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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

Preparing for a beach vacation brings the inevitable trip to the groomer's.

I liked the menu choices:

Bikini (regular)
Bikini Brazilian
Bikini semi (landing strip)

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.

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.

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.

Need Recommendations

I rented Annie Hall and hated it. The acting was bad and I guess I take all the psychoanalytic gab for granted.

I rented Four Weddings and a Funeral and hated it. I don't see why we're supposed to think that 2 people casually torturing each other is cute.

I need to watch movies that are smart, silly, romantic, and classy. Old or new movies -- I don't care. (Preferably old: the actors dress better.)

Suggestions please.

ps. I saw Bridget Jones and I liked it a lot -- just so you don't think I'm a total sourpuss.

Coffee with Ghosts

Only one table open at Reggio's; and I sat across from an empty chair where, on our second date, I sat across from him, talking about his plans to buy a house.

I'm sipping coffee at Magnolia Bakery when the Velvets come on with Sunday Morning: the song that flowed through the car time and time again as we drove to and from the ferry to Fire Island.

I can't bear it.

Thank you to the nice girl at Magnolia for the glass of water and free cookie.

When the going gets tough, the tough go a little blonder. And go shopping.

I now have fluffy moppet-head, a few new American Apparel shirts, and a much-needed desk chair.

Something in me must be indestructible or else it surely would have been destroyed by now.

Eulogy

THREE SCENES WITH BEN STERN

By Erica Smith


One

On our third date Ben Stern took me out on the pier. It was a hot night but clear. The George Washington Bridge was sparkling to the north. Jersey was dark in places, lit up in others. The cliffs across the river looked very dark and very tall.

He pointed to different places across the river. That spot had been utterly contaminated, bought for a song, and redeveloped, and is now worth millions. Up there is where the Ramapo Mountain People live. Had I heard of them? I hadn’t, but now I understand: you don’t necessarily notice them, but once you recognize them, they’re everywhere.

He told me his office friends were intrigued by our romance. But they teased him, “yes, but does she know what’s wrong with you?” My eyebrows went up.

Quickly making a guess in my own head, I ventured that maybe Ben knew too much. Every building façade, cobblestone path, and traffic circle has a story, and he seemed to know them all. How could I possibly keep up?

I decided I liked how he could see things come alive that I took for granted: a piece of skyline, a car engine, a railroad tie.

Well, I thought. I could use a good challenge.


Two

When Ben Stern started coming over to my apartment, he would inevitably gravitate toward the television and start tinkering. It was a small TV and I didn’t have cable, just bunny ears. I never turned the thing on anyway.

One evening Ben showed up at my door with a large loop of cable under his arm.

He took the cable and crawled under my desk. He screwed the cable into the box for my cable modem. Then he unraveled the thing across my living room and screwed it into the television. Presto: we got basic channels. We watched Saturday Night Live, giggled, and had snacks.

This process was intriguing to me, but very messy, with a thick wire snaking across my living room floor, and nests of cable here and there. It settled into a pattern: As soon as Ben would go home I would unscrew everything and scoot the wire under my TV stand. And when he would return, we’d plug everything back in again, and we would both solemnly vow to drill holes in the wall and run that cable properly.

Friday night he must have had enough of this process, for he showed up with a deck of cards.

“Do you know Rummy 500?”

“I’ve forgotten it.”

“It’s fun.” He cut the cards, shuffled, and cut again. He had already printed out instructions and read them to me.

As we played, he told me how his grandparents had been crazy for canasta.

“Are you sure you want to lay that card down?” he said after I laid a card down. He pointed to his cards. I saw a strategy I had missed.

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“You can take it back.”

“No.”

“It’s not too late.”

“Look, I blew it, let me blow it.”

“It’s really not too late.”

“Fine.” I took the card back.

It happened again 20 minutes later.

“You sure you want to do that?”

“WHAT NOW?”

He nodded toward a card.

“I made the bad move, let me make it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Let me blow it.”

“Come on.”

Finally, he let me make the bad move. Then he showed me what to do so it wouldn’t ever have to happen again.



Three

We were both so excited that the blizzard was coming. As people who were not especially religious, we had found our mutual day of celebration.

It was past midnight. We had watched “Sex and the City” (my choice) and “Victory By Design,” tonight on the subject of Porsche. ( . . . His choice.)

Saturday Night Live was winding down. I was getting ready to cozy up with a blanky.

Ben turned to me, smiling. “So? You ready to go out?”

“Um . . .”

“Come on!”

We bundled up with sweaters and hats and coats and hoods and socks and boots and gloves and made our way downstairs into the snowy cold street.

It was cold but the wind was not so bad. It was snowing, but not hard, not stinging. We crossed the street toward the river. The snow was well traveled but I liked stepping in the big footprints he made.

When we started going down the ramp to the pier, he would turn around every few paces and check on me or take my hand. If we had to go down a step, he would go first and then extend his hand back to me.

When we got down to the pier, the wind was blowing over the snow so it looked untouched. Chunks of ice floated in the Hudson. The sky looked dark pink and reflected dark pink in the water. I saw what looked like a group of supports in the water. Remnants of a pier? They were markers for the shallow water, he said.

I looked across to Jersey, where it was dark with an occasional sparkle. The bridge was lit. It was completely quiet except for the wind.

It occurred to me that this might be one of the most beautiful moments of my life.

Barefoot On My Ass

Someone left a bunch of unopened VHS tapes in the basement as freebies/trash. I abducted a few of them and started watching last night. I started with this one, hoping for a little lighthearted mental foxtrot. But I found it depressing and wanted to beat both characters with a stick. Insight, anyone?

THE ALIEN OCTOPUS HAS LANDED!

Thanks to the lovely and talented Allison Ramen, we have documented my encounter with the alien octopus. Isn't it a Federal offense to degrade post office boxes?

Feedback

Feedback can be described as the delivery of criticism tempered with praise, most often couched in good manners. Another kind of feedback can be described as the amplified signal from speakers or monitors being picked up again by microphones and then being re-amplified, causing unpleasant squealing, screeching, or ringing. Although these 2 kinds of feedback are quite different in nature, their effects are most often the same.

It has come to my attention as of late that there are times when I'm not hitting the mark musically. Of course, one is always one's own worst critic. But there is safety in keeping that shame a secret, and hoping that no one else notices -- or at the very least, hoping that the compassion of others will help bridge the gap between one's aspirations and reality. But when the voice inside one's head is heard on the outside, too, it takes on a new, horrible visage.

It's shocking to me how certain tasks have the ability to translate the crux of your inner life so accurately and broadcast them out to the world. Boxing is such. Are you distracted? Hiding behind your defenses? Overly aggressive? Do you think too much? Pow, pow, pow. Same with knitting: if you're too wound up inside, you end up making a row full of knots. And so it is with music.

However, unlike boxing or knitting -- tasks that were effectively thrust upon me aganst my will, yet have taken on a certain charm over time -- music is my natural path. It's my joy and pain and the metaphor for everything. Despite such lofty declarations, though, it's also just another kind of work, and work requires work. You can't have a dog and expect that because you love it so much, it will know how to behave. It has to be trained.

So off I go to puppy school.

Woof.

I'm crushed. I just heard from a reliable source that my ten-year crush is now married with a child! It's just as well: If I ever had the opportunity to hug him, I would likely crush him.

Four in the morning, the end of December

I woke up very hungry. I breathed in and coughed. I pushed off the heavy covers and stood up. My hamstrings were burning, so I crouched over a little.

I stepped gingerly into the kitchen. The shadows of the arms of the clock pointed to 4 and 12. I opened a cabinet and felt around for a slim box. It was covered with cellophane, except for one short end. I pushed in the tabs and took a few water crackers. They were a little gummy but they tasted good.

The subway rolled by over the bridge. The cars looked pristine, empty, yellow lit. The lights were out on all the skyscrapers. I took a few more crackers and put the box away.

I noticed a dark shape at my feet. Rox was waiting by the food bowl. I topped off the bowl and she crunched on the kibble.

Rox followed me back to bed. She jumped on my pillow. I sneezed. She jumped off.