... I put my hands on chewed gum that some jerk had put on the turnstyle so that people would put their hands in it.
Ah, I heart New York, the City of Apple.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Heat
I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon at 1:00.
I just looked at weather.com and they claim that at 1:00 the temperature will be 95 degrees, but that it will feel like 108.
I can't take this anymore.
No AC on the train, sweating just because of existing, surrounded by miserable people.
People are doing insane things.
Last night I saw a woman wearing a transparent yellow dress with black underwear.
A man approached me, sweating, and said "Ma'am, do you know what day it is?" I was in a panic because I didn't know the date, but then he said "Is it Thursday?" I paused, insane from the heat and the AC-less train and lack of oxygen etc., and said "No... I think it is Wednesday..." He was super appreciative and then let himself into my building. I decided to linger back, just in case he had gone mad from heat exhaustion and would feel compelled to ask me more questions like "What year is it? Where am I? Who are you? Where do you live?" etc.
I also heard that someone felt compelled to write a song about Alan Thicke.
Heh.
It's so f-ing hot.
I just looked at weather.com and they claim that at 1:00 the temperature will be 95 degrees, but that it will feel like 108.
I can't take this anymore.
No AC on the train, sweating just because of existing, surrounded by miserable people.
People are doing insane things.
Last night I saw a woman wearing a transparent yellow dress with black underwear.
A man approached me, sweating, and said "Ma'am, do you know what day it is?" I was in a panic because I didn't know the date, but then he said "Is it Thursday?" I paused, insane from the heat and the AC-less train and lack of oxygen etc., and said "No... I think it is Wednesday..." He was super appreciative and then let himself into my building. I decided to linger back, just in case he had gone mad from heat exhaustion and would feel compelled to ask me more questions like "What year is it? Where am I? Who are you? Where do you live?" etc.
I also heard that someone felt compelled to write a song about Alan Thicke.
Heh.
It's so f-ing hot.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Alan Thicke
Date: 8.2.06
Genre: Genre: Country Song (think porch, summer, heat wave, etc.)
Description:
OK. It's been ages, I know.
With things such as they are, it has become important for me to return to My Mundane Life In Song's roots and write songs.
This will help me to think about Other Things.
Additionally, a keyboard is on its way (Everyone's Favorite Physicist's contribution to the blog and to my sanity, and D's) so this may be the last of the poor recordings with piano only. Oh, how I long for accordian songs and, gasp, vibes! Well, the vocals will still suck as I am still without microphone, but someday... oh, someday...
Anyway.
I watched TV this morning. I haven't seen TV in ages. I watched it because D is in CA and I therefore have the ability to do what I want with all things media in the apartment. D is prone to listening to music or watching cycling videos in the morning, and at night, and without a specific purpose, I can't really ask him not to. I go about my business and enjoy silence when I can. This morning, however, I wasn't digging the silence, so I thought "Hey, I should turn on that TV appliance thing and perhaps find out what's going on with this accursed weather."
I watched the weather, and then there was this absurd interview with Alan Thicke, who has written a book for parents entitled something like "How To Raise Kids Who Don't Hate You."
The interview was ridiculous. Alan Thicke is ridiculous. I'm not even sure that he has kids. When asked why he's qualified to the write the book, he was like "I have no qualifications but I know people who do so I asked them about it." And then the female interviewer was basically "We don't care about the book... how about the fact that you wrote the theme song to 'Different Strokes?'"
Hilarious.
Hence this song.
I went with a derivative country theme because (a) it's summer and (b) I am not feeling terribly creative right now. This song has already been written 12,542 times so why can't I add to the pool? I had a spare hour after dinner while waiting for a phone call that still hasn't happened, and just sang. I didn't even write this down. One take after ten minutes of sitting at the piano. And the volume is low, because it has to be low or you'd head air conditioning.
I swear things (all things) will get better.
Lyrics:
He's wearing a suit even though its 12 zillion degrees
He's laughing obnoxiously
Alan Thicke has written a book wherein he tells you how to raise your kids
He has no expertise other than playing a dad on TV
He knows some people, he talked to some people
Alan Thicke has written a book wherein he tells you how to raise your kids
It might have more sense for him to offer advice
On the writing of TV theme songs like 'The Facts Of Life'
He was Mike Seaver's dad, and for that I'm glad
And 'Different Strokes' was a stroke of genius
But should Alan Thicke be selling a book wherein he tells you how to raise your books?
Genre: Genre: Country Song (think porch, summer, heat wave, etc.)
Description:
OK. It's been ages, I know.
With things such as they are, it has become important for me to return to My Mundane Life In Song's roots and write songs.
This will help me to think about Other Things.
Additionally, a keyboard is on its way (Everyone's Favorite Physicist's contribution to the blog and to my sanity, and D's) so this may be the last of the poor recordings with piano only. Oh, how I long for accordian songs and, gasp, vibes! Well, the vocals will still suck as I am still without microphone, but someday... oh, someday...
Anyway.
I watched TV this morning. I haven't seen TV in ages. I watched it because D is in CA and I therefore have the ability to do what I want with all things media in the apartment. D is prone to listening to music or watching cycling videos in the morning, and at night, and without a specific purpose, I can't really ask him not to. I go about my business and enjoy silence when I can. This morning, however, I wasn't digging the silence, so I thought "Hey, I should turn on that TV appliance thing and perhaps find out what's going on with this accursed weather."
I watched the weather, and then there was this absurd interview with Alan Thicke, who has written a book for parents entitled something like "How To Raise Kids Who Don't Hate You."
The interview was ridiculous. Alan Thicke is ridiculous. I'm not even sure that he has kids. When asked why he's qualified to the write the book, he was like "I have no qualifications but I know people who do so I asked them about it." And then the female interviewer was basically "We don't care about the book... how about the fact that you wrote the theme song to 'Different Strokes?'"
Hilarious.
Hence this song.
I went with a derivative country theme because (a) it's summer and (b) I am not feeling terribly creative right now. This song has already been written 12,542 times so why can't I add to the pool? I had a spare hour after dinner while waiting for a phone call that still hasn't happened, and just sang. I didn't even write this down. One take after ten minutes of sitting at the piano. And the volume is low, because it has to be low or you'd head air conditioning.
I swear things (all things) will get better.
Lyrics:
He's wearing a suit even though its 12 zillion degrees
He's laughing obnoxiously
Alan Thicke has written a book wherein he tells you how to raise your kids
He has no expertise other than playing a dad on TV
He knows some people, he talked to some people
Alan Thicke has written a book wherein he tells you how to raise your kids
It might have more sense for him to offer advice
On the writing of TV theme songs like 'The Facts Of Life'
He was Mike Seaver's dad, and for that I'm glad
And 'Different Strokes' was a stroke of genius
But should Alan Thicke be selling a book wherein he tells you how to raise your books?
Flowers
I've received flowers at work a total of two times.
The first time: A vile coworker of mine was dating a man who for some incomprehensible reason found himself smitten with her to the point that he sent flowers all the time. Elaborate bouquets. Dozens upon dozens of fancy roses. She didn't know where to put them, there were so many! The receptionist kept some in the lobby, because they were so fancy that they looked like corporate-sanctioned lobby flowers.
I was admittedly jealous, and often complained "How come she gets flowers all the time? I never get flowers! I've never gotten flowers at work!" My coworkers explained that the frequency of flowers was an almost guarantee that their relationship wouldn't last (it didn't, despite the blingiest ring you ever did see), that it meant nothing, that I shouldn't compare myself to her, etc. I shouldn't compare myself to anyone, but flowers are pretty! Who wouldn't want flowers?
When my birthday rolled around that year, flowers appeared! I was so very excited. I couldn't contain myself! Who could they be from? Who even knew my work address?
And of course... they were from my crazy coworkers, who signed it "Your crazy coworkers." Delightful.
The second time: Seated anxiously by the phone all day awaiting news, I finally got a phone call and jumped a mile high, my heard pounding. I looked at the phone and saw a weird extension. "Hello?" I asked, timid. "There's a delivery for you down here. Can you get away for a moment to sign for it?"
I was confused, as I'd never received a phone call for a delivery. Normally the packages appear, and I sign for them then. I said I'd be down, and on my way down realized I wasn't even sure where to go to pick up a package.
When I got downstairs, the receptionist smiled at me. I walked to her desk and grabbed a styrofoam container that clearly housed something that had to be frozen immediately. "Not that one," she said as she glanced at the foam, and pointed me instead the direction of... flowers!
I couldn't contain myself. Who could they be from?
I walked upstairs and was the envy of all women. "Is it your birthday?" someone asked.
R saw me and said "Oh my god, is it a marriage proposal? Open the card! OPEN THE CARD!"
"I don't think so..." I said.
LN said "Oooohhhhh.... who are the from?"
When I opened the card, I nearly cried. "It's from my friends," I said.
"Why?" said MM.
"Because they love me."
"Wow, you have nice friends" said SP.
"I know," I said. "I'm very lucky."
LN said "I thought it was from D, and figured you guys had had a big fight."
"Or that you were getting married," SP giggled.
We all giggled.
No marriage proposal, no fight, no drama. Just good friends.
And that's all I need right now.
I am so very lucky.
The first time: A vile coworker of mine was dating a man who for some incomprehensible reason found himself smitten with her to the point that he sent flowers all the time. Elaborate bouquets. Dozens upon dozens of fancy roses. She didn't know where to put them, there were so many! The receptionist kept some in the lobby, because they were so fancy that they looked like corporate-sanctioned lobby flowers.
I was admittedly jealous, and often complained "How come she gets flowers all the time? I never get flowers! I've never gotten flowers at work!" My coworkers explained that the frequency of flowers was an almost guarantee that their relationship wouldn't last (it didn't, despite the blingiest ring you ever did see), that it meant nothing, that I shouldn't compare myself to her, etc. I shouldn't compare myself to anyone, but flowers are pretty! Who wouldn't want flowers?
When my birthday rolled around that year, flowers appeared! I was so very excited. I couldn't contain myself! Who could they be from? Who even knew my work address?
And of course... they were from my crazy coworkers, who signed it "Your crazy coworkers." Delightful.
The second time: Seated anxiously by the phone all day awaiting news, I finally got a phone call and jumped a mile high, my heard pounding. I looked at the phone and saw a weird extension. "Hello?" I asked, timid. "There's a delivery for you down here. Can you get away for a moment to sign for it?"
I was confused, as I'd never received a phone call for a delivery. Normally the packages appear, and I sign for them then. I said I'd be down, and on my way down realized I wasn't even sure where to go to pick up a package.
When I got downstairs, the receptionist smiled at me. I walked to her desk and grabbed a styrofoam container that clearly housed something that had to be frozen immediately. "Not that one," she said as she glanced at the foam, and pointed me instead the direction of... flowers!
I couldn't contain myself. Who could they be from?
I walked upstairs and was the envy of all women. "Is it your birthday?" someone asked.
R saw me and said "Oh my god, is it a marriage proposal? Open the card! OPEN THE CARD!"
"I don't think so..." I said.
LN said "Oooohhhhh.... who are the from?"
When I opened the card, I nearly cried. "It's from my friends," I said.
"Why?" said MM.
"Because they love me."
"Wow, you have nice friends" said SP.
"I know," I said. "I'm very lucky."
LN said "I thought it was from D, and figured you guys had had a big fight."
"Or that you were getting married," SP giggled.
We all giggled.
No marriage proposal, no fight, no drama. Just good friends.
And that's all I need right now.
I am so very lucky.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
My Mundane Life In Song Survey
On our way back from MA this weekend, D and I stopped in Mystic, CT for lunch (the original plan was to stop in Mystic and then find a beach, which is something D can do because he doesn't require a plan or desination, but which ended up being futile because there aren't, apparently, any good beaches near Mystic).
There was a sign in a restaurant window that said "No shirt, no shoes, no service" or whatever that sign is.
D said "I wonder if anyone has ever tried to go into that restaurant without pants."
I laughed.
"No, but seriously, why is that? Why can't you go into a restaurant without a shirt or shoes?"
I immediately said "Because its unsanitary," but then thought better of that response, because really, if they're worried about sanitation then they should require people to wear gloves.
I thought about it some more, and I said "I bet its aesthetics. How could you eat while being forced to look at feet, or worse, an obese man spilling his spaghetti all over the folds of his naked stomach?"
I actually don't know the answer to this question.
Anyone? Anyone?
There was a sign in a restaurant window that said "No shirt, no shoes, no service" or whatever that sign is.
D said "I wonder if anyone has ever tried to go into that restaurant without pants."
I laughed.
"No, but seriously, why is that? Why can't you go into a restaurant without a shirt or shoes?"
I immediately said "Because its unsanitary," but then thought better of that response, because really, if they're worried about sanitation then they should require people to wear gloves.
I thought about it some more, and I said "I bet its aesthetics. How could you eat while being forced to look at feet, or worse, an obese man spilling his spaghetti all over the folds of his naked stomach?"
I actually don't know the answer to this question.
Anyone? Anyone?
It's A Heat Wave...
... and a man was adorably whistling "Sleigh Ride" this morning on Vandam Street, which somehow made it bearable.
Monday, July 31, 2006
I'm Out of Love with Trader Joe's
I've been away from blogging. I've been away from sane thought in general. Everything was fine at 5:30 and life changed irreversibly at 6:00. I wish the phone call was something different. You can never be prepared for this sort of thing.
I'm getting better. I can think about other things. For two weeks I couldn't, but I'm starting to think about other things.
And hence can I blog, or at least attempt to. My mind's overexerted so no one thing I say or try to communicate can really make sense, because each thought is clouded by 12 million other thoughts that also make sense, because there's too many of them and I am unprepared for any of them. But I will try.
***
I went back to MA this weekend, as per Sister's suggestion. She thought it might help, to see things, to experience things, to stop imagining and force myself to face how things actually are.
Rather than face things for the entire time, I decided to take an extra day off to spend with Sister, to talk face-to-face, to cry if necessary with one of the two people who understand this.
Sister wanted to cook an elaborate dinner. I agreed, as cooking dinner is cost effective and fun. We scoured three vegetarian cookbooks and decided on a honey-pear salad followed by asparagus/ricotta/mint risotto. We decided not to be overambitious and agreed to purchase a fancy dessert.
Sister said "OK, here's the thing. Trader Joe's is awesome but may not have ingredients, but is closest. Star Market is far away but will have ingredients, except for awesome desserts. Whole Foods is in the middle and will definitely have everything and awesome desserts BUT it's wicked expensive."
We decided on risky Trader Joe's, because Trader Joe's is awesome and because I wanted to buy some fabulous snacks to bring back to NYC, as D and I had rented a car for our return as freaking Amtrak is now freaking $93 one-way. Bastards. We also decided on Trader Joe's because it was closest, and because we are tired all the time and can't really be expected to function, the world would have been asking too much of us if it demanded we walk all the way to The Stah (which is now Shaws, right?).
Anyway.
I hate Trader Joe's. I know that Trader Joe's is not a supermarket, but seriously, how could they not have anything we needed?
They did not have pears. Or asparagus. Or a reasonable amount of honey. Or a reasonable amout of mayonnaise. Or ricotta. Seriously. They did not have ricotta!
We revamped the dinner plans, and there were no ingredients for the new menu either.
We came up with idea after idea, found half the ingredients, realized that they didn't have the other half of what we needed, put everything away, started over...
Insanity.
Our minds were not up for this. I kept saying "We can just buy a pizza and heat it up! This is madness!" but we did not want to be defeated.
I know Trader Joe's is not a real supermarket. And I know that they do not really need to have ingredients since they have the best pre-made food selection in the universe. I have limited patience for anything right now, and oh how I need something in my life to be straightforward and easy.
We ended up buying pre-made gnocchi and pre-made pesto, because I couldn't remember the recipe for pesto. We made a goat cheese salad with candied pecans and raspberries. We bought mochi (oh, mochi, yes!) and I tried to buy a bottle of wine because we Lars really need to be drinking as much as possible right now. I didn't buy any snacks to bring back because I was on the verge of a meltdown, because these days anything might spark a meltdown.
The plan was that I would put the groceries on my credit card and that Sister would pay me back eventually.
Except that I didn't have my ID because I hadn't brought my wallet (because why would I bring my wallet on what was supposed to be a two second trip to Trader Joe's that turned out to be two hours?).
Ah, New York, I've gotten used to your cardless ways.
The cashier asked for my ID and I didn't have it, so Sister gave him hers.
Sister offered to put the groceries on her card.
The cashier, however, wouldn't let her buy the wine because I didn't have my ID! He said "You can't buy it because you're buying it for her."
"But... but..."
And that's when I started yelling, for the entire store to hear, "BUT I'M 30 YEARS OLD! SHE IS MY YOUNGER SISTER! BY ALMOST 7 YEARS! I'M 30 YEARS OLD! I'M 30! I CAN BUY ALCOHOL!" I wanted to add "And listen, buddy, you don't know HOW MUCH WE NEED THAT WINE THIS INSTANT!"
And we left without alcohol.
I wanted to cry, or throw a fit, and I think I did both.
My only consolation was that the cashier thought that I looked very young.
Later on that weekend I was relaying this story at PetCo, where Sister was buying guinea pig supplies. The eavesdropping PetCo cashier said "Oh, my partner works at Trader Joe's. They have to card everyone, even if they're 105 years old. If they don't, they could go to (whispering) jail."
So I guess it wasn't my youthful appearance that denied me the wine. It was the Trader Joe's cashier's ability to do a good job and avoid jail. Good for him, bad for me.
D, my hero, went out and bought Sister and I a bottle of wine, which we inhaled and which resulted in the ultimate regression, with Kid Fears and The Beatles (Beatles' songs are so sad when you're sad, even the happy sounding ones) and oh my god Stone Temple Pilots.
I think people do this sort of thing because it reminds them of a time when things were less complicated. Our singalong was the last uncomplicated portion of the weekend, and when I think back on this weekend I will wish that there was more time for singing.
I'm getting better. I can think about other things. For two weeks I couldn't, but I'm starting to think about other things.
And hence can I blog, or at least attempt to. My mind's overexerted so no one thing I say or try to communicate can really make sense, because each thought is clouded by 12 million other thoughts that also make sense, because there's too many of them and I am unprepared for any of them. But I will try.
***
I went back to MA this weekend, as per Sister's suggestion. She thought it might help, to see things, to experience things, to stop imagining and force myself to face how things actually are.
Rather than face things for the entire time, I decided to take an extra day off to spend with Sister, to talk face-to-face, to cry if necessary with one of the two people who understand this.
Sister wanted to cook an elaborate dinner. I agreed, as cooking dinner is cost effective and fun. We scoured three vegetarian cookbooks and decided on a honey-pear salad followed by asparagus/ricotta/mint risotto. We decided not to be overambitious and agreed to purchase a fancy dessert.
Sister said "OK, here's the thing. Trader Joe's is awesome but may not have ingredients, but is closest. Star Market is far away but will have ingredients, except for awesome desserts. Whole Foods is in the middle and will definitely have everything and awesome desserts BUT it's wicked expensive."
We decided on risky Trader Joe's, because Trader Joe's is awesome and because I wanted to buy some fabulous snacks to bring back to NYC, as D and I had rented a car for our return as freaking Amtrak is now freaking $93 one-way. Bastards. We also decided on Trader Joe's because it was closest, and because we are tired all the time and can't really be expected to function, the world would have been asking too much of us if it demanded we walk all the way to The Stah (which is now Shaws, right?).
Anyway.
I hate Trader Joe's. I know that Trader Joe's is not a supermarket, but seriously, how could they not have anything we needed?
They did not have pears. Or asparagus. Or a reasonable amount of honey. Or a reasonable amout of mayonnaise. Or ricotta. Seriously. They did not have ricotta!
We revamped the dinner plans, and there were no ingredients for the new menu either.
We came up with idea after idea, found half the ingredients, realized that they didn't have the other half of what we needed, put everything away, started over...
Insanity.
Our minds were not up for this. I kept saying "We can just buy a pizza and heat it up! This is madness!" but we did not want to be defeated.
I know Trader Joe's is not a real supermarket. And I know that they do not really need to have ingredients since they have the best pre-made food selection in the universe. I have limited patience for anything right now, and oh how I need something in my life to be straightforward and easy.
We ended up buying pre-made gnocchi and pre-made pesto, because I couldn't remember the recipe for pesto. We made a goat cheese salad with candied pecans and raspberries. We bought mochi (oh, mochi, yes!) and I tried to buy a bottle of wine because we Lars really need to be drinking as much as possible right now. I didn't buy any snacks to bring back because I was on the verge of a meltdown, because these days anything might spark a meltdown.
The plan was that I would put the groceries on my credit card and that Sister would pay me back eventually.
Except that I didn't have my ID because I hadn't brought my wallet (because why would I bring my wallet on what was supposed to be a two second trip to Trader Joe's that turned out to be two hours?).
Ah, New York, I've gotten used to your cardless ways.
The cashier asked for my ID and I didn't have it, so Sister gave him hers.
Sister offered to put the groceries on her card.
The cashier, however, wouldn't let her buy the wine because I didn't have my ID! He said "You can't buy it because you're buying it for her."
"But... but..."
And that's when I started yelling, for the entire store to hear, "BUT I'M 30 YEARS OLD! SHE IS MY YOUNGER SISTER! BY ALMOST 7 YEARS! I'M 30 YEARS OLD! I'M 30! I CAN BUY ALCOHOL!" I wanted to add "And listen, buddy, you don't know HOW MUCH WE NEED THAT WINE THIS INSTANT!"
And we left without alcohol.
I wanted to cry, or throw a fit, and I think I did both.
My only consolation was that the cashier thought that I looked very young.
Later on that weekend I was relaying this story at PetCo, where Sister was buying guinea pig supplies. The eavesdropping PetCo cashier said "Oh, my partner works at Trader Joe's. They have to card everyone, even if they're 105 years old. If they don't, they could go to (whispering) jail."
So I guess it wasn't my youthful appearance that denied me the wine. It was the Trader Joe's cashier's ability to do a good job and avoid jail. Good for him, bad for me.
D, my hero, went out and bought Sister and I a bottle of wine, which we inhaled and which resulted in the ultimate regression, with Kid Fears and The Beatles (Beatles' songs are so sad when you're sad, even the happy sounding ones) and oh my god Stone Temple Pilots.
I think people do this sort of thing because it reminds them of a time when things were less complicated. Our singalong was the last uncomplicated portion of the weekend, and when I think back on this weekend I will wish that there was more time for singing.
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