You're a Big Girl, Hold ItTuesday, June 29, 2004
The Icky and the Nasty
I take back what I said about single adults. They may buy cat food, but I was the one returning for a second trip to Key Food to buy bug spray. Turns out the roach motels won't work on steroid-popping brown bugs with waxy wings that fly, yes fly.
I witnessed the flying after I saw the scuttling.
And I found out about the spray after I called my dad. I had just let out two blood-curdling screams (once by myself, and once while talking to one of my boyfriend's friends, to whom he had graciously passed me off while I tried to detail the horror of it all.)
My dad made it better, even though I still had to kill the sucker by myself. (With a heavy book as my poison of choice.) I wonder if I can still call my dad crying at 30.
I take back what I said about single adults. They may buy cat food, but I was the one returning for a second trip to Key Food to buy bug spray. Turns out the roach motels won't work on steroid-popping brown bugs with waxy wings that fly, yes fly.
I witnessed the flying after I saw the scuttling.
And I found out about the spray after I called my dad. I had just let out two blood-curdling screams (once by myself, and once while talking to one of my boyfriend's friends, to whom he had graciously passed me off while I tried to detail the horror of it all.)
My dad made it better, even though I still had to kill the sucker by myself. (With a heavy book as my poison of choice.) I wonder if I can still call my dad crying at 30.
Killing Bugs Dead
One of the more unpleasant realities of apartment-renting is the bugs. Now, I'm not usually squeamish about your average bug. But the bug I saw tonight was the biggest bug I have every seen outside a cage at the Bronx Zoo. It was as long as one of my fingers and twice as thick.
And then I had to run across the street to buy roach motels from Key Food. You know you should just hide your head in shame when you are seen (even by strangers) buying the "extra large" kind. For your "extra large" bugs.
Gross.
These "motels" were about the size of my fist. Nothing cute about them.
One of the more unpleasant realities of apartment-renting is the bugs. Now, I'm not usually squeamish about your average bug. But the bug I saw tonight was the biggest bug I have every seen outside a cage at the Bronx Zoo. It was as long as one of my fingers and twice as thick.
And then I had to run across the street to buy roach motels from Key Food. You know you should just hide your head in shame when you are seen (even by strangers) buying the "extra large" kind. For your "extra large" bugs.
Gross.
These "motels" were about the size of my fist. Nothing cute about them.
Monday, June 28, 2004
Seeing the Future
My hips snap and pop when I move them in ways that they don't want to be moved. It doesn't hurt, but it does make me feel very fragile. My boyfriend chided me on Saturday, saying that if I don't see a doctor, they will eventually become arthritic.
It's odd. It's odd that at 22, I can already tell what will make me sick in my 70s.
Like fortune-telling.
My hips snap and pop when I move them in ways that they don't want to be moved. It doesn't hurt, but it does make me feel very fragile. My boyfriend chided me on Saturday, saying that if I don't see a doctor, they will eventually become arthritic.
It's odd. It's odd that at 22, I can already tell what will make me sick in my 70s.
Like fortune-telling.
Saturday, June 26, 2004
Finding Your Way
There's nothing sadder than an unmarried single person. In theory, it sounds great. Very liberating, very anti-Republican, very 21st Century, very Sex & the City. But then some things about single adults just depress me.
Like yesterday I was watching Seinfeld, and Kramer was talking about vacuum cleaners. And then I got to thinking about older, single guys vacuuming their own carpets. And I felt ... so ... sad.
And then today in Key Food, this older woman was buying four bags of kitty litter. The Key Food brand. And each bag had a smiling cartoon cat on it. And I felt this irrational surge of annoyance. Move over, woman -- you're blocking the aisle!
And then there are people over the age of 35 who still ride the subway. I know lots of businessmen and women do it. But everyone looks over-dressed in a suit on the subway. Like they didn't read their party invitation properly.
Now, if you're very wealthy, it's OK to be single. Then it's glamorous, really. Older bachelors who take weekend trips to London and know a lot about wine are very sexy. It's what I try to tell the boyfriend: you can be poor or single, but don't grow up and be both.
There's nothing sadder than an unmarried single person. In theory, it sounds great. Very liberating, very anti-Republican, very 21st Century, very Sex & the City. But then some things about single adults just depress me.
Like yesterday I was watching Seinfeld, and Kramer was talking about vacuum cleaners. And then I got to thinking about older, single guys vacuuming their own carpets. And I felt ... so ... sad.
And then today in Key Food, this older woman was buying four bags of kitty litter. The Key Food brand. And each bag had a smiling cartoon cat on it. And I felt this irrational surge of annoyance. Move over, woman -- you're blocking the aisle!
And then there are people over the age of 35 who still ride the subway. I know lots of businessmen and women do it. But everyone looks over-dressed in a suit on the subway. Like they didn't read their party invitation properly.
Now, if you're very wealthy, it's OK to be single. Then it's glamorous, really. Older bachelors who take weekend trips to London and know a lot about wine are very sexy. It's what I try to tell the boyfriend: you can be poor or single, but don't grow up and be both.
Friday, June 25, 2004
What I'm Trying to Say
My life: I was sitting on the train today in typical fashion -- eating Cheerios from a plastic baggie, an umbrella hanging from my wrist (fuddy-duddy style). And this stunning girl gets on at the train; I was certain she was a model. She had to be a model -- you know the type -- face, clothes, figure, accessories, hair -- all flawless. Not just flawless. The way you know a body-builder is a body-builder.
I sat up straighter and tried to look sexy.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not bad looking. Guys have called me pretty, cute, petite ... and ex-boyfriends (barring the current one, who prides himself on being brutally honest) have even said I was beautiful.
But I don't make other girls on the train hide their baggies of Cheerios. If you know what I mean.
My life: I was sitting on the train today in typical fashion -- eating Cheerios from a plastic baggie, an umbrella hanging from my wrist (fuddy-duddy style). And this stunning girl gets on at the train; I was certain she was a model. She had to be a model -- you know the type -- face, clothes, figure, accessories, hair -- all flawless. Not just flawless. The way you know a body-builder is a body-builder.
I sat up straighter and tried to look sexy.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not bad looking. Guys have called me pretty, cute, petite ... and ex-boyfriends (barring the current one, who prides himself on being brutally honest) have even said I was beautiful.
But I don't make other girls on the train hide their baggies of Cheerios. If you know what I mean.
Deep Thoughts
Do you remember the first time you had sex? Do you remember being 16 and being unable to even sit next to your First Real Boyfriend on a bus because you wanted him so badly? You could barely make it from Battery Park to the Upper East Side without squirming in your seat. Every Don't Walk signal at an intersection, every dark movie theater, was an excuse for foreplay. You wanted him touching you all over, when you barely knew what the whole point was. You were still looking up "orgasm" in the dictionary and the Q&A column of Seventeen.
Sex was all you thought about ... sex and whether or not you were ready to become one of those girls -- one of those non-virgin girls -- that other girls stared at in English class, just marveling at the Great Divide.
I'm watching My So Called Life. Brings me back.
Do you remember the first time you had sex? Do you remember being 16 and being unable to even sit next to your First Real Boyfriend on a bus because you wanted him so badly? You could barely make it from Battery Park to the Upper East Side without squirming in your seat. Every Don't Walk signal at an intersection, every dark movie theater, was an excuse for foreplay. You wanted him touching you all over, when you barely knew what the whole point was. You were still looking up "orgasm" in the dictionary and the Q&A column of Seventeen.
Sex was all you thought about ... sex and whether or not you were ready to become one of those girls -- one of those non-virgin girls -- that other girls stared at in English class, just marveling at the Great Divide.
I'm watching My So Called Life. Brings me back.
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Cat Fights
That sister I said was invaluable? Well, she locked herself out of her dorm and now wants to stay with yours truly this weekend until someone can let her back in. I'm trying not to get too worked up about it. But, of course, I come off looking like the evil one here. Because where else can she go?
I guess you can get older, but in the eyes of your parents, you're still the same 3 year-old who tried to kick the new baby every time Mom's back was turned.
Growing up, I hated my two sisters. First I hated one, then I hated the other. These days, though, we're almost at the point though where we get along.
Except -- I'll tell ya -- we're still fighting the same fights, the same old thing, really. Just more grown up. Instead of fighting over who got the prettier Cabbage Patch Kid, we fight about tuition bills, summer trips and overpriced apartments. In other words: who does Mom and Dad spoil most? Who's draining all the money?
And honestly. You'd think it would be the sort of thing we'd just get over.
But maybe I'm a little resentful.
My sister still owes me her share of Dad's Father's Day gift.
That sister I said was invaluable? Well, she locked herself out of her dorm and now wants to stay with yours truly this weekend until someone can let her back in. I'm trying not to get too worked up about it. But, of course, I come off looking like the evil one here. Because where else can she go?
I guess you can get older, but in the eyes of your parents, you're still the same 3 year-old who tried to kick the new baby every time Mom's back was turned.
Growing up, I hated my two sisters. First I hated one, then I hated the other. These days, though, we're almost at the point though where we get along.
Except -- I'll tell ya -- we're still fighting the same fights, the same old thing, really. Just more grown up. Instead of fighting over who got the prettier Cabbage Patch Kid, we fight about tuition bills, summer trips and overpriced apartments. In other words: who does Mom and Dad spoil most? Who's draining all the money?
And honestly. You'd think it would be the sort of thing we'd just get over.
But maybe I'm a little resentful.
My sister still owes me her share of Dad's Father's Day gift.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Hmph
So my boyfriend is absolved on one account. My parents are not going to the shore this weekend. But now we're in a spat. A battle of who can keep secrets longer.
"If you tell me, you'll feel so much better."
"I feel fine."
"If you tell me, your PMS will go away."
"I don't have PMS."
"Yeah, but you're being a bitch."
I leaked that I had a secret. But only because he mentioned he and a friend were making jokes at my expense. And something I didn't quite catch about skeeball. I was mad. I think I had a right to be mad.
Hmph.
So my boyfriend is absolved on one account. My parents are not going to the shore this weekend. But now we're in a spat. A battle of who can keep secrets longer.
"If you tell me, you'll feel so much better."
"I feel fine."
"If you tell me, your PMS will go away."
"I don't have PMS."
"Yeah, but you're being a bitch."
I leaked that I had a secret. But only because he mentioned he and a friend were making jokes at my expense. And something I didn't quite catch about skeeball. I was mad. I think I had a right to be mad.
Hmph.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
The Unforgivable Bulge
I cannot stop eating. But I must, must stop eating. Or I am going to puke. Although ... puking might be good. The boyfriend can forgive weekends with my parents, pseudo-panic attacks and even the fact that I write publicly about our love life.
He would not forgive another five pounds.
I cannot stop eating. But I must, must stop eating. Or I am going to puke. Although ... puking might be good. The boyfriend can forgive weekends with my parents, pseudo-panic attacks and even the fact that I write publicly about our love life.
He would not forgive another five pounds.
Monday, June 21, 2004
Guilt Trips and Getaways
My parents have invited the boyfriend on a weekend getaway and he doesn't want to go. He doesn't want to sit on a bus, doesn't want to miss his friend's party Saturday night, doesn't like sleeping on a sofa bed -- and doesn't even like the venue. If the boyfriend and I are mismatched, the boyfriend and my parents are infinitely more so.
"You know," the boyfriend said last night, "I should tell your mom she looks nice. Ask your dad about his practice. Talk to your sister about what she's doing this summer."
"You never do any of those things."
"I'm scared of your family."
But, today at least, he's talking like I actually convinced him otherwise. Part of me doesn't want to look. That part of me is convinced it is a mistake to use guilt to force him to do something he doesn't want to do. It will only backfire, like if he spends the entire trip complaining. Things inevitably go wrong, just because you said you didn't want them to.
But the other part of me thinks I have a good boyfriend. And that part is very glad.
My parents have invited the boyfriend on a weekend getaway and he doesn't want to go. He doesn't want to sit on a bus, doesn't want to miss his friend's party Saturday night, doesn't like sleeping on a sofa bed -- and doesn't even like the venue. If the boyfriend and I are mismatched, the boyfriend and my parents are infinitely more so.
"You know," the boyfriend said last night, "I should tell your mom she looks nice. Ask your dad about his practice. Talk to your sister about what she's doing this summer."
"You never do any of those things."
"I'm scared of your family."
But, today at least, he's talking like I actually convinced him otherwise. Part of me doesn't want to look. That part of me is convinced it is a mistake to use guilt to force him to do something he doesn't want to do. It will only backfire, like if he spends the entire trip complaining. Things inevitably go wrong, just because you said you didn't want them to.
But the other part of me thinks I have a good boyfriend. And that part is very glad.
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Joy to the world/All the boys and girls
Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea/Joy to you and me
Saturday, June 19, 2004
Swimmingly
So the part of me that needs to nurture something won out over the part of me that doesn't like animals. And now I have a new pet. Three to be exact, goldfish. They even have names: Flippy (the little one), Dippy (the biggest one) and Skippy (who is just right).
As far as I know, I'm doing pretty well as a pet owner ... that is, as far as I know, which isn't very much. But we're all alive, which for a goldfish really is an acomplishment.
At least I didn't bring home a rabbit. Then we'd really be in trouble.
So the part of me that needs to nurture something won out over the part of me that doesn't like animals. And now I have a new pet. Three to be exact, goldfish. They even have names: Flippy (the little one), Dippy (the biggest one) and Skippy (who is just right).
As far as I know, I'm doing pretty well as a pet owner ... that is, as far as I know, which isn't very much. But we're all alive, which for a goldfish really is an acomplishment.
At least I didn't bring home a rabbit. Then we'd really be in trouble.
Flippy, Dippy and Skippy having fun
New Home
Coming home from the pet store
Friday, June 18, 2004
Anniversary Musings
The boyfriend and I are entirely wrong for each other. I don't mean we're opposites, and therefore we should attract. Right and left are opposites. Right and yellow is one of these things doesn't belong with the other.
We discuss it. I mean, we know we're mismatched. We know we fight about restaurants and clothes and sex and music and the meaning of life and whether you can simply play squash even if you're not good at it without turning it into a competitive sport.
I don't have a point, which is, I suppose, in a way, the point. We should not be going out. But then sometimes we're so happy, so complacent, so warm. The karma gods completely screwed up on this one (or were simply bored on the night of Dec. 11, 2001, when we should have had our one night stand and been done with each other. But I pushed his hand away and sent him home. One week later, he asked me out on an official date.)
We've been together ever since.
The boyfriend and I are entirely wrong for each other. I don't mean we're opposites, and therefore we should attract. Right and left are opposites. Right and yellow is one of these things doesn't belong with the other.
We discuss it. I mean, we know we're mismatched. We know we fight about restaurants and clothes and sex and music and the meaning of life and whether you can simply play squash even if you're not good at it without turning it into a competitive sport.
I don't have a point, which is, I suppose, in a way, the point. We should not be going out. But then sometimes we're so happy, so complacent, so warm. The karma gods completely screwed up on this one (or were simply bored on the night of Dec. 11, 2001, when we should have had our one night stand and been done with each other. But I pushed his hand away and sent him home. One week later, he asked me out on an official date.)
We've been together ever since.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Colorful Feet
My first pair of pink New York ballet shoes dyed my feet red. As if I'd been out late stomping around in jello instead of having a beer with my coworkers. When the editor-in-chief calls an impromptu Happy Hour at a bar across the street from the office -- you go. But I had fun anyway. Two editors got tipsy and told me how thrilled they are to have me.
And so I went home tonight, a little drunk, a little tired, a little misty-headed, a little content to be exactly where I was. The Q train chugged over the Manhattan Bridge as the thunder storm swirled around us, me and my sketchy, poker-faced commuters, the whole scene reminiscent of a movie from the mid-1990s, after which I wanted to be a druggie, if only for this one night.
And on Seventh Avenue there were people out -- hardy people! -- people shrieking and squealing and gripping each other under $3 umbrellas that had been purchased on a street corner. New Yorkers battling the elements.
I get sentimental over the biggest nothings.
My first pair of pink New York ballet shoes dyed my feet red. As if I'd been out late stomping around in jello instead of having a beer with my coworkers. When the editor-in-chief calls an impromptu Happy Hour at a bar across the street from the office -- you go. But I had fun anyway. Two editors got tipsy and told me how thrilled they are to have me.
And so I went home tonight, a little drunk, a little tired, a little misty-headed, a little content to be exactly where I was. The Q train chugged over the Manhattan Bridge as the thunder storm swirled around us, me and my sketchy, poker-faced commuters, the whole scene reminiscent of a movie from the mid-1990s, after which I wanted to be a druggie, if only for this one night.
And on Seventh Avenue there were people out -- hardy people! -- people shrieking and squealing and gripping each other under $3 umbrellas that had been purchased on a street corner. New Yorkers battling the elements.
I get sentimental over the biggest nothings.
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Some People Got to Have It
I watch Sex & the City reruns and fantasize about the time when I am going to be very rich. I do broke 20-something very well. What I don't do well is gold-digging 20-something.
I am:
Too short.
Too brunette.
Too Jewish.
Too adverse to high heels.
Too big in the thighs.
Too shy.
Too squeaky.
Sometimes I rummage in my boyfriend's pockets to practice. But all I come with is a lost button, a stick of gum and the chewed off eraser from a Number 2 pencil.
I watch Sex & the City reruns and fantasize about the time when I am going to be very rich. I do broke 20-something very well. What I don't do well is gold-digging 20-something.
I am:
Too short.
Too brunette.
Too Jewish.
Too adverse to high heels.
Too big in the thighs.
Too shy.
Too squeaky.
Sometimes I rummage in my boyfriend's pockets to practice. But all I come with is a lost button, a stick of gum and the chewed off eraser from a Number 2 pencil.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Another New York Costs Too Much Rant
How did I manage to go through $40 worth of gas this month? I have one oven in my apartment ... it has three measly pilot lights. I turn them up once a week, maybe twice. I mean, really. Really.
I'm done.
How did I manage to go through $40 worth of gas this month? I have one oven in my apartment ... it has three measly pilot lights. I turn them up once a week, maybe twice. I mean, really. Really.
I'm done.
Audrey Hepburn Day
But perhaps I'm too serious. If I'm going to be young, I might as well embrace young.
I can finally say with confidence that my superiors at work don't hate me (this is always a concern when starting a new job). I'm cute at work these days. I get patted on the head and told I look nice. They let me draw on the dry-erase board. And today someone called me a lazy bum -- but it was definitely in that sarcastic, I'm-impressed-with-you kind of way.
But perhaps I'm too serious. If I'm going to be young, I might as well embrace young.
I can finally say with confidence that my superiors at work don't hate me (this is always a concern when starting a new job). I'm cute at work these days. I get patted on the head and told I look nice. They let me draw on the dry-erase board. And today someone called me a lazy bum -- but it was definitely in that sarcastic, I'm-impressed-with-you kind of way.
Sunday, June 13, 2004
And then ...
And then real life kicks in. After a weekend of gay pride, Thailand, open containers and Windex (the ingredients of old college stories), I met up with my sister.
My sister, three years younger, is the person I call when I need someone on the other end to convince me that whatever it is, it's not going to make me die. Like when my apartment was completely uninhabitable, she orchestrated the entire clean-up effort, and took me out to dinner so I didn't have to spend my first night in a new city alone.
And then.
Sometimes it seems her life moves faster than mine. Her friends (like most of my former yeshiva classmates) are orthodox Jews, and at 20, they're getting engaged, planning weddings, and, within a year, bringing home their first sons from the hospital, inviting the entire community to the bris.
And then.
One of her oldest friends is having brain surgery to remove a tumor on Thursday. I can't stop thinking about it. Sweet kid. 20. Doesn't deserve it. Etc.
These things happened before. Marriage, children, illness. But it's happening now to people we know, my sister and I. We're a part of time somehow. We make things happen in the world, and things happen to us. Adults now.
And then it's just me at my computer. And it's almost too much, you know?
And then real life kicks in. After a weekend of gay pride, Thailand, open containers and Windex (the ingredients of old college stories), I met up with my sister.
My sister, three years younger, is the person I call when I need someone on the other end to convince me that whatever it is, it's not going to make me die. Like when my apartment was completely uninhabitable, she orchestrated the entire clean-up effort, and took me out to dinner so I didn't have to spend my first night in a new city alone.
And then.
Sometimes it seems her life moves faster than mine. Her friends (like most of my former yeshiva classmates) are orthodox Jews, and at 20, they're getting engaged, planning weddings, and, within a year, bringing home their first sons from the hospital, inviting the entire community to the bris.
And then.
One of her oldest friends is having brain surgery to remove a tumor on Thursday. I can't stop thinking about it. Sweet kid. 20. Doesn't deserve it. Etc.
These things happened before. Marriage, children, illness. But it's happening now to people we know, my sister and I. We're a part of time somehow. We make things happen in the world, and things happen to us. Adults now.
And then it's just me at my computer. And it's almost too much, you know?
Friday, June 11, 2004
Dancing With Myself
Today I put on music and danced in front of the mirror like I was 17 again. And I felt that desirable again, that free. Here's to 17.
Today I put on music and danced in front of the mirror like I was 17 again. And I felt that desirable again, that free. Here's to 17.
Three things:
I saw a friend Thursday night who is a calming influence. I’d run down mothers in baby carriages if weren’t watching myself. This friend has “European manners.” That’s my grandfather’s term. My grandfather prided himself on his European manners. My grandfather had a temper though. I suppose that’s really besides the point.
The milk man at the coffee shop told me I smell good today. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe you always smell good.”
I fried my cable modem by plugging it into the same (three-outlet) extension cord as my air conditioner. Now I only have sporadic Internet – if that.
I saw a friend Thursday night who is a calming influence. I’d run down mothers in baby carriages if weren’t watching myself. This friend has “European manners.” That’s my grandfather’s term. My grandfather prided himself on his European manners. My grandfather had a temper though. I suppose that’s really besides the point.
The milk man at the coffee shop told me I smell good today. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe you always smell good.”
I fried my cable modem by plugging it into the same (three-outlet) extension cord as my air conditioner. Now I only have sporadic Internet – if that.
Monday, June 07, 2004
Love Thy Fellow Commuter
No one calls me subtle.
If you're walking too slow, I will crowd you on the stairs, maybe even step on the backs of your shoes. And if you're being annoying on the subway (playing a discman too loud, snapping gum or -- god forbid -- singing), I'll give you dirty looks, shake my head in disgust, sigh audibly and/or get up and move to the other end of the car.
This phase of my life: learning to get along with other people.
No one calls me subtle.
If you're walking too slow, I will crowd you on the stairs, maybe even step on the backs of your shoes. And if you're being annoying on the subway (playing a discman too loud, snapping gum or -- god forbid -- singing), I'll give you dirty looks, shake my head in disgust, sigh audibly and/or get up and move to the other end of the car.
This phase of my life: learning to get along with other people.
Sunday, June 06, 2004
To Each Her Own
Coming home from yoga today I saw a man walking a ferret. Men shouldn't own ferrets. And if they do, they shouldn't advertise. Of course, I suppose in New York, you're not supposed to watch what other people are doing. We all consent that the only way we can get any privacy is to stare at our feet all day. Otherwise, it would be too much to bear.
Of course, I should talk. I walked home from yoga in a pair of medical scrubs (I wear my father's uniform) and an over-sized Stuyvesant T-shirt. If I saw me on the street I'd think I were the type of person who drives me crazy by refusing to get dressed on Sundays.
But anyway. Cute thing the boyfriend got for me? A mousepad with a bunny on it. Not a cartoon bunny but a real, live cottontail. Maybe I'll write more often.
Coming home from yoga today I saw a man walking a ferret. Men shouldn't own ferrets. And if they do, they shouldn't advertise. Of course, I suppose in New York, you're not supposed to watch what other people are doing. We all consent that the only way we can get any privacy is to stare at our feet all day. Otherwise, it would be too much to bear.
Of course, I should talk. I walked home from yoga in a pair of medical scrubs (I wear my father's uniform) and an over-sized Stuyvesant T-shirt. If I saw me on the street I'd think I were the type of person who drives me crazy by refusing to get dressed on Sundays.
But anyway. Cute thing the boyfriend got for me? A mousepad with a bunny on it. Not a cartoon bunny but a real, live cottontail. Maybe I'll write more often.
Saturday, June 05, 2004
Secrets Revealed
You may know I work in journalism. This week, one of my sources, when pitching a story, said she had done some "research" about me before calling. She then said where I went to college, as if to show off.
I found the whole thing creepy. Even though I "research" people for a living, you should never, ever go around telling people you do so. Because where did she get her research? Did she also know that in 2002 I sold three essays to gradesaver.com, which are now fully available through Google and reveal that I forked over my dignity and ethics to the tune of $75?
(Apparently, according to Google, it's the third most popular site people access after they search for my name. Oh, the shame.)
Let this be a lesson to you. Never tell anyone you were actively snooping about them; better to say that the information was something you "heard" (people secretly love to know that other people are talking about them.)
I mean, the boyfriend isn't even aware that I know he was in Math Club in high school (Math Club, hehe.)
You may know I work in journalism. This week, one of my sources, when pitching a story, said she had done some "research" about me before calling. She then said where I went to college, as if to show off.
I found the whole thing creepy. Even though I "research" people for a living, you should never, ever go around telling people you do so. Because where did she get her research? Did she also know that in 2002 I sold three essays to gradesaver.com, which are now fully available through Google and reveal that I forked over my dignity and ethics to the tune of $75?
(Apparently, according to Google, it's the third most popular site people access after they search for my name. Oh, the shame.)
Let this be a lesson to you. Never tell anyone you were actively snooping about them; better to say that the information was something you "heard" (people secretly love to know that other people are talking about them.)
I mean, the boyfriend isn't even aware that I know he was in Math Club in high school (Math Club, hehe.)
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
22.5
Misplaced sentimentality aside, today is my half birthday (which I trust you'll remember a half year from now, and send me an e-card.) It bothers me a little less, this getting old business. Funny thing, though: the less it bothers me, the more disconnected I feel from teen me, who was more existential, more philosophical, and really much more introverted. And very quiet, if you must know. She wrote fiction and didn't eat very much.
Not to say that I want to get old, but ever since moving to New York, "getting old" has meant something more than "nesting." (I like that word, nesting. A new friend at work used it recently. As in, the nesting stage.) It means -- getting old means -- opportunity, for once. Building a resume. Making good money. Going out to bars. Having the kind of fun that doesn't involve your shoes sticking to the floor.
(And now a word from our sponsors: It's not a good idea to eat chocolate Marinos ices near your white duvet cover, even if your New York apartment is so small that your computer is practically on top of your bed. Wash and fold!)
Misplaced sentimentality aside, today is my half birthday (which I trust you'll remember a half year from now, and send me an e-card.) It bothers me a little less, this getting old business. Funny thing, though: the less it bothers me, the more disconnected I feel from teen me, who was more existential, more philosophical, and really much more introverted. And very quiet, if you must know. She wrote fiction and didn't eat very much.
Not to say that I want to get old, but ever since moving to New York, "getting old" has meant something more than "nesting." (I like that word, nesting. A new friend at work used it recently. As in, the nesting stage.) It means -- getting old means -- opportunity, for once. Building a resume. Making good money. Going out to bars. Having the kind of fun that doesn't involve your shoes sticking to the floor.
(And now a word from our sponsors: It's not a good idea to eat chocolate Marinos ices near your white duvet cover, even if your New York apartment is so small that your computer is practically on top of your bed. Wash and fold!)
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Downtown San Diego
Don't jump! Gaslamp District, San Diego
One of many cigar and coffee shops, Gaslamp District, San Diego
Trolley, San Diego
San Diego Convention Center
Figures I'd get lost in front of this store ...
Outdoor mall (I'd find one), San Diego
Alcon's shameless promotion, American Society of Cataract and Refractive Surgeons, San Diego
Famous chocolate shop, San Diego
Cruise ship, San Diego
