rachael posed a question to the group and got no response. Hours later, she got a reply from someone that was sent only to her but without the history attached. It simply read: I have no idea.

She forwarded it to me and couldn't contain herself, laughing about how silly it is during a busy work day getting random bombs like that dropped on you. Out of the blue. What is this about? What did I write in the first place? Plus, it looks so damn funny there on its own like that, a random declaration. No.

Now I receive cryptic no-history emails from her sporadically-- they just arrive to my inbox with no warning, all by itself: I suppose that would be ok, but it has to be done in the exact right way. Or simply: I think that is a terrible idea.

It gets me every time.

8.27.2002

Nearly every morning I am impressed with how efficient the NY subway system is. I rarely wait more than a few minutes, and wooooosh, there is my train. I step on and within a few more minutes I arrive at a stop right across from my office. Although, I won't mention the day there was a man sleeping on a row of seats right front of me with his pants down. Nekked rear sticking way out towards me. Lets just say gravity had really taken hold, ifyouknowwhatimean. But that is part of the package-- no pun. Everybody gets to ride if they have $1.50.

But not everybody gets to be so bunchy. It amazes me how obnoxious people get once the train doors open. The platform exit I use every morning is one of those medieval-looking turnstyles, you know, full-body length iron rotating doorway that spits people out one at a time. Tardy passengers hoard towards it, coming from all angles. The unspoken rule is that everyone streamlines into two lines, a right and left one, and everyone gets their turn: right, left and so on. Like regular traffic.

However, for the past several morning there is some form of middle-aged lemming who can't BEAR to wait :007 seconds while I slip in, and they squeeze in right in front of me. That breaks all subway code. Its started to infuriate me.

But here is a tip, a little act I like to preform when this happens. So said Lemming pushes his way into my turn, and then pushes ahead on the black bar in front of him, thrusting himself forward. I jump in the slot behind him and yank my black bar back- hard. Hold it there for a second or two, as the entire turnstyle freezes, locking Lemming in. Lemming panicks a second. Not too long to cause a scuffle, but just long enough for him to get detained the same amount of time it would have taken him to let me have my turn. Just enough to agitate and baffle for a second. I mentally beg pardon to those behind me- but it must be done. Try it. Most gratifying.

8.26.2002

I went out to dinner Saturday night with an old pal who recently underwent a devastating breakup, and before I knew it, we were taking the escalator up to the Hudson Bar in the wee hours. Wee. Everything was bright and spartan, and seemed really jacked up. I guess I've kind of been out of the fold for a while, not that I ever was in that fold, but people really still hang out like that? Upstairs, the floor was lit up bright white, the drinks were one scillion dollars and everyone was ka-roozin'. Eyeballs everywhere. Skinny, unhappy looking women. Men with accents. There are so many things I love about Manhattan, but that gig is not one of them. I woke up the next morning feeling like I wasted several hours watching a grade D porno. Or ate like 25 lbs of cotton candy.

8.23.2002

I have successfully worn off the letters a, s, e, l and n on my keyboard. Victorious.
Woooo, Nellie. This girl is gonna blow. Something is building inside me and gaining intensity. And I like it-- I kind of want to see something happen. I am not sure if it is the curly headed devil-woman who I work with, or the endless fire drills at work that only meet with unhappy results and frowny-faces looking down at me. I have had it. Levity has no place here; I seem to have forgotten: conformity is good, power is everything, money is the only thing to be lauded. Oh, and the whole stupid thing- the daily trips to the mailroom, bathroom, kitchen, circles, circles all day. Gack. Crawling around downtown rubbles to get a disCUZting form of "lunch". Pop-up web ads. Status meetings. Fake smiles and overly obvious "innuendo".

I could snap at any second. I want everyone to witness. I want it to be spontaneous and massive, colorful and meteoric. It will be blinding and brilliant. I want to be lucid and clear, and tell the devil-woman to stop talking about stupid-stupid-useless things all day, and ask everyone why, WHY? I will raise my fists in a trembling crescendo of poignant questions and beg for reform. I will exit ceremoniously and leave everyone standing in silence, awed, pondering what had just hit them, knowing their lives had been changed forever.

8.21.2002

I just went into the bathroom here at work and realized my nose was peeling. You know, that was okay when I was a wee one in the seventies, but as a adult? That is just stupid.

I thought of other things I could start doing to go with my over-sunned mug. I could start littering. Toss empty styrofoam cups half full onto the sidewalk, just in front of everyone, and keep walking. I dont think twice about much. I flip the bird often. I'd eat fat-free everything and get hooked on sitcoms.

8.20.2002

Lost and Frowned. Authored by two of the funniest people I know. The slides are phenomenal, as is all of it.. But today, my two personal favorites include the interview with "Brooklyn" Shawnie who actually uses the term a-hole, and the cat webcam. Brilliant!
Ah, kind readers. I am back. Back from a few days in Virginia, the annual family retreat with about 100 of my fiancee's family's closest friends who I'd never met.

In a word: Preppy! The houses are big, white with dark green shutters and amazing screened porches. I got so I would intentionally slam the doors behind me for the optimal whack! whack-whack. That's a great summertime sound. J Crew will never find out about this place from me, as they will assuredly move in for the Fall catalog.

It was as relaxing as possible: 3 square meals a day, leisurely afternoons, hikes, and a mountaintop bonfire watching shooting stars- even with acoustic bluegrass accompaniment! Good livin.

Simultaneously, it was stressful. We got tackled upon arrival and it didnt let up: I felt as if someone should have just been pulling a string from my back like a doll: ...yes, so excited.. well, yes, there is a lot to do... My mouth would be motorized like Baby Alive and move around to match the recording.

It was wierd, I felt relaxed but hyper-charged-- all jarbled up and contradictory-- a nice lady from a skuzzy block in Manhattan. Interesting. I think I like it. Lilly Pulitzer with a PBR in hand. I've actually started dressing the part, I think it suits me.


8.07.2002

I've met most of Scott's family already, but this weekend I meet the rest of the extended family, down at a beautiful mountain retreat in Virginia. It sounds really cool and relaxed. Apparently, everyone has been down there all week and are anticipating our arrival this weekend and meeting me, the new girl.

I keep imagining if I were to show up there completely changed. I love the idea that I would be really agressively into the sporting events. I get really into it, say, a little too much. Red-faced and loud, giving everything my complete all, but I am not very good. I'm that combination of high-strung yet very little skill. I never want games to end, and do a whole lot of enthusiastic encouraging to others, even if they don't care. Susan, lets see you try again. Come on, eye on the ball, eye on the ball, [now whispering] eye on the ball.... [I back up silently, and wink to others]. I spot people frequently, sweeping in like a pro, breathing heavily in peoples ears, totally unaware of how close I am. I smell a little like breakfast and deoderant.

I like to picture everyone meeting me for the first time, as we will get in late on Friday night and no one will probably be awake. Saturday I will get up and head to pool to do a lot of laps. Laps. To and fro. I picture me standing at the edge of the pool as people approach, standing tall and satifyingly surveying the grounds. My back is to them, and flat-footed with legs slightly akimbo, I tower in a sensible pilly baithing suit with a 1/2 wedgie, my hands resting on my hips. My hair is pulled back in a sensible elastic. I take deep breaths and blink a lot into the sunshine. Nostrils slightly flared. I flex my thigh muscles a lot, because I like the way it feels.

If for nothing else, this gives me so much joy, I totally forget all about work, changing jobs, etc. I may just have to do it. I love this character. I can't stop laughing.

8.05.2002

Holy mother, its hot. Wooosh. Everything seems forced and stitled, unless fully air conditioned. Its too hot to do anything.

A baby shower I attended this weekend. On a old fashioned wrap-around porch with big fans blowing, and lots of yummy foods-- it should have been a really nice female-sy event. Instead, it was cruel. The expectant mommy sat, 8 months pregnant, in a decorated white "throne" surrounded by mountains of pastely, foamy boxes. Everyone was so jacked up on mimosas and the baby-mania, that no one seemed to notice that it had been over 1 hour and she still hadn't made a dent in mining though the heaps. We were all sticky and comfortable, but there she was, Sweaty Bullets, having her picture snapped and having to over and over again gush and guffaw over each "onesie" and hot, fuzzy "bankie" that she opened. At one point, I looked up at her and her face was beat red, and she was given an ice cold washcloth to put around her neck. Like it was some sort of sporting event? Stee-range. I kept opting for a "break" but no one would listen to me. I was the "secretary".

Yes, somehow I was crowned the shower secretary. Apparently this entailed writing down who gave what in a nice list for the mommy-to-be to have. Sounding simple enough, I accepted the honor, a pad and paper were thrust into my lap. But this proved super tricky, considering I knew about five people there - Who is this from? Huh? Who? when they were all sitting withing 3 feet of me. Moreover, I am certainly unfamiliar to any baby-nomenclature. In the end, the pitiful list I passed over read something like: "Stacy Vernon: pink fuzzy hoody pajama blanket item with chickens on it", "Ann Ford: ear apparatus looks like turkey baster". Painful. I sat there in my sticky sundress, taking notes in Swahili.

A pool party. Scott stole me away from babyzville after all was opened & over, and we drove down windy roads to an all-day gig out in the country. It was muggy, boy. We pulled up and saw all the cars, heard the splashings in the pool, the clink of the horsehoes, and music. All the makings of what should have been a fun afternoon. I was excited to have some fun of my own after my 3 hour stint as Secretary. But the heat, man, the heat! We all sort of stood there, hazy and frizzy and getting gobbled by skeeterz. No one could hold conversation. It was too hot. The host himself wasn't talking. Scott and I did manage to have our own fun, though, we sauntered through the old farmhouse to discover that apparently these people breed Greyhounds and also Bonsai Trees. Tons of them, the dogs and the bonsais.

Like a post I wrote last March: Uncle, I say. Enough.