Bush admin gets its way! A lot!
[Necessary (I swear) background story]:
My friend Monk and I share a pet peeve mentioned often in each other's comments we call "You should DO that." What it refers to is the oft-received suggestion that you parlay any random hobby, diversion, or activity at which you excel or which brings you pleasure into a career. Doesn't matter what. You make a lovely and delicious cake for a party, clearly you should DO THAT and be a pastry chef. You knit a mean scarf, you should open a scarf store. You write a bedtime story for your niece, get Harper Collins on the phone! Although the suggestion generally comes from a good place, an appreciation for your efforts and talents, 'You should do that' illuminates the dark soul of capitalism, where one's endeavors--no matter how personally satisfying--have no merit or worth whatsoever unless they're generating income. Not to mention the ignorance of the world of business on the part of the one who suggests it. It's all you can do to not have a snotty retort...Sure, yeah, I'll just quit my job and make rubber stamp collages. Because we all know how easy it is to make make it big in the rubber stamp collage world. You just have to get over to Lew Lord's office and have him write you up the standard "Rich and Famous" contract, right? I'll make an appointment with him tomorrow...
I remember watching an interview years ago--on Letterman, I think?--with Amos of the Famous Amos cookies. Back in the day he was just a guy who liked to bake cookies; for his friends, family, neighbors. They were good cookies too. So good someone suggested he should do that and sell them at local stores. So he did. You know the rest...factories all over the country, a whole cookie empire. The interviewer (again, Letterman?) asked Amos if he ever baked cookies for fun at times, at home. He answered not only had he given up baking, he didn't even EAT cookies anymore. He didn't care if he ever saw another cookie again. He added that he was glad that his cookies had made him a good living, had provided for his and his family's future, but if he could go back in time he would have made his fortune another way. Once his hobby became his living it was ruined. He said he missed the days of a single, hand-made batch coming out of a standard kitchen oven...gobbled up all at once over a gallon of milk.
It was the saddest thing I'd ever heard. Not to mention a real downer of an interview. "There you have it! Famous Amos! A man who hates his life! Stay tuned for Merilu Henner...after the break!"
[end of necessary background story]
That said. Thank you Sarah47@(expurgated).com for asking why don't I host my own home improvement show.
While listening to the howls, the caterwauls, the ear-splitting, soul retching wails of a tot in a stroller, it became clear from the head-shaking and raised eyebrows exchanged between the onlookers that no one was thinking, "Looks like someone is overdue for a nap," or "Poor thing's miserable with this nasty cold going around I bet," or "Little bugger was just told 'no' when they wanted something." Of course not. We were thinking what every person thinks when they see a stranger's child screaming its head off...whomever is pushing the stroller is an unfit parent who smacks the kid around.
At my work we share one ladies room with all the other businesses on our floor. The ladies room is unremarkable--your basic two-stalls and sink--and functional, except for the totally screwy door layout. The entry door opens into the room, and the stall doors open outward, thus, so if the stall doors are left open (or swing open on their own, which they do if they haven't been shut properly) you have to solve an infuriating spatial reasoning puzzle in order to gain access to the room and/or the sink. Everyone makes sure the stall doors are secured during and after use of the bathroom to avoid that nuisance. All of us except the Crazy Bathroom Lady, henceforth CBL, who has an agenda.
She always takes possession of that first stall, purposely leaves the stall door wide open so no one can enter, and if you try sings some variation of "Okay! I use bathroom now!" in the accent and tone of a stern Ukrainian grandmother pointedly suggesting you mind your manners. And no matter how many times I (and the other dozen or so women on our floor) have mentioned to her that it's a facility designed to accommodate two people--hence the TWO stalls--and is the only toilet on the whole floor, and that no one is issued keys to the bathrooms on the other floors so, you know, it's not like we have options when she commandeers the place, not to mention it's the only access to water (for coffee making, washing cups, etc.) for the tenants who don't have sinks, she pays no attention. You have to go through the same dance with her each time. You say something like, "Could you please close your door? I can't get in." She answers, "Yes, *I* use bathroom.You wait, okay, now lock the door." while pushing the stall door wide open to keep you out. Many of us do just that if our situation isn't too grave, we wait; mostly because the dance is tiresome, and you can't help but think there must be something behind her supra-crazitude; maybe the poor dear has serious claustrophobia; maybe there's no such thing as public toilets in the Ukraine. I sincerely doubt that's true but I've never been there, so what do I know. Anyway, sometimes the crazy old broad gets her way because you don't have the energy to deal with her.
However one occasionally rushes to the loo under more dire circumstances and is unable to wait, making it necessary to force your way in. We have each developed our own preferred methods. The model/actors across the hall are partial to the swift door kick, as evidenced by the dings left in the wood by their fashionable pointy-toed shoes. The ladies of advertising tend to use a hip/buttock battering ram maneuver. I'm a bit gentler, I push on the door with my hands until I create enough space for me to wedge my body inside, and then slither between the doors to the wall until I'm able to move onward to the empty, unused stall beyond. The presence of another human being generates the same level of indignation each time, like no one has ever dared challenge her commands, "I TELL YOU, SOME-one is USE-ing the BATH-room!" Her reprovals continue the whole time your in the other stall, even long after you've washed your hands and disappeared. I hear (since CBL is the subject of many cigarette break/elevator conversations) that I am not alone in being completely baffled by her behavior. It goes way beyond a simple WTF?. Her persistence in the face of fifteen years of failure--how long she's worked next door and has been jousting this particular windmill--would be inspiring if it wasn't so absolutely bananas.
Three cups of tea, a crowded train ride, someone's bag pushed into my belly the whole way, and the short walk in the freezing cold sent me running to the ladies room first thing this morning, in urgent need. Sadly CBL was in the whizzouse characteristically bent on making life miserable. She jammed the stall door against the entry door before I even put my key into the lock. I had to do the pushing/slithering maneuver to get inside, not easy with a bladder three times its normal size. CBL chirped out the usual "Hello! *I* use the bathroom!" from behind the door. I continued slithering, she prattled on about locking the door, and that I should wait, blah, blah.; except this time--I discovered when fully in the room--she wasn't even using the toilet. She was standing at the sink...putting on make-up. I was furious! How many times, I wondered, had I and others stood in the hall, hopping from foot to foot, waiting, magnanimously, so that she may have her precious privacy, and she was using her solitude to apply lipstick?! I leapt into the first stall afraid if I were to stand near her a second longer I would unleash a monster several years in the making all up in her freshly powdered nose--AND pee my pants. As soon as I shut the door she barked, "No, no, no, NO! You wait. *I* was about to use. *I* use. You wait!"
THE! FUCKING! NERVE! OF! THIS! WOMAN! I didn't know if she meant she was about to use the bathroom and I should leave, or that I should vacate 'her' stall; she wouldn't find either request unreasonable. My answer came seconds later via a tap on the stall's door. "No, no! You wait! I was going to use. You wait!" It was the latter, she wanted her stall. Didn't matter, she wasn't going to get her wish. But then I looked down and spied a four inch water bug, thus, had crawled up the side of the john and taken residence on the toilet seat. It took every bit of strength I had, but I didn't make a sound. Nope. Instead I silently exited her treasured stall and left the bathroom completely.
It was a full three minutes of eye watering pain before I was finally able to get back into the bathroom and relieve myself. But it was worth it to hear the screams. To witness the terror, the skirt-at-the-ankles fleeing.
Due to what I will call a scheduling error, we have both moms in town. G's and mine. Both. In our tiny little apartment. Until Wednesday.
Not really much else to say, is there?
The buzzer in our apartment doesn't work. The intercom does, you can hear and talk to whomever is at the door, but you can't remotely unlock it. Yet nearly every time I order food, or UPS arrives, or there's a repair person or the exterminator; I hit the buzzer. And it's not like it broke recently and all my button pressing is simply an old habit dying hard. No. It never worked. In fact I've never lived anywhere with an operational buzzer. I had the key on the string in the LES. A sliced-open tennis ball to toss down to street level from my sixth-floor walk-up in the East Village. The tenants had a nod-wink agreement to leave the door open when I lived in the tenement beneath the Twin Towers. Our last apartment didn't even have a front door half the time. But when my doorbell rings and I walk over to the intercom box it's like I'm seeing it, and realizing its potential, for the very first time--each time. Hey! Look! This button says "door"! It's the button you press to open the front door! Neat! I shall depress that button and allow my visitor to enter! Worse, I'm always shocked when the doorbell rings again a few moments later; my visitor reminding me the buzzer doesn't work. Again.
I love the size and color and texture of a bunch of bananas. Their perfect yellow, their hand-like shape reaching out to you with healthy mineral, vitamin and natural anti-depressant goodness. And although I enjoy banana flavor (in bread or cake or ice cream or candy) I don't like eating bananas. Can't stand them. Firm or ripe, whatever temperature or state of being. I peel open a banana and take a bite, and my gag reflex goes off instantly. I can't remember the last time I've taken a second bite of a banana. Now...a quiz:
1. How often do I buy bananas?
(a) only when I will be using them for baking
(b) only when I'm entertaining banana loving guests
(c) each and every time I grocery shop
2. How often do I throw out an untouched bunch of rotted bananas?
(a) once a year
(b) once a month
(c) six days after each and every time I grocery shop
We have a hook on the back of our bedroom door, which is in a corner of the room. From the hook hangs G's robe, my robe, and an ancient hoody I wear when I'm painting. We have lived here two years. The hook (and the clothes which hang from it) have been there since day one. To say, I know the hook is there. I am consciously aware of the fact that there are clothes hanging there, I use it everyday. However at least once a week I wake in the night and see a man standing in the corner of our bedroom (Goddamn Blair Witch for etching that fucking image in my head). I freeze in the dark, unable to move or scream. After a few, panicked, terrified seconds my brain tells me "It's just the robes. On the hook. Don't be silly. The dog is right here. No one could get into the apartment without the dog flipping out. It's just the robes. Like last time, remember?" And I relax for a second. Just one second. Because on second two my brain adds, "But...you'd better check. In case. What if it isn't the robes this time? What if something IS there? Something that dogs can't smell or hear...what if it wants you to think its the robes so you'll roll over and go back to sleep..." So I grab the four-foot metal level next to the bed [I know, I know...why is there a level next to my bed? So I can stay level headed! So I can level a deathly blow! Nah, I kid. Beats me. There's a guitar within reach too, and a paper shredder. I have no idea why those things were deemed 'bedside necessities' either] and raise it over my head, and click on the light ready for action. It's always just the clothes. But I go over and take a whack at them anyway. Might as well. What else have I got to do wide awake at four in the morning? G sleeps through everything.
I should own toilet paper with the words "beets," "Pepto-Bismol," "iron pills," "grape juice," "blueberries," printed on it. So on those mornings I use the toilet and have its contents convince me I'm bleeding internally, I'd have a list to consider before calling 911. A handy review sheet, if you will. My doctor and the local authorities would appreciate that.
I hate everything right now. Everyone. Not you, of course. The larger anonymous everyone. Commanders in chief. Molesters. Monsters of every stripe.
I really, really love my man and my dog though. To distraction.
Speaking of distraction, another of the great mysteries of the universe has been solved I see. Deathmatch: Cat 'O Nine Tails vs. Dildo. If you've ever wondered which would be the victor, wonder no more. And get a life. No, seriously. You have too much time on your hands.
I know of what I speak.
I live in a city where friendliness, or basic social etiquette perceived to be friendliness, can actually get you into trouble. Sometimes scary serious trouble. For example, a few days ago a man turned on his heels and followed (chased, I should say) me through an empty parking garage...because I answered him. He said "Hey, how's it going?" as he passed, without thinking I answered "Going fine thanks, and you?" having forgotten that around these parts there's no such thing as a simple exchange of pleasantries with a stranger. Since people go to great lengths to avoid eye contact it slipped my mind that one should assume a display of human kindness is part of an angle; and that reciprocation is an act of complicity. Which is why innocent, necessary talk with anyone you don't know--saying "excuse me", or "is this the line for tickets?" or "hey, you dropped your..."--is greeted with suspicion. And why anything beyond that--a cheerful smile and a "going fine, and you"--is tantamount to an invitation for a quick fuck in a parking lot.
But I can't seem to shut it off. It's ingrained. Where I grew up (in the Philadelphia area) you speak when you are spoken to. It's an unwritten law. You speak even if you meet someone's gaze in passing, you say something. No five hour conversation, just an acknowledgment the other person exists; a hey or whazzup, a full 'how are you today?' if it's an elder, a grunt of 'yo' for a peer. A nod will do. It's a show of respect--here we are, in this place, two people spinning around on the same earth, and I see you, I recognize you're there--and because it's about respect it's the ultimate in disrespect to ignore anyone. By not acknowledging another human being you are in essence saying they don't matter. They're not worth your breath. NOT speaking is what will get you harassed where I come from. Get you followed all the way to your front door. And they won't leave until you apologize for being an uppity too-good-to-say-hello bitch. It's pretty serious conditioning, and why I have such great difficulty switching gears.
So much so that even though I haven't lived in that part of the world in sixteen years I still reflexively say hello to passersby. Or nod at a person if I catch their eye, on the train for instance. And almost always, no matter who--young, old, hip, not, all races, all economic levels--they give me the same look. It says, 'Okay crazy lady, what's your deal? What do you want?' And then I am ignored, or as in the case of my parking lot man, hunted. It's made me enemies with a few old men in my neighborhood. One in particular gives me the most disturbing evil eye ever since that fateful day I (dared? had the audacity? was so rude to?) bid him a completely unsolicited "Good Morning."
After the parking garage experience (which, luckily, I emerged from unharmed due to the timely appearance of another person, a witness) I agreed it's high time I rewire my brain. Learn how to ignore people. Turn off the impulse to answer a greeting, or initiate one. I've been practicing, a little. I've tried to tap into what people find so endlessly fascinating about the tips of their shoes. I wear headphones that are attached to nothing so I can pretend I'm lost in a musical netherworld but am still be able to hear an emergency vehicle barreling through the crosswalk. I've upped my one yard stare to the standard hundred. I scowl, despite the long, large furrow it's permanently etched in my brow.
Why before you know it I'll be in like Portland or something, on vacation, visiting friends, and someone, a stranger in the street will say "Hey, how's it going?" and I'll just ignore them, or tell them to fuck off, and they'll turn to whomever their walking with and say, "...must be from New York."
That'll be a proud day.
Ever laugh at a blonde joke? Me neither. Until now.
There is a store in our hoody that is a gold mine for the two-for-one (or buy two, get one free) cigarette deals. Each and every time we go in...our brand, right there, half the price. Being a smoker in a land where cigarettes cost between six and eight dollars a pack (I've paid up to nine in the touristy neighborhoods *ahhem* Times Square *ahhem*) finding such a resource is not just a lucky break, it's a monetary necessity. A secret to be heavily guarded. The location of which never to be disclosed.
The owners of the the store are a remarkably friendly older couple. I love them both. Always kind, always happy to see you, always ready to share a recipe or chat about a local or world event--always coming through with the sweet, sweet deals on my drug of choice. They even mysteriously 'find' more two-fers of my brand when none are visible in the promotional display case.
Until yesterday. Yesterday the case was empty. "None?" I asked the husband, and glanced downward to the spot behind the counter from which the secret stash usually appears. He shook his head, negative. I looked back to the empty display case again. It occurred to me I had never seen one completely empty, at any store. There are always, ALWAYS a few passed-over packs of like, More Menthol 120's laying around. Not that I'd buy them if there were. Okay, who am I kidding. Let me go long enough without a cigarette and I'd smoke butts out of the ashcan in front of the neighborhood TB clinic. But that's not the point. The point is that people who willingly smoke More Menthol 120's are like baby squirrels: you know they exist, but you've never actually seen one.
"Yes, we sold out," he turned to his wife and spoke in Italian, she answered, he translated, "no more till next week." I reluctantly put down my cash for a single pack, my friend behind the counter noted my disappointment and apologized, "Sorry." he said, then added, "It's like all of a sudden, the people come, soon as we put them out they disappear."
Aha! All of a sudden. The deals just disappear. This can only mean that one of my neighborhood fellow-smokers--who also knew of and frequented my local cornucopia of deathly delights--spilled the beans to someone. Who then told someone. Goddammit! Probably one of those part-time smokers I bet. Who have absolutely no need for or understanding of the good fortune they'd stumbled upon. They just wandered into the coffee shop a few doors down and casually announced to a table full of writer/poet/actor/painters...hey, that tiny little bodega next door has got like a ga-jillion Camels buy one get one free. I can almost see the stampede, which alerted the geezers at the OTB and the housewives passing by. A few of whom smoke More Menthol 120's, I'll wager.
You have ruined my life, sir or madam squeals-a-lot, and I will find you. I will find you and you will pay. Seven dollars a day until I quit smoking.
The holiday spirit evaporates from my being in the same manner in which it inhabits it: all of a sudden, and with great force. At bedtime last night the tree was a glowing friend, the decorations throughout the house were a joy to behold. This morning the first thing out of my mouth was "fucking needles, everywhere" and I nearly tossed one of the three Magi in the garbage for having the audacity to take up so much ROOM on the coffee table. That and for being the one who brought the Christ-child myrrh. I know there was a totally different economy and value of goods three thousand years ago, but according to the legend the kid was laying there naked and starving in a manger. Some sap resin was a nice gesture and all, but ever hear of a blanket Magi-man?
Thus was my mood.
So the tree et al has got to go. My intention--having decided to make more of an effort on the Green front in the new year--was to wait until Saturday and take it to a Mulchfest location. However come to find the sanitation department will do the same thing this week. They'll pick up your tree, and mulch it for use it in city parks--all without having to lug the thing two miles. You just have to leave it at your stoop.
So I get to be green AND cranky AND lazy AND get the thing out of my house today. Sometimes life...she is good.