3/28/08
It’s about 2 am on a Friday night, and I’m sleeping in a bed that isn’t mine. Well, at the moment I’m on a beige loveseat in a fairly beige living room, in the sparklingly beige Chelsea. It’s Gay Lite around here, Tasti G Lite (when did that happen?). It’s my brother’s crib and his laptop, a white Ibook, 12 inch, with the most pleasingly raised keys that coo and click. I’m crashing here before a bar mitzvah we have to travel to Flushing for, and then to the Crest Hollow Country Club where I ’ll wear a modest dress and feel alienated and defensive. We’re seeing our cousin’s kid become a man at 9 am and I can’t sleep. Not unpleasantly- again, the sound of the keys is comforting, the loveseat is precisely long enough that I can prop my feet AND my head up, and the glow from the screen feels so singularly Manhattan. I feel glamorous and secret. While Brooklyn feels like home, Chelsea, it appears, feels like a movie set, albeit in boring miniature. But I like it.
I like the living room here, I like his bedroom. Bret’s crashing in his roommate’s bed while I took his, but everyone who knows me knows I can’t sleep in any bed but mine. At least, not without over the counter sleep aids. So I’m on the loveseat and thinking about rooms, space, this private moment in a space that isn’t mine.
His bedroom is small but elegant- he fucked with the lighting so it’s a dimmer now, I think someone gay did that. I think the walls are beige or brown- I’ll check in the morning. I know the color was chosen to complement the other rooms in the apartment. It looks like Starbucks, which when you think about it, is actually quite a lovely color scheme. I mean this.
god i LOVE this clicking sound
the colors in my current pad are also, i think, soothing and congruent but bright, carefully considered this time, unlike the last one, which was plastered in color, every room different, a lunatic day care center, done by a different me. although ’winter cocoa’ certainly united the rooms in a way, yes?
This time, the colors are similar but the application was different, calmer, more spare. it’s just mine. It’s a place I love to look at, get into bed, surrounded by molding enclosing confident green squares. I love that bedroom. I love the company it’s welcomed and the conversations it’s overheard.
I think about all the bedrooms I know or knew- Bret’s new one, signifying his own growth, and the polar but always loving directions we go in; i think of marsha’s, which starts to resemble her more and more everyday; randi’s grown up conference phone and the defiantly punk footwear strewn by it. the lovely friends with whom i can always crash with, the lovely boys’ with whom i shared moments that, thankfully, all make me smile; i think of the one i grew up in, where i heard birds and my dad’s voice ordering me to get up at 9 on saturdays because ’i’d never sleep tonight’ (seriously, what the fuck?); i think of his voice breaking that night when i walked into their bedroom, right next to mine. he sat at the edge crying, unable to speak, as my mother told me she was sick. i was 8 and so sad, scared to see him cry. i don’t remember another time i saw that. but even now i equate a parents’ bedroom with the sanctity of that moment, of fear and love and pain for the person you chose for forever, and felt like i interrupted something none of us wanted me to see.
i don’t know my future with bedrooms. That’s cool. because the bed itself is fabulous. i got it on Montague Street in Brooklyn Heights. I got a massive discount because I listened to the sales woman (who bore a sadly striking resemblance to Calamity Jane) rant about her husband cheating on her in chat rooms in the early ’90’s, "on the computer I bought him! Can you fucking believe it, Nadine?". No, Laura, I could not. But I would like free delivery and a mattress pad.
I’m terrible with math, but I think the price of the bed went down $50 with every 5 minutes I nodded sympathetically and robotically exclaimed, "That sounds traumatizing" or the more succinct "Fuck yeah, bitch!"
She eventually got a new boyfriend who bought her a house. I assume that bedroom saw better times. I hope so.
Friday, March 28, 2008
randi
12/17/07
"Would you rather be the kind of person who DOESN'T get thrown an emotional curve ball by a heartbeat?"
fucking gorgeous question. not just in context.
golly, life is exciting. and weird and painful and exciting.
"Would you rather be the kind of person who DOESN'T get thrown an emotional curve ball by a heartbeat?"
fucking gorgeous question. not just in context.
golly, life is exciting. and weird and painful and exciting.
crappy sneakers
12/4/07
as a postscript to yesterday-
my landlord agreed to let me pay an extra $10 per month to pay them back for the window gate i'm going to get. now, it's just a matter of getting them to install it. they also said they'd reimburse me $100 for a broken lock that I paid $300 for, awhile back.
when i described in further detail what happened with the lock, he sweetly clarified that it was a cylinder problem and that it would be a $10 reimbursement, rather than $100. I do adore these mom n pop, community realty organizations.
i recall that evening with the broken lock as one of the few times i've felt entirely alone and pathetically female-ly vulnerable, and it culminated in me jogging down washington avenue at 6 am in my ugliest shoes to withdraw $300 from an ATM while two surly Russian men waited for me in a van.
i mean, in summary.
it was 5:30 on a Sunday morning (still a saturday night?) had walked into my apartment and opened the door, tipsy, with at least a few intriguing saturday night memories formed, and tried to pull the key out of the lock. it refused to come out. tugging and twisting till my palms sweated, i gave up and went inside, the door swinging open and the keys still firmly in the lock, door stuck open.
i considered going to bed and waiting to deal with it in the morning, hoping no one came in, or leave, wander brooklyn till i woke up a friend to crash with and hope i didn't get robbed while gone; in my drunkenness, i had enough clarity to do neither. but i did begin to force frustrated tears, the kind where your own, gently fake wails is entirely soothing, if only because you sound like a childish idiot in your own ears and you shut the fuck up.
i found a locksmith who sent two burly, irritated eastern europeans who stood in my apartment while i splashed water on my face to sober up. it was awkward, intimidating, and the fucking sun just still refused to come up. they replaced the lock, telling me no credit card, only cash. $347. they'd wait there for me.
see, i didn't have $347, and I certainly wasn't in the mood to leave my apartment to two polish giants while i went to an ATM in the dark.
no credit card? no check?
nope!
can you come with me?
no, we'll wait here.
(Quickly, quickly sobering up in the panic of poverty and potential bodily harm)
i'm kind of nervous to go withdraw this much money while you stand in my apartment. go wait outside. in... your conversion van.
(Better and better!)
agreed.
so, i put on my old running shoes, totally incongruous with that evening's outfit, and start running down washington avenue to get the money i really don't have, to fix one of those new york problems that you can't predict and thus can't lament.
that's when the real tears start coming- thoughts that don't usually plague me (why don't i have a man to fix this? or come with me? why can't i save money? why do i even fucking live in this city in order to pay for an apartment that, at the moment, anyone can get into, except for me, because i'm jogging at 5:45 am to an outdoor cash withdrawal machine?) start to pound in rhythm to my running.
the absence of certain things are amplified by the presence of others- hot, helpless tears and, still, the fucking moon. It appears that, in March the sun doesn't come up till around 10 am. And none of the things I'm wishing for are going to materialize, of course- the closest thing to a savior that night was my overdraft account. My bank in shining, 19% interest armor.
i got the money and they gruffly wrote me a receipt. on a legal pad.
i don't use those sneakers at all, they're pretty ugly. i found some new ones in the lobby of my building.
so there's ups and downs to every living situation, i suppose.
as a postscript to yesterday-
my landlord agreed to let me pay an extra $10 per month to pay them back for the window gate i'm going to get. now, it's just a matter of getting them to install it. they also said they'd reimburse me $100 for a broken lock that I paid $300 for, awhile back.
when i described in further detail what happened with the lock, he sweetly clarified that it was a cylinder problem and that it would be a $10 reimbursement, rather than $100. I do adore these mom n pop, community realty organizations.
i recall that evening with the broken lock as one of the few times i've felt entirely alone and pathetically female-ly vulnerable, and it culminated in me jogging down washington avenue at 6 am in my ugliest shoes to withdraw $300 from an ATM while two surly Russian men waited for me in a van.
i mean, in summary.
it was 5:30 on a Sunday morning (still a saturday night?) had walked into my apartment and opened the door, tipsy, with at least a few intriguing saturday night memories formed, and tried to pull the key out of the lock. it refused to come out. tugging and twisting till my palms sweated, i gave up and went inside, the door swinging open and the keys still firmly in the lock, door stuck open.
i considered going to bed and waiting to deal with it in the morning, hoping no one came in, or leave, wander brooklyn till i woke up a friend to crash with and hope i didn't get robbed while gone; in my drunkenness, i had enough clarity to do neither. but i did begin to force frustrated tears, the kind where your own, gently fake wails is entirely soothing, if only because you sound like a childish idiot in your own ears and you shut the fuck up.
i found a locksmith who sent two burly, irritated eastern europeans who stood in my apartment while i splashed water on my face to sober up. it was awkward, intimidating, and the fucking sun just still refused to come up. they replaced the lock, telling me no credit card, only cash. $347. they'd wait there for me.
see, i didn't have $347, and I certainly wasn't in the mood to leave my apartment to two polish giants while i went to an ATM in the dark.
no credit card? no check?
nope!
can you come with me?
no, we'll wait here.
(Quickly, quickly sobering up in the panic of poverty and potential bodily harm)
i'm kind of nervous to go withdraw this much money while you stand in my apartment. go wait outside. in... your conversion van.
(Better and better!)
agreed.
so, i put on my old running shoes, totally incongruous with that evening's outfit, and start running down washington avenue to get the money i really don't have, to fix one of those new york problems that you can't predict and thus can't lament.
that's when the real tears start coming- thoughts that don't usually plague me (why don't i have a man to fix this? or come with me? why can't i save money? why do i even fucking live in this city in order to pay for an apartment that, at the moment, anyone can get into, except for me, because i'm jogging at 5:45 am to an outdoor cash withdrawal machine?) start to pound in rhythm to my running.
the absence of certain things are amplified by the presence of others- hot, helpless tears and, still, the fucking moon. It appears that, in March the sun doesn't come up till around 10 am. And none of the things I'm wishing for are going to materialize, of course- the closest thing to a savior that night was my overdraft account. My bank in shining, 19% interest armor.
i got the money and they gruffly wrote me a receipt. on a legal pad.
i don't use those sneakers at all, they're pretty ugly. i found some new ones in the lobby of my building.
so there's ups and downs to every living situation, i suppose.
sleepy
12/3/07
I got home yesterday around noon and slept from 1-4, then went food shopping. then made meatloaf. then went back to bed on the couch, in front of the tv. tired.
i woke up around 8 to see a guy climbing the fire escape on the adjacent wall of my building, particularly stealthily, then sliding against the wall in between windows, then up to the roof. not a 'lost my keys and being inventive' variety of stealth, or an 'urban adventurer' kind. A 'robby' kind of stealth. then he stopped becasue saw me on my couch in the flicker of the tv. he couldn't tell if i saw him, of course, but he saw me there. he climbed up to the roof and at one point, peered over the ledge to see if the person on the couch had moved to call the cops, i presume.
too sleepy to freak, i called the cops, said 'fuck it' and rolled over and went to sleep. that, that tired.
i just realized my brother will see this at some point. don't worry, bret. i'm getting a better lock, a gate for the window and maybe some curtains.
my point is, i was really tired.
I got home yesterday around noon and slept from 1-4, then went food shopping. then made meatloaf. then went back to bed on the couch, in front of the tv. tired.
i woke up around 8 to see a guy climbing the fire escape on the adjacent wall of my building, particularly stealthily, then sliding against the wall in between windows, then up to the roof. not a 'lost my keys and being inventive' variety of stealth, or an 'urban adventurer' kind. A 'robby' kind of stealth. then he stopped becasue saw me on my couch in the flicker of the tv. he couldn't tell if i saw him, of course, but he saw me there. he climbed up to the roof and at one point, peered over the ledge to see if the person on the couch had moved to call the cops, i presume.
too sleepy to freak, i called the cops, said 'fuck it' and rolled over and went to sleep. that, that tired.
i just realized my brother will see this at some point. don't worry, bret. i'm getting a better lock, a gate for the window and maybe some curtains.
my point is, i was really tired.
Donation Request: Throwdown of the Ingenues
10/9/07
so tell me
if i organized a cage fight between the girl who sings:
If you are chilly
please take my sweater
cause iiiiiii
looooove
the way you call me baby
on that fuckign annoying old navy commercial
with the girl who sings that cover of the cat stevens song:
how can i tell you that i love you
i love you
But I can't think of right words to say
on that fucking stupid diamond commercial
would you make a donation to pay for the cage, and the song rights for when we play it for the winner at the end? oh, i also need an admin assistant to do the scheduling and the afterparty coordination, so that's 36K for salary (hey, this is new york) and a catering budget of about 14K.
wait, maybe debeer's will sponsor this? i'll have my assistant get in touch.
although i just found out (i didn't know Director of Events had to do their own internet research, this is why i need an assistant, thanks) that Cat Power does the diamond commercial. and we all know she's fucking crazy so i guess the outcome of the death battle won't be much of a surprise.
hell, just get me two plane tickets to old navy and kay jewelers HQ and i'll just punch the marketing people in the face.
so tell me
if i organized a cage fight between the girl who sings:
If you are chilly
please take my sweater
cause iiiiiii
looooove
the way you call me baby
on that fuckign annoying old navy commercial
with the girl who sings that cover of the cat stevens song:
how can i tell you that i love you
i love you
But I can't think of right words to say
on that fucking stupid diamond commercial
would you make a donation to pay for the cage, and the song rights for when we play it for the winner at the end? oh, i also need an admin assistant to do the scheduling and the afterparty coordination, so that's 36K for salary (hey, this is new york) and a catering budget of about 14K.
wait, maybe debeer's will sponsor this? i'll have my assistant get in touch.
although i just found out (i didn't know Director of Events had to do their own internet research, this is why i need an assistant, thanks) that Cat Power does the diamond commercial. and we all know she's fucking crazy so i guess the outcome of the death battle won't be much of a surprise.
hell, just get me two plane tickets to old navy and kay jewelers HQ and i'll just punch the marketing people in the face.
Beach typing
9/21/07
i'm listening to myself type on this keyboard and the sounds (just straight typing, when i'm not stuttering, slamming emphatically or typoing, an embarrassingly identifiable trait in my emails and gchats)
and the stops and starts, thoughtful pauses, and energetic determined unpunctuated sentences started to remind me of my grandmothers mah jong games at the beach with her leathery, chain smoking old beach friends. it sounds like this- pecking, unpredictable music.
she had a cabana at the beach and in the middle of the two rows she'd set up the table and these wizened jewish ladies (and one old funny guy named calvin, who used to tell me you knew you were fat when you could assertively grab two handfuls of stomach) would stagger over. because no one looks powerful walking in the sand, certainly not 70 year old women. they'd wordlessly set up and play, and most of the game was only interrupted when a grandchild would skip (again, not quite skip) up and ask for money for a hamburger. those were so fuckign good. cheap and charred, that smell is still magic.
they'd go till 4 or so and then we'd pack up, exhasuted and hyper and red and headachy and she'd drive us home. saturday nights she ate with our family, it was usually steak and fries.
bret and i didn't appreciate steak and fries at the time.
i didn't appreciate a lot of things at the time, i just realized.
i miss her, i loved her a lot. i wish she knew me now.
i don't think i put many typos in here but i'm not going to bother looking.
i'm listening to myself type on this keyboard and the sounds (just straight typing, when i'm not stuttering, slamming emphatically or typoing, an embarrassingly identifiable trait in my emails and gchats)
and the stops and starts, thoughtful pauses, and energetic determined unpunctuated sentences started to remind me of my grandmothers mah jong games at the beach with her leathery, chain smoking old beach friends. it sounds like this- pecking, unpredictable music.
she had a cabana at the beach and in the middle of the two rows she'd set up the table and these wizened jewish ladies (and one old funny guy named calvin, who used to tell me you knew you were fat when you could assertively grab two handfuls of stomach) would stagger over. because no one looks powerful walking in the sand, certainly not 70 year old women. they'd wordlessly set up and play, and most of the game was only interrupted when a grandchild would skip (again, not quite skip) up and ask for money for a hamburger. those were so fuckign good. cheap and charred, that smell is still magic.
they'd go till 4 or so and then we'd pack up, exhasuted and hyper and red and headachy and she'd drive us home. saturday nights she ate with our family, it was usually steak and fries.
bret and i didn't appreciate steak and fries at the time.
i didn't appreciate a lot of things at the time, i just realized.
i miss her, i loved her a lot. i wish she knew me now.
i don't think i put many typos in here but i'm not going to bother looking.
The Mall in November
9/17/07
I was in Williams Sonoma in high school and they were giving out samples of apple cider. apparently they were also giving out samples of beef gravy, because I wasn't paying attention and grabbed a cup and drank it thinking it was cider. it was beef gravy.
i don't know why there was beef gravy in cups. Maybe it was for dipping something.
my point is, I went to the mall too much when i was 15.
I was in Williams Sonoma in high school and they were giving out samples of apple cider. apparently they were also giving out samples of beef gravy, because I wasn't paying attention and grabbed a cup and drank it thinking it was cider. it was beef gravy.
i don't know why there was beef gravy in cups. Maybe it was for dipping something.
my point is, I went to the mall too much when i was 15.
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