R.I.P. IPOD

Oh my god.

I decided, this week, after circumstances unfortunately led to my missing a couple of days of my caffeine regiment, that I'd quit caffeine. I'm not a big caffeine drinker - a coke a day, maybe two. When I don't have a coke at lunch, I get a headache. I used to have three cokes a day, and I decreased it to one after I went to a dentist appointment. In the dentist's building was a sleep clinic. At the time, I was having difficulty sleeping so I grabbed a pamphlet while I was there, which stated that any caffeine after 6pm can contribute to poor sleep. So no more coke with dinner.

Anyway.

I got a Minute Maid cranberry-apple juice for lunch yesterday that I didn't finish. I brought it back to work, took it out of my bag, and put it in my desk drawer. Upside down.

I was talking to Mother on the phone yesterday when D appeared and said "Are you ready to go?" I was confused, as D was supposed to call me from his apartment and I was supposed to meet him there before departing for the party. He explained that the phones weren't working. He was newly showered and cute and wanting to leave, so I quickly finished with Mother, grabbed my juice, put it in my bag, and we were off!

About two blocks away from work I said "Weird... my pants feel wet...."

It occurred to me, instantly, that the juice had spilled.

I frantically, without even telling D what was going on, started going through my bag and grabbed my IPod and put it on the ground. I then looked for my phone and put that on the ground. I made little piles on the sidewalk of things in priority of tragic loss - wallet (dyed red - I love this wallet), makeup, vicodins (shit! dissolved!), phone, IPod. There was a pool of cranberry juice in the bag. "I don't know what to do," I said in a panic.

I just didn't know what to do. My bag had a pool of cranberry juice in it that I didn't want to dump on the ground, and everything I owned was red. The damage didn't seem too bad. D, ever calm, said "Should we go to my apartment?" "YES!" I declared. D said that he would be doing laundry on Saturday, and that he would wash the bag and the wallet. He called N to tell her we would be late to the party. While he wiped down credit cards and Yoda, I tended to my cell phone and IPod.

I turned both on to make sure that they still worked. They did!

I carefully wiped IPod and went to turn it off. It wouldn't.

It didn't turn off.

In fact, it didn't do anything.

It was stuck on Most Serene Republic. I just stared it. The I pressed more buttons. Then the screen started to go.

"D, I am going to go to the Apple Store right now. I have to go. Just go to N's. I'll see you tomorrow."

"No, I'm going with you!" he declared.

I grabbed one credit card and IPod, and ran. Of course it started to rain. Neither of us thought to bring an umbrella. I wrapped IPod in my hoodie and wanted D to scream "Woman in labor!" so we could get to the Apple Store sooner.

When we arrived, I was nearly in tears as I looked for someone to help me. The first employee I encountered was of no use, and said "You have to bring this to the Genius Bar, which is closed right now because Spike Lee is here tonight."

"I don't give a rat's ass about Spike Lee! Aren't any of these genuises around somewhere? Can't they just tell me if IPod is going to survive!?" He wouldn't help. He said "You'll just have to bring it here tomorrow."

"No, you don't understand," I said. "I need to figure this out NOW."

A female employee saw my being hysterical and offered to help. She said the situation was bleak, and decided to plug in IPod at one of the docking stations to see what would happen. When she plugged it in, it shut off (forever) and actually got the plug in. She said "I can actually see the water in the screen." You can see the water in the screen.

She said "Let's bring this up to the Genuis Bar and see what they can do."

The Genius Bar, of course, was open, and a bunch of people looked at it and basically there is no hope. None.

Now.

What am I upset about?

1. The money. The MONEY. If I was in Boston, no problem. I'd have a spare $400 and I'd just buy another one. $400 here is another story. There is not $400. I was saving (saving, ha!) money to buy a nice SLR after Christmas with special lenses etc. But no! Now I have to decide between an IPod and a camera and last night D asked me if I wanted to go to London and I guess the answer has been decided for me.

2. Fucking New York. Seriously. This wouldn't be a travesty anywhere else.

3. The music. No, folks, I don't have my 40 gig of music on my computer because its 40 gig! I need all of the memory I can salvage to record millions of tracks for the songs on this blog. So no, I don't have a backup. The loss of the IPod is not only a loss of $500 (it was $500 at the time) but a loss of over a year of man hours of ripping CD's and then putting them on the IPod. I have no time to do anything. When am I going to put all of those CD's back on the IPod, especially when I have unreliable stolen internet? I can't type in the track names for all of these CD's! I just can't do it!!!!

4. Right now, I am freaking out because during my spring cleaning I threw away my ancient discman because I was like "I'll never need YOU again! Mwa ha ha!" so now I have no way to listen to music at all. And its the weekend. And my projects involved running around the city taking photos while listening to music. It's going to be a silent weekend, and that breaks my heart.

The female employee suggested that I take the IPod home and dry it with a fan and then try to hook it up later.

We hurried back to D's. On our way, D said "Hey - I think your phone is ringing. It's vibrating..." He was holding it because I was cradling IPod in its hoodie bed. He handed it to me, but it wasn't actually ringing. It was vibrating as part of its death dance.

"Fuck," we both said.

The phone got steadily worse over time. Every time I dried it and then turned it on again, there would be a different problem. One time none of the buttons worked. Another time the buttons worked but all of them led to Text Messaging. Sometimes it worked but I couldn't access the phone numbers.

Now it has nothing. When I got back here late last night, it worked fine technically but couldn't get reception. Then, at some point in the night, it just gave up. Did I write down phone numbers before this happened? Nope.

I am supposed to go to a party tonight with D and he didn't tell me where or when it is because he doesn't make plans, so I guess that's not happening unless I can get a new phone today.

Which I will, and hopefully it will take the card from my old phone, which hopefully isn't totally destroyed.

Because I haven't made a list of phone numbers in two years, which means all of my New York plans are a wash this weekend if I can't get the phone to work with the old card.

Shit.

So fucking irresponsible. This is what New York does to me! This never would have happened in Boston. Never. I am always so frazzled and insane here and have no idea what's going on.

OK. I must go and continue to upload CD's onto my harddrive in the event that I do get another IPod.

Sniff.

I miss you, dear IPod. We had a good run. I'm sorry.

What Am I Missing?

Part of the theorized appeal of Netflix is to catch up on classic movies you've never seen. Right now, I have Bonnie and Clyde at my apartment. I am psyched.

Last weekend I said "D, we need to set aside some time to watch Spartacus. That movie is long. Over three hours. Epic."

We decided to watch it on Monday night.

We didn't finish it.

Why?

Because it is boring as hell.

Boring!

Political intrigue, millions of extras, and adorable Tony Curtis aside, I don't see the appeal. I just didn't care. At all. Kirk Douglas is annoying. Spartacus isn't at all sympathetic or interesting. He's a drip. The love scenes are unbearable. D said the love scenes were "Episode-3-esque."

We tried to finish it on Wednesday, but I fell asleep again! D finished it, and when I asked "Was it worth it?" he didn't have an answer.

I am going to try to finish it this weekend. Wish me luck!

So here's my question for you - what am I missing? People love this movie. I don't think this is a question of era-based aesthetics, which I think could explain why I hated West Side Story so much.

I feel like these classics shouldn't involve so much labor on the part of the viewer.

We have Lawrence of Arabia and Casablanca in the queue and I am already skeptical.

So please - if you know why Spartacus is good (yes, I agree, its visually amazing and there's some really good acting, but these things are not enough to sustain a three hour film), please let me know so that I can watch it this weekend without feeling bitter.

Thanks, and have fabulous weekends.

Do You Want to Take My Picture?

I started my photography class this week and decided that, instead of taking lovely pictures with my digital camera that I already know how to use, I'd borrow D's fully manual camera that he never ever uses ever. Because he never ever uses it, he has a full roll of film in it - well, that's not true. He took two pictures. I decided that rather than waste the roll (this week's homework assignment has to be on black and white, high sensitvity film), I'd use up his roll to practice.

Walking to work this morning, I had the camera out and was taking pictures of random things like parking lots and cardboard boxes.

I must have looked convincing or competent or something, because tons of people approached me and asked me what I was doing, why I was taking pictures of boxes, if they could be in the picture, and did I want to take their picture?

A surly cowboy said that I should ride with him in his delivery truck and do a project entitled "Idiots on the Road." I decided against it, although fantasized about what a fabulous final project a documented kidnapping would be!

Another man with an unintelligable accent smothered me with enthusiasm until I took his portrait. Then he said "Will you give me the photo?" and I was like "Well, if I ever see you again, I'll give it to you."

Maybe a manual camera with a long lens suggested that I was a professional.

Or maybe it was the red glasses.

Or perhaps midtown people on the west side are culture starved. Or personal-contact starved. Or maybe its because there are no people around my apartment, there's nothing going on, so people there aren't used to people with cameras. Or maybe its some weird cosmic force that causes the only people in the world who WANT their pictures to be taken to aggregate on one city block.

Whatever the reason, I am feeling optimistic about my project now because it won't be difficult. Apparently all I have to do is walk outside and stand there and people will throw themselves at me and present potential subject matter.

I'm sure none of these photos will come out well. They'll be blurry and underexposed and compositionally tragic because I had to take them quickly, but its good experience.

I'm very, very excited.

Anniversary Again

The Boss was adorable yesterday and brought donuts and bagels (and oh! how I heart The Boss for bringing Dunkin Donuts instead of Krispy Kreme!) to our weekly departmental meeting to celebrate my one year anniversary at the company.

One year!

My one year anniversary happened to coincide with a loft party hosted by someone who has worked at the company for 20-ish years. He's president of The Old Boy's Club.

I am still a new kid, apparently, as I left the party in tears because not only do people still not talk to me, I now have the added issue of being an appendage, a function of someone else, "the girlfriend" at my own place of employment.

Someone turned to me and said "You know who's special? D. He's so special. I hope you know how special he is."

"Yes, I know, obviously" I said, while wanting to scream "What am I, chopped fucking liver!!??! You've never spoken to me in your life and this is what you decide to say to me?"

I wasn't even going to go to the party. I had class and was just going to go home, but I haven't had much fun lately (sickness, home for the weekend, etc.) so thought it would be nice to be social. I also thought that it wasn't fair that I didn't feel comfortable going to The Old Boy's Club Fort. I work here, I deserve free drinks and dinner just as much as The Members do!!

It's weird going to a company function and feeling like "the girlfriend" even though you work there.

I shouldn't have gone. I knew I was feeling emo. I was thinking about things like feeling transparent and lonely and inconsequential. These are all things you feel on your anniversary in New York City. I knew a work function would only reinforce these feelings. I guess I'd hoped to find other outcasts, but there were no outcasts remaining by the time I arrived because everyone had been drinking for three hours.

The situation is complicated in ways I didn't envision. It's hard to be new and insecure and nonexistent when you are dating the golden boy.

I wonder if anyone ever tells D that he's lucky.

I mentioned this to a woman at work today, and she said the most perfect thing. She said "He's lucky that you came here. He was a lost soul before you."

I feel better today, because its sunny and I don't have a headache today and I am psyched about my photography class even though I am afraid that I am going to suck.
Speaking of which... here are some photos from my time in RI:

D's Granny's cat:


Cool pile of wood:


We found a school near a lake that had this swingset:


We played on the swings and had an awesome time talking about pendulums and realizing that we don't remember anything from Physics:


If only I'd kept my notebooks!

Until tomorrow...

Memories

I went to my parents' house this weekend to go through my stuff.

My parents may or may not be moving. My philosophy was better to be safe than sorry. I'd rather spend a few days there going through everything I've ever saved than have them toss something that is extremely precious to me despite my having forgotten its existence.

I didn't get as much done as I'd hoped. Sadly, there was not enough time to go through The Toys. That will have to happen at another time. I am looking forward to the crates of Transformers and Care Bears and She-Ra's and Charmkins that await me.

I apparently used to live my life by a philosophy completely contrary to that to which I now subscribe. This behavior started somewhere around 9th grade and ended a few years ago. Thankfully there is little evidence other than that photographic of my existence prior to high school. Without distress I was able to toss photos of my 5th grade class and the glamor shots I'd set up of myself and my friends as 3rd graders. Ah, the 80s makeup. I suppose I didn't throw these away because I've become less sentimental. It's most likely because I don't want there to be a record of this behavior.

Starting in the ninth grade I began to save everything. Notebooks, photos, class assignments, cutouts from magazines, every card I received. These things, luckily, were very organized and I was able to go through them without difficulty.

It was hard, though, to throw away my high school notebookes - piles of Physiology, History, Calculus, Western Civilization, and Global Studies! It was difficult not because of sentimental attachment, but because of the wealth of information contained within! I can't believe how much I've forgotten. I quickly went through these notebooks and couldn't stop thinking "I can't believe I used to know these things." A deluded part of me thinks that if I re-read these notebooks, I can instantly reclaim all of this knowledge that has since disappeared. Maybe. The likelihood of my ever having time to go through these notebooks? Slim.

It was heartbreaking for another reason. The notes, man. The notes! I looked through my Physiology notebook and couldn't stop laughing. There was a note that read something like this:

I saw Brian today.

(stop. someone writing something to me in their notebook.)

He was in his computer class. I walked in there and he was just sitting
there. I'd copied down an Ogden Nash poem for him that I found about not
liking to have your picture taken. I gave it to him and he didn't say
anything! I asked him if he was in that class and he just said "yeah." I
just don't know what his deal is.

(stop. someone writing something to me in their notebook.)

WHATEVER.

I'd love to have gone through all of the notebooks and kept the notes and made a short film based on them. Or a graphic novel. Or start publishing them on the blog. They are hilarious.

I kept creative writing and reports. I realize now that I was (am still) insane. I have binders upon binders of fiction I wrote in my spare time. I thought this was normal behavior at the time. While most bored kids in suburbia turned to drugs, I turned to the computer and wrote epics of soap-opera-ian proportions for my friends. I'd stay up all night typing. Some of the stories I kept secret. Others I shared. They were episodic and overwrought and rich in melodrama and fantastic. I kept those. I didn't keep the similarly overwrought sketch books involving daily strips of my friends and I. Sometimes we were superheroes. Sometimes we were fighting crimes. Mostly we were dazed romantics with missions involving boys.

Dear god I was insane.

I miss this, though. I miss the free time. I miss the focus.

I am so glad that all of this insanity has been redirected to Blogger.

There were a lot of photos from high school that I tossed. Remembering the awkwardness doesn't require assistance from photographs. It's incorporated into my being as fierce insecurity. I don't ever need to be reminded of the dress I wore to the ring dance or the tight knit group of people that has completely disbanded or the hope I had back then.

Tossed at the dump.

I kept the yearbooks. I'll never look at them. I don't need to remember myself back then and I don't care to remember anyone I knew back them. I kept them, instead, because my progeny may someday want to see the unforgiveable outfit I wore when voted Most Artistic in 8th grade.

I also found my high school diploma!

And my 9th grade Introduction to Physical Science Lab Notebook, with experiments on "Calibrating the Equal Arm Balance" and "Distillation of Wood" and "Determining the Volume of a Solid." I had to keep that. That notebook represents the moment at which everything went wrong.

College is another story. I didn't keep all of the notes. It seems that I, at some point, went through this process and kept only the notes of cool classes. I still had all of my Neuro notebooks. I got rid of them. I kept my Molecular and Cellular Biology Class Note Companion in case I ever forget what RNA is. I kept the hundreds of papers I read for my Honors Thesis. I kept the Thesis presentation itself. I threw away a lot of journal articles that I'd love to read again that I'll never look at even though I am distressed that I've forgotten their content.

I can't believe I ever knew all of this.

It's so sad.

The memories themselves aren't sad. It's the change that has occurred that is depressing. Loss of innocence, loss of intelligence, loss of free time blah blah blah.

I apparently printed out every email I received freshman year, saved every letter and card in a binder, and kept every note that a boy left me in my room.

I think I took photos three times in college. I threw them away. I don't need to have a visual of First College Boyfriend. I only need the feeling of excitement about its starting and the pain of how I ended it. I don't need to see his face.

I do, however, need to keep his letters and cards and notes. I am a lover of love letters. Every serious boyfriend I've had up until D has supplied me with piles upon piles of love letters. I adore them. I love actual writing. I love notes on paper. I love silly drawings and desperate attempts at reconciliation and written expressions of longing and adoration.

On Saturday afternoon, reading a summer break letter from First College Boyfriend actually made me giddy. It felt good. I found a letter written by High School Boyfriend, that I received in college, that said "I miss how it feels when you touch me" and I actually felt it. Ridiculous! These things are ancient and sappy and completely juvenile, but they were written for me and they are mine and they mean something for a reason I can't understand.

I found letters from Sister and Brother that they'd written to me while I was in college. Sister read, out loud, a letter she wrote to me when she was about 13 and she said "Leah, why did you even like me back then?" I said "I liked you because you wrote me letters. I'm not throwing this away." "You should," she said. "I won't," I responded, "because it still means something to me."

I threw away all of the drawings given to me by my little cousins, who are now in college themselves.

I threw away my acceptance letter and admittance packet from Harvard's Ph.D. program in Neuroscience because I'm now certain I'll never be going there. That was difficult.

I kept my college diploma and graduation cap and gown, because D wants to dress up as college graduates for Halloween and march in the parade.

I kept sticker books and Busy Bears and my deranged eraser collection and not everything Star Wars related.

I got an email from Father this morning saying:

"I was at the dump yesterday and was throwing away stuff and noticed that I was throwing away full photo albums with pics of your prom, Billy Joel..etc. It was very sad to be throwing away your past...I asked mom if that was what I was supposed to be doing and she said yes...it was sad..very."

I wrote back and told him he wasn't throwing away my past. There doesn't need to be a record of things to remember them.

I think I value words more than photos. Photos are oftentimes set up, redundant, reflecting outlier events such as proms and vacations. They're not representative of certain times or phases. Writing is accurate. It reflects what's important to people at a certain point in time. It has mood, depth, honesty.

Photos aren't honest because they are contrived. This is why I love candids. Candids are how things actually are.

I have much reading awaiting me in the future. I'm very excited to remember how I was as a college freshman. When I read them, I'll throw away letters from people I no longer know. I'll keep the ones that still make me feel something. I'll laugh at the drama and at what seemed important back then. Hopefully I'll go from 5 3-inch-binders to one. I'll add that binder to the piles of journals I keep for no apparent reason.

I wonder if, when I am 40, I'll find a binder with this blog in it and wonder if I should throw it away. I don't think I will. I'll probably read it and start crying and say "You know, when I was younger I used to live in New York City and it was an amazing time," but I'll only have my account because nobody writes letters anymore. I save emails from D but it's not the same. They say things like "I bought the lamp!" and "love you." They're not loaded because I am not hopeful. I don't write love letters because I know they'll only hurt some day. They'll hurt until there's someone else writing me love letters, when I could then look back on the old ones and smile. But I don't really want there to be anyone else writing me love letters, so better that I not write down how much I love him and scare him away.

It's a weird way to spend a day - looking at who and how you used to be.