light-to-moderate fury

[bearfeathers]

As I write this I am making sure that the drug I have to go learn to inject myself with in 20 minutes is still cool in the refrigerator. Who knew that you could get rheumatoid arthritis from anger misdirected towards the self? Apparently my acupuncturist knew this--I did not. I thought you could only get cancer that way. Well, live and learn.

I will be injecting this drug into my fat, which you would think leave a person a good number of options of injection sites. But it turns out you can only use your abdomen, top of your thigh, or the back of your arm. I have no idea how I would inject the back of my arm by myself, and I don't seem to have tons of fat on my front thigh, so abdomen it is.

When I found out that I was angry I was actually somewhat relieved, because only then did I understand why I had been so into improv and comedy in general. Because I've heard that if you're not angry, then you're probably not very funny. Apparently now I'm so funny I've made myself sick. Awesome. Hopefully someday this means I'll stand up on a stage, or in front of a camera, and make a large audience very, very ill.

Before I leave, here is one annoyance of the day: People on the street who cannot walk in a straight line. Also families on the street who hold hands and together form a chain that you can't get through without stepping into the street or scraping your body up against a building. I want to play Red Rover with these people and just run through one of their links, potentially spraining a finger. Except then if I made it that would mean that I would have to take one of them home with me to be on "my team", and I don't have the room in my apartment for another person.

 

[bearfeathers]

needling

Well, I did it. I learned to inject myself. I have to say, I'm a bit proud that I was able to do it. I hadn't thought to bring someone else with me--and for a moment when I saw that the other woman who was there to learn with me had brought her husband, I felt a bit wistful that I would be doing this alone. That is, I felt this way until I witnessed the machinery of their relationship, clacking and grinding away before my eyes:

Him: "No, don't hold it like that--don't touch the plunger--hold it like a pen! No, hold it like a dart!"

Her: "You're not the nurse! I want to hear it from the nurse, not from you."

Him: "Stop wiggling the needle around."

Her: "My hands are shaking!"

"I know, and that's why you won't be the one doing the injection" he quipped smugly, giving me a knowing glance that said, "look what I have to deal with".

So I finished up and left, and bought myself a book as a reward. Madame Bovary. I need to read about self-destructive women. I also need an excuse to put down my hardbound copy of The Tale of Genji for the second time. I have a two-volume set, and I can't seem to get past page 10. This is a book I will have to take a running leap at. Perhaps over and over. Or perhaps I will need to get into a cannon and have someone light a fuse and aim me right at the book. Whatever it's going to take is more than I have in me right now. So 19th Century smut and moral breakdown in softcover for 3 bucks seemed to be a fresh breeze from the sea in comparison.

God I hate my job. I hate it more than I hated my last one, and I devoted about 80 pages of bile to my last one. I don't even want to get into it here because then I will never stop complaining. I'm trying to transfer that energy into job-seeking. Who out there is in radio? I need some contacts.

 

[bearfeathers]

green luck

Now I think I want to be a gardener. It would get me out of the office and moving green things around with my hands, instead of moving black and white things around with my mind. I have accumulated all these random skills, though, that don't seem to go together in any comprehensible way: sewing, yoga teacher-certified, editorial--and then I swim every day and now I want to create a fucking GARDEN in my room, and then get other people to buy my services so I can create a fucking garden in THEIR room, and then they'll pay me and I'll never have to sit alone at a computer terminal in front of some dirty blasting air conditioner all day long while I surf the web or stare at an air shaft and berate myself for being so goddamned expendable. Sigh. Only 90 minutes until I can go to lunch.

I don't know that I have anything positive to say.

A greener-than-normal grasshopper-type thing came into our apartment last night and hung out by the stove. As far as I know, it's still in there somewhere. My roommate declared that it was good luck, so neither of us were inclined to carry it out in the tupperware bug container we use to escort insects to the outdoors when they wander inside. I need the luck so badly I almost ate it. Would that be worse luck though?

 

[bearfeathers]

man

I hate it when guys refer to their girlfriends as "man". As in, a date-y looking couple walking down 7th ave in brooklyn at night, and he says to her, "I don't know, man--" and the rest doesn't matter because he just called her "man", and if it were me, that would probably be the mental off switch for the rest of the date. Maybe he knows more than I do. Maybe she's a transvestite. But I don't think so. She was too small and too Asian. Which means she's probably too polite to say "don't call me 'man', you blathering lummox. Go back to your frat house". No, she probably just giggled and touched his arm.

I'm hungry. I'm waiting for Richard to drive in from some foundry in Pennsylvania so we can go have sushi and then try to sleep in my very very warm apartment. I'm not a big believer in air conditioners, but these last few days in August when I'm trying to sleep, once in a while I wish I could just borrow one from an air conditioner library and have it for a few days. And then give it back. I figure, what's wrong with being hot for a few days/weeks? Is it going to kill anyone? (Except the elderly, whom we're supposed to be checking on anyway). And could air conditioners be any uglier or bigger or heavier or more difficult to install/uninstall? So, I guess until I am dating another guy who insists on having one, I will just rely on my dirty, but aesthetically pleasing fan to blow the seasonally-appropriate warm air over my body as I lay on top of the covers.

I got a job interview. Actually I had one last week for something I'm overqualified for, but may do anyway. But that interview led to this interview which could be for a full-time job in November. Which is great--I mean, I had sort of given up on the possibility of decent, full-time jobs. But the flip side of that is that I'm not sure I'm that into decent, full-time jobs anymore. Aside from health insurance, which seems to be the only tangible perk. But I won't turn down an interview. I will act excited, even if it turns out to be shoveling horse poop from one bin of horse poop to another. Actually, that sounds more gratifying than any desk job I've had in nearly a decade.

God, nearly a decade. I hate that. I can't express how much I hate that. It's scary. When I think of that amount of time spent in front of a computer, I can't belive I'm not dead yet. That I haven't just rotted right into my scratchy chair on wheels. Or that I haven't just melted into one giant ass. Maybe I've spoken too soon.

 

[bearfeathers]

salt of the earth

My morning swim felt surprisingly light and easy today, even though I ended up going farther and faster than I normally do. Huh. This is even after eating a very salty Mexican meal last night. Perhaps salt and burritos are my elixir. Or perhaps it's sleeping in a hot room with no air conditioning. Or, should I say, "sleeping". Because when it's that hot, it's not so much sleeping as lying on top of the covers with your eyes 2/3 of the way shut, fully awake.
I didn't get that part-time job. Which, for some reason, even though I am way overqualified and I don't really need another part-time job--I'm disappointed about. I have another interview on Thursday, so I'm just biding my time until then, I guess. Which I hate. Oh, how I long to quit. I think I'm going to have to break down and start writing a book. About...something. How great would it be to get an advance? And have enough to live on for say, 6 months to a year? Man. That would be, in irc parlance, awesome. Even if it's poverty-level money. The thought that I could just work by myself on my own terms for months at a time is pretty mind-blowing. But then I think of all those 19th century authors who worked as clerks and had 17 hungry children and managed to bang out masterpieces in their "spare time" writing with scraggly quill pens by candlelight with nothing to eat but a soggy shred of bread, and I think--what is MY problem?
Anyway, I'm just waiting for lunch. I spent the morning looking at grad school websites, for what I don't know. Anything. Some glimmer of hope. Something to spring the trap. And tonight I will be injecting myself again.

 

[bearfeathers]

color, texture, taste

I had a bubble tea for lunch. Excuse me. Not "for" lunch. "With" lunch. That was 2 1/2 hours ago. During which time I've learned that if I'm ever to have milk coconut black bubble tea again, it WILL be lunch. Not an accompaniment. And now I fear I've gone and messed up my daily points value. You see, I'm doing Weight Watchers. Not because I'm terribly fat, but just because I just want to. It seems like a good thing to do at this time. Something to focus on. I've lost 10 and I'd like to go down another 15, if I possibly can, but I'm starting to realize now that this is going to take working out twice a day. I already swim in the mornings, and the chlorine has eaten through two of my swimsuits, and in fact I'm going to Paragon after work to buy another one. This one, maybe I'll get a different color. Blue. Green. Maroon. ORANGE. If they have it.
Anyway I'm very preoccupied (to avoid using the word "obsessed") with my points value (20 points allotted per day, 35 extra per week!), which I fear I have blown away by having that bubble tea at lunch. Which means I'll be doing yoga this evening. And having something like mushrooms, tomatoes, popcorn for dinner. Popcorn with salt, not butter. Sigh.
Anyway. It's my sister's birthday today and I made her a bag out of this hairy material that looks just like her dog--or, looks like she had another dog at one point that she skinned and made into a bag. That was the idea, anyway. And I'm pretty sure she hasn't gotten it yet, because I think I would have gotten a screaming phone call by now.
Wow, you know what? I just read back and suddenly remembered that when I was in junior high gym class, and we got to the swimming unit, we all had to wear school-issued swimsuits--these thick polyester things from the 50s with really unflattering cuts--low-cut is an understatement here--they were color coded according to size. Little petite girls got the red suits. The tiny ones. The stringy but tall girls got the green suits. The athlete German body types got the blue. And then the larger-than-normal girls got the maroon. I won't tell you which one I got, except to say that I didn't get red, green, or maroon. Yeah. So of course I want an orange suit now. Free me from the judgement of 1987-1989.
One last note about the Republican National Convention: Why must people dress like the worst-case scenario stereotype of their respective parties? I saw a woman outside a bar yesterday with a red power suit on, meticulously coiffed (dyed) blonde hair, lots of makeup, and (the killer) a huge American flag scarf tied around her neck. You don't even have to take a second look. She's a Republican.
But then I was at Union Square earlier, where a few protester/musicians were coming through. 2 out of 3 of them were barefoot. In New York City. Please. That doesn't make your earthy, unless you consider scabies and bacterial/fungal infections earthy. 2 out of 3 also had rips strategically placed in their studiedly sloppy/post-hippie attire, which they had very carefully and artistically fixed up with a few well-placed safety pins. Oh, and also the requisite long, dark curly hair and shiny,makeup-free faces. Democrats! Can't we come up with a new look? Must we lean so heavily on stereotypes of the 60s? Do I have to have a hemp bag and a nosering to share your views?
Bubble tea. It comes surging back when I get a little worked up. Anyway I have two more hours to kill here, and I think I can do it. Then I will have gotten through the entire day doing absolutely nothing. Not bad.

 

[bearfeathers]

wow, you're still there

I just got off the phone with a friend, and then my cousin, both of whom live in San Francisco, trying to arrange our trip there next week. Whenever I talk to Johanna, I get this reaction from her:

"God, I can't believe how LONG you've lived in New York!"

Let's dissect this comment, as it doesn't seem to be going away.

1. Where the hell else am I supposed to go?

2. What the hell am I supposed to do if I go somewhere else?

3. This is not to say I don't have daily fantasies of moving somewhere where I can afford my own place (nowhere)--a place filled with trees and plants and water somewhere nearby, and lots of places to walk and sit and read where it's quiet, and I don't have to contend with urban mothers breastfeeding in public and trying to act natural because breastfeeding is a beautiful, natural thing to do. Technically sex is a beautiful, natural thing to do, too, but I don't sweep your latte off the table and get down to business right in front of you in a coffeeshop. And if I did, I wouldn't expect you to be cool about it.

4. I don't remember what I started this list about.

So, anyway. I'm supposed to be writing this outline for this show that may or may not happen, someday in the future, perhaps on the radio--and I'm trying to muster up the motivation to go do that. Even though I've already written said outline, but stupidly overwrote it later, and when since said radio host who may be producing the show seems to have lost my original outline, I have to go re-write this thing. And there's little more distasteful than trying to rewrite something you already did. It's like it's dead to me, and I have to revive it. Maybe I can make it better. A ha ha. Meanwhile I think I'm allergic to something in my room. Maybe it's the plant I just hauled up out of the garbage bin in front of my apartment--for the pot--and then discovering it was still alive, kept a piece of it to see if I could bring it back to life. Maybe this is one of those scenarios when a kid brings home some toy she found on the playground, and it turns out to be haunted or cursed or both, and then bad things start happening and people start dying and no one knows why, and then I'll wake up one night because I can't breathe very well, and I'll wake up staring this plant right in the face, its sickly tentacles wrapped around my neck, squeezing just a little bit harder by the minute.

Or everything could turn out fine.

 

[bearfeathers]

buoyant

Good attitude good attitude good attitude. If I can maintain this for 36 more minutes I will have gotten through an entire day without imploding with fury. And that no small feat given it's a Monday and sitting here all day technically is as boring as ever. 35 more minutes.
I keep checking my injection site. For some reason, either I've gotten sloppier, or else my body is starting to recognize this medication as "other" more readily, I've been having more reaction to it in the last 2 injections than in the first three or so. It's not AWFUL, but there it is. My bruise from last week is just starting to fade and now I have this red, kind of raised and somewhat itchy patch directly opposite from where I stuck myself last night. It looks like a bee bite or something. I wonder if I'm allergic or if this is normal.
Tonight is a Battery Park City committee meeting, and I have to be aware that our 400-pound angry-woman board member will be showing up, and lo and behold there will be special security arrangements to get her in and out of the door, because she can't fit through the revolving door in her wheelchair, and also it would take 15 men to pick her wheelchair up the 1-inch step into our building. OK. Is that not incentive to drop a few pounds? When you have to have a whole fucking STAFF to move you around? My boss told me this morning that the deal is that she is "addicted to candy". Yeah well, so am I. But you can't let candy defeat you. She's disgusting, truly. It's even hard to have compassion for her because she's such a vociferously angry, pushy, miserable wretch who clearly revels her "victim" status, which is effectively maintained by her primary stakeholder status at Krispy Kreme.
Wow, so, this is what my positive mood looks like. Eat it. No, dont.
What else. Yeah, I went swimming this morning, and it still feels good. A nice slow swim, people apparently have forgotten about the pool since Labor Day. I'm hoping now that summer is over, and people are letting swimsuit worries go, that we'll have a reprieve from the overcrowding at least until people start making their New Years' resolutions, in which case I'll have to take a break and do something else for a while.

 

[bearfeathers]

cabbage

Right now I shoudl be writing sketches about money. It's my assignment, and yet I am as uninspired as ever. Wheedling, pleading, begging. Generally not funny things, although they are somewhat funny (occasionally) when they happen on the train. But this is for a Minnesota audience, and they don't "get" subways. Or care about them. I care about them right now to the extent that I'm hoping mine hasn't been flooded out so that I can get back to Brooklyn, pack my bags, go back to Manhattan, drop bags off, get some dinner, and then head down to the Juvie opening night party. For a little while. Then back home, to sleep, and then up and out for yoga, and then we leave for San Fran. That's too much crap in a 12-hour period. Sometimes all I want is just to have the time to go to sleep. Early. And close my door and not have anyone come in. This is my big luxury of late. I realized today that I spend almost all my free time fighting other people for stuff---fighting for my swim lane, fighting for the shower, fighting for a spot to sit at breakfast, and lunch, fighting for jobs, fighting for a raise, fighting my insurance company to pay for a procedure I fought my doctor about--Gack. Is this what life is? If so, it's pretty tedious. Ok. Well anyway. Speaking of tedious, back to the money.

Laura

 

[bearfeathers]

excusez moi

I hate people who say "say it again?", or "say it again, please?" instead of "excuse me", "pardon me", or even "what", or "what's that?" The latter are all questions--as in, "I just missed what you said, could you please repeat it"? whereas the former is a boorish imperative. "I didn't hear what you said, and so you WILL say it again". And here is my answer to that:

No. I don't want to say it again. Fuck off. Learn how to listen.

Then again I have been saying "Jesus Christ" a lot lately, which I didn't used to do, including just now when I discovered that the girl who answers the phone at my gynecologist's office, who has probably been socially promoted since the 3rd grade, \ hasn't yet called in my prescription, meaning I'm going to be at least a day late with my pill, putting me at a minor risk of becoming pregnant, which I know technically wouldn't be her fault if I did, but emotionally I feel that I would have to bring her to court.

Say it again? Sorry, I wasn't listening.

This is the bane of my existence. As it was in school. Idiots who raise their hands and, in a mock-intelligent, perhaps faux-British accent, ask the same question that was asked about 20 minutes ago by the geek in the back, except they didn't hear it because they breezed in late looking dewey, flashing an engagement ring, and finishing up a cellphone conversation with the phrase, "see ya Babe".

Say it again please? Please fuck off.