Responsibility

I want no responsibility. I'll throw my money away on rent for the rest of my life to avoid the responsibility of home-ownership. I think that puts me in the upper echelon of lazy.

--

I'm realizing that one of the most unpleasant parts of my job is being held responsible for substantive knowledge. I absolutely do not want this responsibility. I do not think I care nearly enough about the subject matter to want to master it. And I know I do not care enough about it to put effort in to get it right every time. I'm careless, and I'm lazy. So I'll overlook things just to get them done. The degree of investment and dedication that it would take to try (because you can never be right 100% of the time) to get things as close to right as possible is simply not in me. If it were my own stuff, yes, but anyone else's stuff, no. (I guess that makes me selfish, too.) I cannot surrender myself to the material I am working on, but I think that's what this job entails. I'm supposed to know my stuff, and I just don't want to.

--

That said, I think I truly need to re-think the direction of my life. This is not immaturity talking, it's preference. There's other stuff I want to know and master and get right, but the stuff I'm working with certainly is not it. I either need a clerical job, where I don't have to make any decisions, or else I need to be the master of my own domain, where my selfishness will drive me to get things right, surrender myself, and take responsibility. Because I have no interest in assuming responsibility (and thus accountability) for stuff that's not mine.

Cancer or VA Tech

It's been a long time since I have felt the need or desire to be comforted by my parents. Swaths of differences keep us emotionally separated, so once my needs evolved from a) a desire for sympathy due to a cold/headache to b) a desire for guidance or wisdom (which was probably around the age of 13), I found myself relying on other sources.

--

Last week was extremely difficult at work. I couldn't eat, and yes, I shed some tears. I then surprised myself (this seems to happen often lately - recall: St. John suit) when I decided I wanted to call home at the end of the week to tell my parents about how awful things were going.

--

I reiterate that my parents and I are not close--I don't keep them updated on my life outside of the big, completely unconcealable events, e.g., moving out of the state, starting school, etc. and the small, completely meaningless events, e.g., where I buy my groceries, because anything in the middle ground does nothing to my parents (read: my mother) but elicit disproportionate, if not completely unwarranted, worry, stress, or pity. [Note: my mother will find a reason to pity anything.]

--

I called and told my mother (my dad gets almost everything 2ndhand) about my working life with uncharacteristic candor and a bit of reckless abandon, since I usually work hard to censor whatever I say to them. It was a time of need, and I wanted to unveil the truth because I was seeking something that I didn't think I could find elsewhere.

--

I realize now that I was suffering from the very same feeling of helplessness that I felt as a child when I was sick. I wanted reassurance that I was OK. Unconditional pride in me as a person. It's been 15 years since I've had to turn to my parents, and this recent episode makes me wonder what it all means.

1. working in this field will turn you into an 8-year-old
2. that's what parents are for (is it? i wouldn't know)
3. the more things change the more things stay the same

Anyway, as to be expected, I, and my job, are now objects of great concern. It's said that a) I am going to turn into the VA Tech guy and b)the job is going to give me cancer.

You Asked for It

actually, no one inquired about cats electrified by stress. but how could i forego this opportunity to assail you with the hideous sine qua non of visual depections of stress? i wonder if brits working in offices anthropomorphise cats, too.

Work

Today at work was a sitcom episode starring yours truly.

1. wake up late


2. run around trying to find something to wear, iron something new, it doesn't fit right, so i chuck it and opt for a haphazard ensemble


3. get to work 20 minutes late. i thus far have no set time of arrival, though i've been getting there by 9:05am. it usually would not matter when i arrive because only the secretary gets there before 10.


4. as i walk in, gentle awesome secretary breathes a sigh of relief, tells me she just left me a cell phone message because scary boss called before 9am (unprecedented!) looking for me (unprecedented!) to do some urgent things, putting secretary in a panic trying to take care of it since i wasn't there and boss will throw a fit if it's not done


5. boss breezes through an hour later, leaves, then immediately returns, politely yelling down the hall asking me (again, unprecedented!) if i can take the paper in her hand to secretary. i move to get up from my desk and magically fall while yelping, arms thrown up in the air, due to an unexpected open drawer in my pathway. boss disappears (who needs this degree of incompetence, right?). in severe pain, i regain control of my body and limp after her. 3rd degree brusing down my entire right leg. 12 hours later it still hurts to walk, move, and sometimes simply to be.


6. 15 minutes to quittin' time, i ask my superior for guidance on something. superior immediately freaks out and calls the boss who is in another part of the building: "is [this] what you were looking for?" ("yes.") "no, [yours truly] hasn't done it; no, i don't understand either why [yours truly] didn't know to do it earlier; yes, [yours truly] will get it done."


7. get schooled (politely . . . and finally) [upshot: superior takes the blame (and 80% rightly so) when the boss comes back into the office]


8. stay at work until 8pm.

Goodnight.

you're lucky i'm not putting up a picture of an electrocuted cat

Screw!

In my ongoing struggle to 1) have storage space and 2) get moved in, I managed to a) use my new drill and b) create a huge hole in the wall. I have no idea if I used the drill properly [in the past 3 years I have lost all interest in reading instruction manuals], nor am I sure that making that big hole advances my purpose. But drilling is fun. Plus, that big hole will give me an excuse to one day go to Home Depot to figure out how to patch it up so I can get my security deposit back.

I went to Home Depot today, in fact, and experienced the joy of the shop class I never took. I asked a fellow customer for assistance with drywall/hollow wall screw toggles or whatnot (look at me, the quick study). He was both knowledgable and obviously a screwing enthusiast. It always tickles me how interested complete strangers (usually men) have in anyone and everyone's building and vehicular projects. I also thoroughly enjoy how these people can have an entire conversation about intentions, specifications, and strategies. I desperately want to join this coterie, but I feel like there are so many fundamentals that I have absolutely no idea about. What is a hollow wall? What is drywall? I need a handymannery for dummies book.

Anyway, it looks like I got the wrong screws, so I have to go back to Home Depot tomorrow to buy this other type I had my eyes on. And my progress at moving in is once again stalled. Arrgh. With all this trouble I'm going through, I better stay in this apartment for at least 2 years.

down souf

i miss it!

To Do

1. put up shelves/wall cabinet from Ikea
2. go to Spence-Chapin store
3. figure out what to do with destroyed wardrobe (photograph and sell on craigslist?)
4. buy shoe rack and put in hallway closet (The Container Store?)
5. research frequently used Hebrew/Yiddish colloquialisms (so as to facilitate my socializing at work)
6. start looking for smaller dog beds
7. decide on health insurance. oy.
8. matzo ball soup
9. groceries, etc. (slippers, eye pencil sharpener, yadda yadda)

Converting to a Saint

Whenever I flip through a fashion magazine and see those St. John ads with that emotionally mature blond lady wearing those tedious conservative knit suits, I roll a pair of eyes that I keep tucked inside my brain (right behind my forehead, to be exact) and reaffirm my thoughts on how ugly, repetitive, and utterly incomprehensible the St. John clothing line is. In an equally incomprehensible maneuver, I up and bought a St. John suit this past weekend during my 2-hour wait for a rental car. It's surprisingly sumptuous, and I think I've been converted.

Update: I decided to pull up this picture to show you all how bad this lady and her outfit suck, but I can't seem to muster up the hate anymore. In fact, horror of horrors, I'm looking at the lines of that jacket and finding them quite alluring.

Lately, Itzo Notzo Crowded

Yesterday and today, it's been quiet at the workplace, and the subways have been waay less crowded during rush hour. Everyone's observing Rosh Hashanah! For largely inexplicable reasons, it gives me great pleasure to see how much impact a Jewish holiday can have on the pulse of life here. In celebration of my pleasure, I think I'll make use of some of the grocery items I trucked all the way from home and make a big pot of matzo ball soup this weekend.

Project Wardrobe

My gracious roommate and I attempted to assemble and move my 6+foot wardrobe last night. (you'll recall that this is the wardrobe I purchased from the not-projects). Aaanyway, I confirmed my developing belief that Ikea stuff is only good for 1 generation.

This thing is heavy, tall, and wide. We got it assembled as much as possible outside of my bedroom (where there's room to do so) and then, after great effort to clear a pathway, moved it inside my bedroom . Then we attempted to right it. A crashing buckling was heard, instantly sending mystified question marks through our respective heads as we tried to make heads or tails of what catastrophe was going to result from this uncontrollably collapsing structure. When the noise was over and the dust settled, I found myself sitting under a mountain of wood. My roommate was still standing, holding some parts of the wooden wardrobe in her petrified hands.

Close inspection revealed the consequences: broken dowels and torn particle board, causing gaping holes where screws were supposed to make a tight fit. This means that I won't be able to give this thing a second try. While I still support bargain hunting and used furniture, perhaps once-used Ikea products cannot honestly be deemed "furniture."

from this:

to this:

so sad!

Glitterati

On the walk home today, I saw 1) a red carpet rolled out on the steps of a fancy party room and 2) hip film crew members yukking it up during downtime for the shooting of "When in Vegas" (or maybe it was "What Happens in Vegas"). [note: my roommate caught a glimpse of a blond Ashton Kutcher & a gaunt Cameron Diaz.]

At first, it made me wistful for a career in a flashier industry, but then I remembered how annoyed and irritated I get when I'm in a flashy industry. One bothersome thought that often crosses my mind regarding the entertainment industry, for example, is how much money and talent goes toward the belaboring of an issue that ultimately does little to advance/contribute to society (e.g., how bright the dress should be that Christina Ricci wears as she walks across the street). True, we live in the first world, and thus things like wardrobe colors truly impact our lives, but the sizeable amount of time and energy that goes into considering such matters seems disporportionate to its worth.

On the other hand, is the laborious work of, say, a major corporate CEO really of greater import? I feel less apt to dismiss it, but I'm not sure why. More than that, I'm worried that my tolerance for corporate endeavors stems from an internalization of mainstream values that I do not wish to accept. Surely a great deal of time and energy goes into corporate decisions. Perhaps more money is involved. Is it this monetary difference that makes the work seem proportionate to the effort involved, i.e., because business generates money whereas the color of a wardrobe generates an aesthetic? This would suggest that I care more about money than aesthetics, which is a rather unfortunate realization, and wholly incongruent with my self-concept and hippie upbringing. If, through active resistance, I can bring a sea change to my thought process, then I think I will have to change my working life.

My Maternal Grandparentals Were Botanists

unfortunately, i learned nothing about thumbgreenery from them. do i need a bigger flower pot for the above-pictured plants? please advise--this is only my 1.5th time trying to raise foliage.

my mother has adopted my 1st plant, an aloe, which i forgot to bring with me when i moved. i'm typically disinclined toward raising anything without a purpose (unlike, e.g., aloe & basil, which are highly utilitarian), but i liked how these plants were called, simply, "tropical plants" (i do so love the tropics). in the middle pot, i will grow grass for Lil' Puff and i to remember the suburbs by (i do so love the suburbs).

Becoming a Regular

i hate getting called out by a customer service person who recognizes me as a regular. i've made it through a 1-week cycle of workers at my friendly neighborhood falafel truck (from where i've foraged a good 3+ meals already), and now we're on repeats. the weekend falafel guy (my favorite) got personal today.

"you live around here?"

"where are you from?"

with friendliness comes benefits: i got about a serving and a half this go round, plus a bonus side dish. nonetheless, i almost want to stop going there. even if i am doing something on the regular, being recognized for it through recurrent small talk forces me to confront the fact that i'm in some kind of a rut (in this case, street falafel take-out). and i rarely want to hear about my ruts until i'm well out of them.

moreover, continued patronage could lead to other disastrous consequences. e.g., i continue going, he continues the small talk, and before i know it, i've got smuggled falafels being shimmied up the drainpipe to my apartment window. [recall: samosas in the box office on the lower east side.]

i'm not quite ready to kick this habit yet, though, and fortunately, i definitely still have a few more weekday visits i can make--those weekday guys were totally in the weeds. but if by then i'm not falafeled out, i'll probably skip next weekend. boo hiss.

hv!

you know what they say: E = hv.

i wanted general overhead lighting in my new room. my ceilings are over 11 feet tall, though, so i thought i'd surely fall and bruise myself clambering up my makeshift ladder (comprised of furniture, sheets, and a step-stool) to reach the ceiling. it was nevertheless a risk i took in the name of illumination.

come visit and see the end result in person!

Zzzzzz

Today was my first day of reporting somewhere from roughly 9-5 and wearing a suit. The highlight was getting another photo ID card to add to my collection. It expires in 2013. Huh?!

I'm going to interact with Lil' Puff and then lay on my bed.

Blargh.

"Project Bitch" Redux

This evening I went to take a gander at an Ikea wardrobe (the piece of furniture) listed on craigslist that I was interested in buying. I misremembered the address and ended up in the projects. In addition to the riffraff that are said to live in such housing developments, there are supposed to be some entirely wholesome people. I had spoken to the seller, a one Ms. Cristina, on the phone earlier because I was of course running late. She sounded wholesome enough. But as I approached her project building, I surprised myself with a newfound disinterest in this highly sought-after item at a bargain basement price. Is a wardrobe a lesser wardrobe just because it lives in subsidized housing?

I hemmed & hawed and even considered bailing at the last minute. I had to remind myself that she was someone I felt comfortable doing business with--her ad on craigslist was grammatically correct, after all (though her email to me was not), and a lot of the stuff she was selling was right up my alley. Plus, it isn't often that I am granted entry to such buildings, so I figured I should take advantage of the opportunity to see what they're like on the inside (I've heard they can be pretty sweet).

Before crossing the threshold from the sidewalk to the grounds of the development, I double-checked the address in my datebook. I was one block off. Relief never felt so sweet. I high-tailed it a block north, seized once again with desire for this elusive Ikea wardrobe.

While it's the fool who thinks that the projects are completely safe or completely dangerous, it's the jerk who devalues something just because it comes from there.

Inside Job

The bad thing about moving in with a stranger who works in the same industry is that your early interactions can feel like an extended job interview. Home is where you're supposed to be able to let your guard down. I want a home and a job, but if forgetting to buy more dish detergent is going to jeopardize my career, I think I'd rather be homeless. What I'd pay to take a warp zone past this phase and get right to the point where my roommate adores me and we know we'll part ways as BFFs.

Settling In

It is with great pleasure that I report that Lil' Puff, Platypus, and Icee Bear have barely missed a beat in getting settled right in to their new abode.

OPT

Living with others necessarily entails looking at other people's things (you down wit OPT?). Just having to look at this every time I go to the sink makes me think twice about living with others.

What you are looking at is a pair of pink rubber gloves with a large diamonoid glued to the left ring finger. Not pictured are the cuffs, which are even more horrifying.

Darkness as Creativity Coxswain

you may have noticed that i am writing entries like i have the idiomatic nothing better to do. this is both true and false. i have a great deal of unpacking to do, which is a something better (i.e., more productive and urgent) to do--indeed, i'd made a to-do list just hours ago today (see earlier entry). but, while i did try to find lighting solutions, i did not succeed in finding even an acceptable temporary one. and so my room is dark. and it is 10pm EST. and i am a recluse. and so i write senseless entries here.

--

besides tirelessly documenting my life, my other current distraction from unpacking is dis seduction-in-a-bag rightchere:

Trader Joe's Papadums chips

apparently, fingers covered in fava bean powder, yogurt, and dill do not a diligent workerbee make.

Haste Makes Waste

one thing i've always enjoyed wherever i am is finding random stuff on the side of the street by serendipity. it's my prissy/lazy/squeamish way of dumpster diving. some of the best finds are made off of the streets of new york city (okay, so there's one reason to like this place). of course, the competition from my fellow cheapskates, hipsters, self-aggrandizing yippies, and the homeless (there's a homeless person inside of me that's just waiting to come out) means i have to act fast if i see something juicy.

last night, i found this set of linens that, despite their freshly laundered scent, i'm too scared of to treat with any respect.

i'll either wash them or return them to the streets, depending on how much i start hating them and how bad i feel about taking bounty that could have gone to a homeless person. i'm sure the former will end up being the deciding factor, since i've noticed that i'm starting to lose patience for homeless people.

What I'm Going For

Something like dis big over-the-bed shelving system right hurr. Credit: Ikea (Ivar Shelving)

To Do

Last night was my first night alone in my new apartment. I've often felt lonely in NYC, and so it was familiar and almost comforting to be here and lonely yesterday.

1) go to West Elm store in Chelsea to try to buy a bed

2) figure out a temporary lighting solution

3) unpack work clothes

4) (buy iron if necessary)

5) put boxes into categories

6) go to Ikea this weekend to purchase more permanent lighting solution

Since I couldn't sleep last night, I devoured some recent Trader Joe's acquisitions and did a little bit of unpacking of kitchen-related items. I haven't gotten out of bed yet this morning to see my nocturnal handiwork, but I actually think it might now look even worse than pictured.

I'm going to have to figure out what to do with my precious cast iron pots/pans and other valuable kitchenery--is it indeed time to live alone?

Soyrizo Tofu Scramble Night

As wacky as meals get: breakfast food. for dinner.On the menu this mid-August evening was:

• Soyrizo tofu scramble (soyrizo and seasoned tofu, crumbled and sauteed with onions, garlic, and fresh tomatoes)
• Hot buttered toast (one slice of sprouted grain sesame bread topped with melted European butter)
• Cup of fresh seasonal fruit

Work Starts Thursday

after a multi-year hiatus, i am returning to the real world. i approach it with a confounding mix of dread, jade, and optimism at the unlocked potential of being a full-time employee.

a regular income, retirement plan, and insurance. huh?! are these not merely the petty comforts of the bourgeoisie, too chicken to ride bareback? i'm no chicken! i like riding bareback! yet i want the experience of indulging my bouge background so i at least know what it is that in principal i reject so hard. the problem is that i worry that i'll like it. nay, i know i'll like it because i am but a member of the petty bourgeoisie myself. the question is: do i give in or continue reinventing the wheel [of life] because my everything must be a revolution? [N.B. the revolution is exhausting: i want a prearranged marriage. why wasn't i born into a cultural program?]

to wit, once i taste the sweet meat of an employer-matched 401k, will i be the adam to their eve? will i decide my idealistic bohemian rhapsody is pure folly? and if so, will that be because i have:

a) attained a higher level of enlightenment or

b) become intellectually lazy, hoodwinked into complacency by the man's warm embrace?

moreover, all of this hullaballoo says nothing of the personal zest that being a "professional" will kill. ((that's right, stalkers, i'm a member of a storied profession! add that to your heart-shaped locket.)) professionals are held to certain standards by their peers and society. these standards help them to earn respect, money, and status. i've always enjoyed reverence, but is it worth sacrificing my inherently unprofessional core? [N.B. the barbie bandits are my friends.]

Ambition Moved

[Sunday, September 02, 2007]

we just finished driving up to nyc last night in a 15-foot moving truck. this is larger than those small uhauls you see people driving around and way too big for my purposes. (note: i drove a budget truck, which was less than half the price of a uhaul). i've driven up on the curb about 5 times but have had only 1 near-accident! ideally i'll ditch this thing today--finding parking with a clearance of 11 feet is difficult.

those of you who like my detailed planning will share my disappointment in this: ikea's ivar shelves are the solution to my small space storage problem. the pieces i need to build what i need were not all in stock at a single ikea, so i stopped at ikea in virginia and maryland on the way up. the most elusive but critical piece, 89" x 12" side units, was only in stock in maryland per the internet. and yet, the side units were out of stock by the time i arrived. looks like my tiny-ass bedroom will have to remain cluttered for a little while longer.

i am mostly moved in--just a few boxes and some big items left in my moving truck that i'm going to have to figure out how to sneak into the building--apparently the hoity-toity only move furniture mondays through fridays (today is sunday).

since i embarked on this move, i have avoided a $300 fine and a $500 fine, but my luck may soon run out. the $300 fine was for bringing Lil' Puff into my hotel room Friday night when pets are not allowed--Orbitz told me otherwise, and the hotel management reluctantly relented. i think the housekeeper ratted me out. the $500 fine, which remains a possibility, is for moving furniture in a non-freight elevator. freight elevators only operate during the week. as it is currently the weekend, you see my quandary. i played the fool and moved a full-sized box spring (that's right - homegirl's finally gonna have a real bed, a high bed, and a real high bed!) up the normal elevator last night. fortunately, the doorman played it cool, but then his shift ended.

despite the painstaking calculations of my room dimensions and furniture arrangements, with furniture, the place feels incredibly small now that stuff is actually in it. guests, who are warmly welcomed, will be sleeping right by my side. i have an uncommonly expansive view, which helps reduce the cramped feel, though.

my building is pure yuppie ambition with a hot and fast pulse. it seems to consist exclusively of 24- to 28-year old bankers, brokers, and analysts socializing like they're still in college while each alone is making enough money to comfortably support a family of 4 in middle America. hordes of dudes in the nyc night-on-the-town uniform of straight-legged jeans, dark button-down shirt (untucked, of course), and a touch of gel in the hair. pairs of scantily clad mediocre-looking honies navigating the streets. this was saturday night. i'm expecting all drones in suits during the week.

i'll email my new mailing address to anyone who wants to send me toenails.