Sea Lions are taking over.
9.15.2005
9.11.2005
Jill was suspicious when I said I was fine with returning to Fire Island.
"Just go ahead and book it," I chirped.
"Ummmmmmm." Jill sat back and stared way to the left, bugging her eyes and grimacing. I giggled.
"Look! I can't stop going there. It's my favorite place on Earth. If I started avoided places with memories of Ben, then I couldn't go to Union Square, where we met. The entire Upper West Side would be out of bounds. I'd never be able to leave my house."
"Okaay" -- she leaned in -- but we're not going to have Miss Morticia. NO MISS MORTICIA on this trip."
I took this to mean: Limit snuffling jags to 1 minute or under; no calling names into the air (i.e. That Dead Bastard!) and shaking fist; no openly reminiscing about sexual encounters.
Jill had had infinite patience thus far. She was being honest in telling me it's time to cut back. But that didn't mean leaving Fire Island behind forever.
I am trying to look at life like an athlete. Sometimes a bone must be rebroken and reset in order to heal properly, and so it is with the heart.
Our first night we went to Maguire's, a bar on the bay, for a drink. It was twilight and they were playing Jimmy Buffett-style music. The place was almost empty except for 2 older women across from us. Jill ordered a beer and I ordered red wine. A waiter sailed past us to the next table and set down a beautifully irridescent green martini offset by 2 bright red cherries. Jill started to discreetly photograph it.
She wanted to get closer. She approached the women and asked if she could take a close-up.
"Certainly," one said, "but could you take our picture, too?"
They turned to the camera and smiled -- one with coquettish precision, one with a hint of shyness.
"What is that drink?" Jill asked.
"A red-and-green martini. Can you believe this waiter had never heard of a red-and-green martini!"
They started asking questions. Who were we? What were we doing here? If only I knew the answer to that.
Jill and the ladies chatted away in the twilight. I moseyed over to the table and stood there, swirling my wine in the glass.
The ladies -- Joann and Evonda -- invited us to join them. "Can you believe," Joann said of Evonda, "this woman is almost 80? And she rode her bike up and down the island today." Evonda flashed a chipmunk smile. She lived in Berkeley.
"What do you do in Berkeley?" Jill asked.
"As litttle as possible!"
Joann had spent almost thirty summers on Fire Island. "I was an activist here," she said.
"What was your cause?" I asked.
"Oh, you name it, I was against it," she said.
The stars came out. Evonda referred to her husbands as number 1, number 2, number 3. Joann had lost both her husband and her son. She had not been able to return to Fire Island since her son died ten years ago. She sold her house. This was her first weekend back to visit.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry." I was sloshy on wine.
"Thank you, dear."
Jill was coming back from the bathroom as I was telling them about Ben. Oops. Morticia strikes.
"Oh! Darling. I'm sorry," Joann said.
"'Sssokay, you know? And I wasn't sure about coming back here."
"But you came back."
Joann spontaneously shared with us her man-finding strategies from when she was thirty. She went places where men went that, at the time, women didn't go: golfing, skiing, to the races. She ended up marrying someone she worked with. Jill and I still are not sure what to make of this advice.
Finally we scooted off -- Joann and Evonda to get a a lobster dinner, Jill and I to crawl under our blankies and watch TV. The women called for us the next day at our b&b, but we missed them. I ran into them on the main drag -- Evonda on her bike, Joann riding in a golf cart due to her mending broken hip.
"Your hair looks nice up," Joann said. "You should always wear it like that."
I miss them already.
"Just go ahead and book it," I chirped.
"Ummmmmmm." Jill sat back and stared way to the left, bugging her eyes and grimacing. I giggled.
"Look! I can't stop going there. It's my favorite place on Earth. If I started avoided places with memories of Ben, then I couldn't go to Union Square, where we met. The entire Upper West Side would be out of bounds. I'd never be able to leave my house."
"Okaay" -- she leaned in -- but we're not going to have Miss Morticia. NO MISS MORTICIA on this trip."
I took this to mean: Limit snuffling jags to 1 minute or under; no calling names into the air (i.e. That Dead Bastard!) and shaking fist; no openly reminiscing about sexual encounters.
Jill had had infinite patience thus far. She was being honest in telling me it's time to cut back. But that didn't mean leaving Fire Island behind forever.
I am trying to look at life like an athlete. Sometimes a bone must be rebroken and reset in order to heal properly, and so it is with the heart.
Our first night we went to Maguire's, a bar on the bay, for a drink. It was twilight and they were playing Jimmy Buffett-style music. The place was almost empty except for 2 older women across from us. Jill ordered a beer and I ordered red wine. A waiter sailed past us to the next table and set down a beautifully irridescent green martini offset by 2 bright red cherries. Jill started to discreetly photograph it.
She wanted to get closer. She approached the women and asked if she could take a close-up.
"Certainly," one said, "but could you take our picture, too?"
They turned to the camera and smiled -- one with coquettish precision, one with a hint of shyness.
"What is that drink?" Jill asked.
"A red-and-green martini. Can you believe this waiter had never heard of a red-and-green martini!"
They started asking questions. Who were we? What were we doing here? If only I knew the answer to that.
Jill and the ladies chatted away in the twilight. I moseyed over to the table and stood there, swirling my wine in the glass.
The ladies -- Joann and Evonda -- invited us to join them. "Can you believe," Joann said of Evonda, "this woman is almost 80? And she rode her bike up and down the island today." Evonda flashed a chipmunk smile. She lived in Berkeley.
"What do you do in Berkeley?" Jill asked.
"As litttle as possible!"
Joann had spent almost thirty summers on Fire Island. "I was an activist here," she said.
"What was your cause?" I asked.
"Oh, you name it, I was against it," she said.
The stars came out. Evonda referred to her husbands as number 1, number 2, number 3. Joann had lost both her husband and her son. She had not been able to return to Fire Island since her son died ten years ago. She sold her house. This was her first weekend back to visit.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry." I was sloshy on wine.
"Thank you, dear."
Jill was coming back from the bathroom as I was telling them about Ben. Oops. Morticia strikes.
"Oh! Darling. I'm sorry," Joann said.
"'Sssokay, you know? And I wasn't sure about coming back here."
"But you came back."
Joann spontaneously shared with us her man-finding strategies from when she was thirty. She went places where men went that, at the time, women didn't go: golfing, skiing, to the races. She ended up marrying someone she worked with. Jill and I still are not sure what to make of this advice.
Finally we scooted off -- Joann and Evonda to get a a lobster dinner, Jill and I to crawl under our blankies and watch TV. The women called for us the next day at our b&b, but we missed them. I ran into them on the main drag -- Evonda on her bike, Joann riding in a golf cart due to her mending broken hip.
"Your hair looks nice up," Joann said. "You should always wear it like that."
I miss them already.
9.01.2005
Eulogy II
THREE SCENES WITH ROXY
by Erica Smith
One
I opened the door and found Roxy and Saro right on the other side, sticking their snoots in the widening door crack. I had to step carefully over them and try not to drop the mail or let the door slam.
Saro turned around, ran ahead of me, turned to face me, and screamed.
"Eeeow! EEEEEOW!"
Rox hustled to the food bowl, talking care to give a wide berth to Saro.
The food bowl was always seriously overflowing but Rox would pause, waiting for a refresher. I shook a few kibble on top of the pile. Rox crunched a little. She looked up at me, purring and crunching.
Two
I was sitting on the couch reading. Rox approached me. She often studied a situation for a long time in order to figure out how to insert herself into it. Sometimes she waited too long and I'd be ready to get up and do something else before she could make her move. This time she acted fast. She alighted quickly onto the arm of the sofa, and then jumped to the back.
She stretched out along the back of the sofa, right behind my head, and started purring.
Time passed. Out of nowhere I felt a foot pressing against my shoulder blade.
"Roxy!" I giggled.
The foot pressed harder.
Three
There are 2 kinds of cats: the cats who wake you up and the cats who wait.
Often I wake up with a paw squeezing the tip of my nose. That would be Saro.
Sometimes I woke up to complete stillness. Usually it would be after a long, heavy sleep. Whoever had already tried to wake me up had long abandoned the project. In this complete tranquility, Rox jumped onto the bed, quiet and cool as a breeze.
Rox walked a few steps toward me, purring. I lifted my head and she smudged my forehead with a kiss. Then, as mysteriously as she arrived, she left.
I got up and followed her to the food bowl. Just a few kibble to top her off.
8.30.2005
8.25.2005
Fire! Fire! part 2
I stumbled into my living room, bewildered. The apartment smelled of fish.
I ran to the oven and turned it off.
I picked up the phone and called 911 to issue a retraction.
"I'll cancel the police," the operator said -- the police were coming too?? -- "but the firemen have to come anyway, just to check."
Oh dear. Oh dear.
I started preparing for visitors, cleaning up 2 piles of cat vomit. I poured a glass of Fresca. I checked on the fish.
"Helloo . . . " the door opened.
Six large men filed into my living room. They were in full fireman regalia: big black suits, conelike hats, crowbars, giant silver fire extinguishers. They all were over six feet tall. Head Fireman had ice blue eyes.
"So, you got in okay."
"Yeah! Yeah. My neighbor's key worked. Scary, right? Ha, ha!"
Yikes -- I am so braless.
"Here, kitty." Head Fireman strode toward the kitchen and Saro ran like hell.
He opened the oven door. "Looks good."
"Yeah, it's an old oven, but it's nice."
"No, the fish."
"Oh! Yeah."
"So you're all okay here."
"Yup, we're all . . . here."
"Enjoy your dinner!" Exeunt firemen.
Head Fireman opened the door again and pointed toward a little plastic bag of trash outside the door. "You're going to take care of this?"
I ran to the oven and turned it off.
I picked up the phone and called 911 to issue a retraction.
"I'll cancel the police," the operator said -- the police were coming too?? -- "but the firemen have to come anyway, just to check."
Oh dear. Oh dear.
I started preparing for visitors, cleaning up 2 piles of cat vomit. I poured a glass of Fresca. I checked on the fish.
"Helloo . . . " the door opened.
Six large men filed into my living room. They were in full fireman regalia: big black suits, conelike hats, crowbars, giant silver fire extinguishers. They all were over six feet tall. Head Fireman had ice blue eyes.
"So, you got in okay."
"Yeah! Yeah. My neighbor's key worked. Scary, right? Ha, ha!"
Yikes -- I am so braless.
"Here, kitty." Head Fireman strode toward the kitchen and Saro ran like hell.
He opened the oven door. "Looks good."
"Yeah, it's an old oven, but it's nice."
"No, the fish."
"Oh! Yeah."
"So you're all okay here."
"Yup, we're all . . . here."
"Enjoy your dinner!" Exeunt firemen.
Head Fireman opened the door again and pointed toward a little plastic bag of trash outside the door. "You're going to take care of this?"
8.18.2005
Fire! Fire!
I'm going to have to make this quick.
Last night I was so tired. Beyond exhausted. Too much debauching in the early part of the week. Went straight home.
I picked up a few groceries on the way. I had an idea to try to cook fish. I am trying to make friends with fish. Apparently, eating them is good for you. Circumventing the gory Chinatown markets, I went to Fine Fare and picked up a suitably clean-looking Saran-wrapped salmon filet and some low-fat Creamsicles.
I looked through all my cookbooks and ran across the Barefoot Contessa's version of salmon and lentils. Cool.
The lentils were no problem, but I was so tired I kept dropping them all around the kitchen. I poured water into a glass and splashed all over the table. Tired. Tired.
The salmon was a bit of a problem when the Contessa instructed me to cut the skin off of the bottom of the fish. This was very upsetting. I got so freaked out I stopped cutting the skin about three-quarters through, and threw the rest of the fish away. I wasn't going to eat that much anyway.
Nonetheless, the salmon that remained seared perfectly. The oven was nice and hot. I transferred the fish from the stove to the oven to cook it for five to seven minutes.
I decided to throw out the garbage that contained raw fish. You don't want to have that stuff hanging around the house. I grabbed the bag, put on my flip-flops and went out to the foyer, when . . . slam!
As soon as the door slammed my blood ran cold. I remembered the door was on auto-lock. I tried the knob. Locked.
"Fuck. fuck. Fuuuuuuuuuck!"
Fuck! What am I going to do.
Fuck! Think.
I was locked out of my apartment holding a bag of raw fish.
And the salmon is in the oven on broil.
I looked all around at the closed doors. I picked a door of the neighbor I had seen eariler, coming up in the elevator, and knocked. No response.
"Shit!" I jumped up and down.
I knocked on the next door. Nice Israeli people live there.
Jackpot: Burly father and son, nice mom, all watching TV.
"I'm locked out," I said. "And the fish is burning. May I use your phone?"
Shit, shit. This is so stupid.
Mom handed me the phone.
Ok, who do I call? Locksmith? Dan, who has spare keys? It would take awhile for anyone to arrive. I started having visions of fish in flames, and innocent cats choking on smoke.
"You may want to call the Fire Department," Son said.
Oh lord.
I called 911 and got to the fire department.
"What's the problem."
"I'm locked out, and the oven is on."
"Is there a fire?"
"Not yet, but the fish is . . . . "
Oh gosh . . . duh . . .
". . . broiling, and will burn any minute."
"We'll send someone over." She took my address. We hung up.
I apologized profusely to the Mom and thanked her.
Down the hallway Dad and Son were hunched over my doorknob, wiggling their Blockbuster card in the crack of the door. Nothing was happening.
"Try your key," Dad said to Son.
Son put his key in the lock and turned.
The door opened.
Last night I was so tired. Beyond exhausted. Too much debauching in the early part of the week. Went straight home.
I picked up a few groceries on the way. I had an idea to try to cook fish. I am trying to make friends with fish. Apparently, eating them is good for you. Circumventing the gory Chinatown markets, I went to Fine Fare and picked up a suitably clean-looking Saran-wrapped salmon filet and some low-fat Creamsicles.
I looked through all my cookbooks and ran across the Barefoot Contessa's version of salmon and lentils. Cool.
The lentils were no problem, but I was so tired I kept dropping them all around the kitchen. I poured water into a glass and splashed all over the table. Tired. Tired.
The salmon was a bit of a problem when the Contessa instructed me to cut the skin off of the bottom of the fish. This was very upsetting. I got so freaked out I stopped cutting the skin about three-quarters through, and threw the rest of the fish away. I wasn't going to eat that much anyway.
Nonetheless, the salmon that remained seared perfectly. The oven was nice and hot. I transferred the fish from the stove to the oven to cook it for five to seven minutes.
I decided to throw out the garbage that contained raw fish. You don't want to have that stuff hanging around the house. I grabbed the bag, put on my flip-flops and went out to the foyer, when . . . slam!
As soon as the door slammed my blood ran cold. I remembered the door was on auto-lock. I tried the knob. Locked.
"Fuck. fuck. Fuuuuuuuuuck!"
Fuck! What am I going to do.
Fuck! Think.
I was locked out of my apartment holding a bag of raw fish.
And the salmon is in the oven on broil.
I looked all around at the closed doors. I picked a door of the neighbor I had seen eariler, coming up in the elevator, and knocked. No response.
"Shit!" I jumped up and down.
I knocked on the next door. Nice Israeli people live there.
Jackpot: Burly father and son, nice mom, all watching TV.
"I'm locked out," I said. "And the fish is burning. May I use your phone?"
Shit, shit. This is so stupid.
Mom handed me the phone.
Ok, who do I call? Locksmith? Dan, who has spare keys? It would take awhile for anyone to arrive. I started having visions of fish in flames, and innocent cats choking on smoke.
"You may want to call the Fire Department," Son said.
Oh lord.
I called 911 and got to the fire department.
"What's the problem."
"I'm locked out, and the oven is on."
"Is there a fire?"
"Not yet, but the fish is . . . . "
Oh gosh . . . duh . . .
". . . broiling, and will burn any minute."
"We'll send someone over." She took my address. We hung up.
I apologized profusely to the Mom and thanked her.
Down the hallway Dad and Son were hunched over my doorknob, wiggling their Blockbuster card in the crack of the door. Nothing was happening.
"Try your key," Dad said to Son.
Son put his key in the lock and turned.
The door opened.
8.12.2005
Bundting
Today I had a slice of lemon pound cake, which reminds me of Mrs. Schoenig.
Mrs. Schoenig was a friend of my grandparents who lived in Massapequa. When my grandparents were living with my dad and me, I often would come home after school and find Grandma, Grandpa, and Mrs. Schoenig sitting at the kitchen table in our yellow kitchen.
Mrs. Schoenig had a thick accent. She had short, curly blonde hair and a wide Cheshire smile.
"Ellllleeka," she would say. "How vare you, sveetheart."
My standard answer, then and now: "fine."
That was the extent of our conversation. I would immediately start looking for her lemon pound cake.
She made the cake in bundt formation -- a high arched O with scalloped sides. The outside of the cake was a perfect honey brown adorned with a sprinkle of powdered sugar. The cake was slightly crispy when you cut into it, but as the knife went deeper it would sink in lushly. My grandmother would hand me a nice thick wedge on a paper plate. The inside of the cake was pale yellow and lightly spongey.
Coming closer, I could smell a hint of lemon. I would get a little powdered sugar on my nose. I would take a big, big bite.
Mrs. Schoenig was a friend of my grandparents who lived in Massapequa. When my grandparents were living with my dad and me, I often would come home after school and find Grandma, Grandpa, and Mrs. Schoenig sitting at the kitchen table in our yellow kitchen.
Mrs. Schoenig had a thick accent. She had short, curly blonde hair and a wide Cheshire smile.
"Ellllleeka," she would say. "How vare you, sveetheart."
My standard answer, then and now: "fine."
That was the extent of our conversation. I would immediately start looking for her lemon pound cake.
She made the cake in bundt formation -- a high arched O with scalloped sides. The outside of the cake was a perfect honey brown adorned with a sprinkle of powdered sugar. The cake was slightly crispy when you cut into it, but as the knife went deeper it would sink in lushly. My grandmother would hand me a nice thick wedge on a paper plate. The inside of the cake was pale yellow and lightly spongey.
Coming closer, I could smell a hint of lemon. I would get a little powdered sugar on my nose. I would take a big, big bite.
8.05.2005
Fishhead zeitgeist! part 2
As it turns out, I wasn't the only one plagued by fish heads: Pam was stared down by one during a dinner this very same week.
The next day I walked to work cautiously. The fish heads were gone. All was well till I hit Little Italy, where a guy walked right past me in a white coat, carrying a huge dead pig on his back.
The next day I walked to work cautiously. The fish heads were gone. All was well till I hit Little Italy, where a guy walked right past me in a white coat, carrying a huge dead pig on his back.
8.03.2005
Fishhead zeitgeist! part 1 (warning: contains unsavory photos)
As I was walking to work, I saw something that grossed me out so much, I decided to take a picture and share it with you.
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
. . . ABOUT DECAPITATED FISH!!!
EW!
I really dislike the markets anyway -- the smell, the sidewalk wet with fishwater and crushed ice -- but usually the carcasses are contained. These dead squid at least have the decency to align themselves.
This started too seem too ghoulish so I decided to take snaps through the rest of my walk. Ah, a bounty of summer fruit and vegetables.
Soon, I came across the most annoying corner of New York City: Fish market, newsstand, electronics table, tiny grandmothers pushing large carts, and people flowing in and out of the subway entrance. However, this corner is also a wonderful source for Chinese porn, as well as your morning lo mein.
I waited at a corner flanked by a baby and a dog. I made routine note of a very dangerous spot of sidewalk and resisted numerous enticements to drink bubble tea. And finally, crossing the line into Little Italy, I noticed a stray loaf of Italian bread poking out of the trash and reaching toward the sun.
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
. . . ABOUT DECAPITATED FISH!!!
EW!
I really dislike the markets anyway -- the smell, the sidewalk wet with fishwater and crushed ice -- but usually the carcasses are contained. These dead squid at least have the decency to align themselves.
This started too seem too ghoulish so I decided to take snaps through the rest of my walk. Ah, a bounty of summer fruit and vegetables.
Soon, I came across the most annoying corner of New York City: Fish market, newsstand, electronics table, tiny grandmothers pushing large carts, and people flowing in and out of the subway entrance. However, this corner is also a wonderful source for Chinese porn, as well as your morning lo mein.
I waited at a corner flanked by a baby and a dog. I made routine note of a very dangerous spot of sidewalk and resisted numerous enticements to drink bubble tea. And finally, crossing the line into Little Italy, I noticed a stray loaf of Italian bread poking out of the trash and reaching toward the sun.
7.24.2005
Crazy-Ass Shit
I'm freelancing at home but can't concentrate.
Lately more than a few of my friends have started pleading with me to quit my job. Apparently, it's torturing me. I suppose I have trouble discerning it from all the other things that are torturing me.
As you might have discerned from these increasingly sporadic posts, it's been busy at the office. I'm the editorial coordinator for 24 or so books a year. There are 2 other staff members in the book department –– both designers. So basically, I have a fuckload of work. Everying from contracts, to schedules and budgets, to witing flap copy and proofreading –– even if it's freelanced –- it goes through me.
2 months into the job, I suffered Ye Olde Tragedie. That didn't help, neither. But really, despite being distraught, I just took cry breaks and kept working. I decided not to stay late or come in on weekends -- that's it.
But I need to discern some problems from others. One is the nuts and bolts of too much work and too little time. Now that I *have* started staying late and coming in on the weekends, it's apparent that the river is rising and we need more sandbaggers. Not having resources to do your job is very bad, but you can work on it. I'm freelancing out a lot of stuff. I'm lobbying for an assistant. I'm ensnaring my more flexible-scheduled friends to come in and help with office stuff.
The second problem is always the kicker: the tone of your interactions with others. This is where it gets spooky, and simple situations suddenly turn into nightmares.
For example, the president of the company walked by my cubicle the other day and his foot hit a box. It was left there as a delivery. (I have a lot of boxes stacked outside my cubicle wall because there is no room for them inside the cubicle. I had an intern consolidate them. But when an editorial coordinator doesn't have a bookcase, and has to keep page proofs in a box under her desk, things tend to pile up quickly.)
I got up and pushed the box inside my cube.
"How is it going, Erica." The president has a way of making even simple questions sound mocking. Is he mocking me? He's chewing gum.
"It's okay. There's . . . a lot going on this season, but we're on top of it so far." I am profoundly uncomfortable.
"Yeah? Like what."
"A lot of stuff coming in, and going out." Oh duh. "Manuscripts are coming in, and I'm sending them out to be copyedited." That is about one one-thousandth of what I'm doing, but so be it.
"So, you're busy."
"Yes . . . I'm very busy." I raise my eyebrows and glare. Oops -- knock off 2 points for sarcasm.
"Well, then, don't let me keep you." he emphasizes the word keep. He walks off.
Yikes.
I instantly guess he saw me reading the Times online one too many times. But that strikes me as strange and superficial. Or did he hear me on the phone with my parents? As a rule, parents get unlimited phone access (all others cut to five minutes -- ten if it's a crisis.)
This exchange, after weeks of clocking extra hours and giving myself stomach cramps, made me want to flush my head down the toilet.
What remains strange to me is that, if there is a problem, it is not made explicit. If I'm doing something not kosher, a simple "please don't do that" would rectify it in a flash. So it must be something more.
I'm choosing to see it as a study in power. A person maintains feelings of power by keeping others off their footing, constantly guessing and being taken by surprise. I was the victim of the day.
But is this the reward I get for frying myself to get these miserable books out the door?
I am wading through some serious crazy-ass shit.
Lately more than a few of my friends have started pleading with me to quit my job. Apparently, it's torturing me. I suppose I have trouble discerning it from all the other things that are torturing me.
As you might have discerned from these increasingly sporadic posts, it's been busy at the office. I'm the editorial coordinator for 24 or so books a year. There are 2 other staff members in the book department –– both designers. So basically, I have a fuckload of work. Everying from contracts, to schedules and budgets, to witing flap copy and proofreading –– even if it's freelanced –- it goes through me.
2 months into the job, I suffered Ye Olde Tragedie. That didn't help, neither. But really, despite being distraught, I just took cry breaks and kept working. I decided not to stay late or come in on weekends -- that's it.
But I need to discern some problems from others. One is the nuts and bolts of too much work and too little time. Now that I *have* started staying late and coming in on the weekends, it's apparent that the river is rising and we need more sandbaggers. Not having resources to do your job is very bad, but you can work on it. I'm freelancing out a lot of stuff. I'm lobbying for an assistant. I'm ensnaring my more flexible-scheduled friends to come in and help with office stuff.
The second problem is always the kicker: the tone of your interactions with others. This is where it gets spooky, and simple situations suddenly turn into nightmares.
For example, the president of the company walked by my cubicle the other day and his foot hit a box. It was left there as a delivery. (I have a lot of boxes stacked outside my cubicle wall because there is no room for them inside the cubicle. I had an intern consolidate them. But when an editorial coordinator doesn't have a bookcase, and has to keep page proofs in a box under her desk, things tend to pile up quickly.)
I got up and pushed the box inside my cube.
"How is it going, Erica." The president has a way of making even simple questions sound mocking. Is he mocking me? He's chewing gum.
"It's okay. There's . . . a lot going on this season, but we're on top of it so far." I am profoundly uncomfortable.
"Yeah? Like what."
"A lot of stuff coming in, and going out." Oh duh. "Manuscripts are coming in, and I'm sending them out to be copyedited." That is about one one-thousandth of what I'm doing, but so be it.
"So, you're busy."
"Yes . . . I'm very busy." I raise my eyebrows and glare. Oops -- knock off 2 points for sarcasm.
"Well, then, don't let me keep you." he emphasizes the word keep. He walks off.
Yikes.
I instantly guess he saw me reading the Times online one too many times. But that strikes me as strange and superficial. Or did he hear me on the phone with my parents? As a rule, parents get unlimited phone access (all others cut to five minutes -- ten if it's a crisis.)
This exchange, after weeks of clocking extra hours and giving myself stomach cramps, made me want to flush my head down the toilet.
What remains strange to me is that, if there is a problem, it is not made explicit. If I'm doing something not kosher, a simple "please don't do that" would rectify it in a flash. So it must be something more.
I'm choosing to see it as a study in power. A person maintains feelings of power by keeping others off their footing, constantly guessing and being taken by surprise. I was the victim of the day.
But is this the reward I get for frying myself to get these miserable books out the door?
I am wading through some serious crazy-ass shit.
7.21.2005
33.33
A while ago I had an idea of having a party for my thirty-three-and-a-third birthday. Anyone old enough to get the reference would be automatically invited.
The agenda to the party was not only to celebrate my ever-slowing RPM, but secretly to seal a deal with myself. By making it to 33.33 I will have outlived my mom. For a long time I had been convinced that, in her footsteps, I would be stricken with a failing body at an early age. Her death remains as much a mystery to me now as it was when I was 7.
Last winter I mentioned the party idea to Ben as we were watching "The Wire." "Go ahead, have a party," he said, "but don't tell people that last part."
33.33 hits on Saturday. In a painful coincidence, it's also the six-month anniversary of Ben's death.
I can't think of anything more to say. Except to that asshole who nearly ran me over on his bike this morning, careening down lower Broadway at top speed and sailing through a red light:
WATCH WHERE YOU'RE FUCKING GOING.
The agenda to the party was not only to celebrate my ever-slowing RPM, but secretly to seal a deal with myself. By making it to 33.33 I will have outlived my mom. For a long time I had been convinced that, in her footsteps, I would be stricken with a failing body at an early age. Her death remains as much a mystery to me now as it was when I was 7.
Last winter I mentioned the party idea to Ben as we were watching "The Wire." "Go ahead, have a party," he said, "but don't tell people that last part."
33.33 hits on Saturday. In a painful coincidence, it's also the six-month anniversary of Ben's death.
I can't think of anything more to say. Except to that asshole who nearly ran me over on his bike this morning, careening down lower Broadway at top speed and sailing through a red light:
WATCH WHERE YOU'RE FUCKING GOING.
6.30.2005
I've Got Time
The heat and stickiness feel strange. I may be overtired. Please excuse my indulgence.
A few years ago I felt so completely driven: to crack my own head case, get over the timid aspects of my nature, learn to make crude music. Basically, to grow.
These projects have all been underway for long enough that I take them completely for granted.
In addition:
My friends are unbelievable.
I've reconciled with my family and our relationship is deepening.
My wardrobe is sufficient, with a few items verging on fabulous.
I've suffered several catastrophes of varying degrees of hideousness and remain essentially resilient and cheerful.
Have beautiful cats.
Can afford good hairdresser.
So basically I don't know what to do with myself.
At first I considered getting cable television, to find out more about the things that everyone fusses over, like HGTV. I do miss watching TV with Ben. He had TiVo. We watched "The Concert for George" one night -- for something like 3 hours -- and we ate big salads for dinner and had tea and frozen Entemann's cookies for dessert, all in front of the TV. I cried during the opening "I Want to Tell You" and tried to hide it by burying my face in a Kleenex. The poignancy of the refrain was really getting to me.
A few years ago I felt so completely driven: to crack my own head case, get over the timid aspects of my nature, learn to make crude music. Basically, to grow.
These projects have all been underway for long enough that I take them completely for granted.
In addition:
My friends are unbelievable.
I've reconciled with my family and our relationship is deepening.
My wardrobe is sufficient, with a few items verging on fabulous.
I've suffered several catastrophes of varying degrees of hideousness and remain essentially resilient and cheerful.
Have beautiful cats.
Can afford good hairdresser.
So basically I don't know what to do with myself.
At first I considered getting cable television, to find out more about the things that everyone fusses over, like HGTV. I do miss watching TV with Ben. He had TiVo. We watched "The Concert for George" one night -- for something like 3 hours -- and we ate big salads for dinner and had tea and frozen Entemann's cookies for dessert, all in front of the TV. I cried during the opening "I Want to Tell You" and tried to hide it by burying my face in a Kleenex. The poignancy of the refrain was really getting to me.
6.15.2005
Sample Sale Redux!
Hi. Anyone still out there? I'm still here. Must have slipped into the matter-eating vortex . . .
I had a reconnaissance with the sample sale that caused much disgruntlement last year. It was much cooler out this time around, and that was a good omen. I found a dress that I had seen for $450 in Bendel's for 80% less. And it fit. And I got 2 other dresses and a jacket.
Plus, changing in a room with 23 other women gave me good kick in the pants re: the aesthetics of matching your panties to your bra.
I had a reconnaissance with the sample sale that caused much disgruntlement last year. It was much cooler out this time around, and that was a good omen. I found a dress that I had seen for $450 in Bendel's for 80% less. And it fit. And I got 2 other dresses and a jacket.
Plus, changing in a room with 23 other women gave me good kick in the pants re: the aesthetics of matching your panties to your bra.
5.04.2005
Lately I have been routinely slipping into an alternate dimension or matter-eating vortex. I send two contracts and, when only one comes back, the recipient of such contracts insists that only one was sent. So I send another. Then I hand the 2 completed contracts to someone else for review and only get one back.
It makes one wonder if the universe is, in fact, fucking with one's head.
It makes one wonder if the universe is, in fact, fucking with one's head.
4.20.2005
For all you cat fans out there, I offer you some cat home movies. Saro was knitted a new toy and I wanted to capture the presentation. Rox makes a guest appearance but, ever the cool one, hangs back.
4.17.2005
Yes, I like Piña Coladas
It's been a week now and I'm still a touch tan. J.J. and I made a point of having aformentioned coconut-infused drink each day. They were so weak even I didn't feel it. Sitting on the edge of the Caribbean, what good would it do to be drunk anyway?
I was sitting on the sand when the tide shifted slightly. Waves started coming in at a 35 degree angle. The rope and bobble started whacking against my leg. I started to get up when I noticed something in the water. You notice when things wash up in the Caribbean, because it's otherwise so clear and pure. I was a tiny fish, not even a centimeter long. When the tide pulled out it remained on the sand, whirring. It was bright green and irridescent. Its eye took up half its body. It whirred to an amazing height -- several times its own size.
Several more waves came in, but didn't go up far enough to reclaim the fish. I considered trying to pick it up and throw it back. Surely my touch would kill it. I blew on it and tried to shoo it toward the water. The fish stopped moving. Finally the water carried it away.
I went back to the pool and put on my hat and coverup. I ordered a piña colada. It was late afternoon. The pool was finally calm after 2 days of domination by soccer players with buzzed hair and black tattoos. I had seen them loading onto a bus that morning. One woman about my age remained in the pool with her boyfriend. A speaker blared The Eagles Greatest Hits.
"Woooooo!" she said. "WOOOOOOOOOO!"
I was sitting on the sand when the tide shifted slightly. Waves started coming in at a 35 degree angle. The rope and bobble started whacking against my leg. I started to get up when I noticed something in the water. You notice when things wash up in the Caribbean, because it's otherwise so clear and pure. I was a tiny fish, not even a centimeter long. When the tide pulled out it remained on the sand, whirring. It was bright green and irridescent. Its eye took up half its body. It whirred to an amazing height -- several times its own size.
Several more waves came in, but didn't go up far enough to reclaim the fish. I considered trying to pick it up and throw it back. Surely my touch would kill it. I blew on it and tried to shoo it toward the water. The fish stopped moving. Finally the water carried it away.
I went back to the pool and put on my hat and coverup. I ordered a piña colada. It was late afternoon. The pool was finally calm after 2 days of domination by soccer players with buzzed hair and black tattoos. I had seen them loading onto a bus that morning. One woman about my age remained in the pool with her boyfriend. A speaker blared The Eagles Greatest Hits.
"Woooooo!" she said. "WOOOOOOOOOO!"
4.05.2005
Buds and peepers
It was still light out when I got home.
Soon the buds will be budding and the peepers peeping.
Love is in the air, which makes it hard to pin down.
I throw myself at your mercy.
Soon the buds will be budding and the peepers peeping.
Love is in the air, which makes it hard to pin down.
I throw myself at your mercy.
2.28.2005
Discerning folk question the logic of a store containing items that one purchases solely for the purpose of containing other items. Yet I contend this is a good thing.
Witness my coat closet, from which a moth emerged, fluttering.
Witness my trooping off to aforementioned store, buying multitudes of plastic garment bags, and hermetically sealing said coats.
And, lo: emergence of Moth 2, and a pool of wool dust at the bottom of the neglected basket of hats and scarves.
Something about moths triggers rage in me. "Die, moth-er-f***er!" Whap, whap, WHAP.
Tonight: I obtain plastic boxes of various shapes and sizes.
Witness my coat closet, from which a moth emerged, fluttering.
Witness my trooping off to aforementioned store, buying multitudes of plastic garment bags, and hermetically sealing said coats.
And, lo: emergence of Moth 2, and a pool of wool dust at the bottom of the neglected basket of hats and scarves.
Something about moths triggers rage in me. "Die, moth-er-f***er!" Whap, whap, WHAP.
Tonight: I obtain plastic boxes of various shapes and sizes.
Stitch, bitch.
I upgraded my Netflix and commenced to rent your suggestions en masse. Last night it was The Women. Although it made me question whether I want to ever date again, I enjoyed it thoroughly.
I also taught myself how to knit ribbing during it. Yay.
That fashion sequence was just outrageous.
I also taught myself how to knit ribbing during it. Yay.
That fashion sequence was just outrageous.
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