Go ahead. Press play. It won't hurt you.
I perfectly understand the criticism The Entire World has leveled at Ms. Spears in the last twelve months. She has screwed up BIG TIME, pretty much every day of the last 365. Remember the panty-free, Paris days? Remember the umbrella-SUV incident? I believe it was just last week she was walking her naked toddler to the pool with a lit cigarette.
This morning, the NYT absolutely crucified her for her performance last night at the VMAs. Most of the comments at IDon'tLikeYouinThatWay.comcall her "fat" and "talentless". And that I am not sure that's fair. Whatever my waist:hip ratio, I will never look that good in hotpants. Ever.
So if this meaning-free post has a point, it is this: yes, Britney has looked better, danced better, sounded better, behaved better - all true. But there is something else worth noticing about this supposed come-back performance: she is visibly nervous, and just trying to get through it without falling on her ass. And who hasn't felt that way at least once in his or her life?
Sure, ok, she wasn't great last night, but she stood up in her hot pants and sparkley bra and did her best. For that, I gotta give the girl a break.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Sin of the Week, 9/9/07
The worst thing I did this week (besides giving class 2 prescription drugs to people for whom they were not prescribed, calling my aunt and uncle upwards of nine times a day to voice literally hundreds of petty complaints against everyone in my family, threatening to sue my dad's doctor for malpractice) is scream* so loudly into my cell phone, right there on the corner of 42nd and 2nd, that my sister's ears are still ringing two days later. I won't say what made me do it because it would be just too embarrassing. Anybody have any class or self-control to spare? If so, send it my way. I am behaving like a complete asshole.
* this would be one of the seven deadly sins, by the way... for those of you who don't keep track of those: lust, gluttony, sloth, greed, rage, envy, and pride. Normally, I am all about pridefulness. This week, apparently.... rage.
* this would be one of the seven deadly sins, by the way... for those of you who don't keep track of those: lust, gluttony, sloth, greed, rage, envy, and pride. Normally, I am all about pridefulness. This week, apparently.... rage.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Chez Nina: now with 400% more bacon!
For all of you who kindly asked how I am doing, I present the following evidence:
paper coffee cups: 5 (6 if you count the one from Dunkin' Donuts - it's pastic)
beer cans: 4
milk shake cups: 3
gummi-bear bags: 3
burger bags: 4
wine bottles: 4
dirty wine glasses: 6
soda bottles: 4
prescription bottles: 4
pounds of laundry: 50 (it's a conservative guess)
towers of unopened mail: 3
ungraded student papers: 58
exploding garbage bags: 2
number of clean garments: 0
slices of bacon on the floor: 4
While all of this inexecusable, the bacon, I think, requires more explanation than merely: my father is dying and has refused to see me * and and I am apparently no longer capable of basic self care.
Yesterday when I decided to eat breakfast (it seemed a really solid gesture towards something about boots straps and pulling them up or whatever) I told the guy behind the glass to make me an "egg and cheese on toast" and waited for an entire 7 minutes for it.** Then the guy behind the glass looked up, his eyes widened... and he whirled like a dervish to present me with a foil wrapped sandwich that seemed a bit on the heavy side. I said nothing. I paid $2 for it. I left.
I arrived home, unwrapped the foil and discovered that he had made me a TWO egg and cheese on a toasted EVERYTHING bagel (so far, forgiveable)... with BACON on it. FOUR STRIPS.
And YES, it is a BIG DEAL.
I ordered this:
I got this:
Significantly different breakfasts, don't you think? Even if they were not, I hate bacon. I understand that hating bacon makes me a bad American, not to say a bad person, but I HATE BACON.
So I burst into tears, flipped open the sandwich, and threw the bacon across the room as hard as I could. Then, as I ate my (still bacon greasy) sandwich, I watched the shimmering swine slices as they rolled down the wall onto the floor. In a few minutes, I am going to step over them on my way out to get a cup of coffee. I do not know (yet) whether I have what is takes to risk ordering another egg and cheese. I simply might not be that brave.
After I get some coffee, I am going to make the following gesture towards boot-strappery: I am going to take the trash out. I will post again tomorrow with, I hope, better numbers.
* this is actually a gross over-simplification of what is really going on at home. I would explain it, but I'd rather bitch about pork products and get into how my step-mother has NO IDEA who she is dealing with if she thinks she can keep my father's children from seeing him before he dies because he wants it that way.... I suppose it doesn't require explaining that NO ONE is buying that load of selfish "I want my man all to myself" bullshit.
** Note to non-New Yorkers: to wait more than 1.5 minutes for your egg and cheese at a corner deli is not only unheard of, but in most neighborhoods, grounds for assault.
paper coffee cups: 5 (6 if you count the one from Dunkin' Donuts - it's pastic)
beer cans: 4
milk shake cups: 3
gummi-bear bags: 3
burger bags: 4
wine bottles: 4
dirty wine glasses: 6
soda bottles: 4
prescription bottles: 4
pounds of laundry: 50 (it's a conservative guess)
towers of unopened mail: 3
ungraded student papers: 58
exploding garbage bags: 2
number of clean garments: 0
slices of bacon on the floor: 4
While all of this inexecusable, the bacon, I think, requires more explanation than merely: my father is dying and has refused to see me * and and I am apparently no longer capable of basic self care.
Yesterday when I decided to eat breakfast (it seemed a really solid gesture towards something about boots straps and pulling them up or whatever) I told the guy behind the glass to make me an "egg and cheese on toast" and waited for an entire 7 minutes for it.** Then the guy behind the glass looked up, his eyes widened... and he whirled like a dervish to present me with a foil wrapped sandwich that seemed a bit on the heavy side. I said nothing. I paid $2 for it. I left.
I arrived home, unwrapped the foil and discovered that he had made me a TWO egg and cheese on a toasted EVERYTHING bagel (so far, forgiveable)... with BACON on it. FOUR STRIPS.
And YES, it is a BIG DEAL.
I ordered this:
I got this:
Significantly different breakfasts, don't you think? Even if they were not, I hate bacon. I understand that hating bacon makes me a bad American, not to say a bad person, but I HATE BACON.
So I burst into tears, flipped open the sandwich, and threw the bacon across the room as hard as I could. Then, as I ate my (still bacon greasy) sandwich, I watched the shimmering swine slices as they rolled down the wall onto the floor. In a few minutes, I am going to step over them on my way out to get a cup of coffee. I do not know (yet) whether I have what is takes to risk ordering another egg and cheese. I simply might not be that brave.
After I get some coffee, I am going to make the following gesture towards boot-strappery: I am going to take the trash out. I will post again tomorrow with, I hope, better numbers.
* this is actually a gross over-simplification of what is really going on at home. I would explain it, but I'd rather bitch about pork products and get into how my step-mother has NO IDEA who she is dealing with if she thinks she can keep my father's children from seeing him before he dies because he wants it that way.... I suppose it doesn't require explaining that NO ONE is buying that load of selfish "I want my man all to myself" bullshit.
** Note to non-New Yorkers: to wait more than 1.5 minutes for your egg and cheese at a corner deli is not only unheard of, but in most neighborhoods, grounds for assault.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
My cup runneth over
Yesteday, just about the time my dad called (see entry below) I walked down to the corner for coffee. I was hyperventilating and acting like a total asshole, but I am well known in my nieghborhood and people are cool with me in whatever condition I happen to present to them. On my way back up the block my brother called and said, "get you ass to the 3:13 out of Penn... and get there on time." This presented a serious problem for me because I had absolutely no cash - and absolutely no way to get any. Why? Because I no longer remember my ATM card pin number. All I know is that it MIGHT have a 9 in it. Other than that, I have no idea.
How could that be, you ask? It is because if you select just the right combination of bullshit, stir it up, and stick it in my gob, my long term memory purges one or more pieces of critical data. Once, is was my phone number* and another time it was my social security number**. This week, it is the pin code to my ATM card. I have not been able to remember it since Friday.
Most places that take credit cards can just run a Visa-debit card through as if it is a credit card. It gets kind of embarrassing, however, when you are charging a cup of coffee for $1.35. But at 2:20pm, with a persistent hangover and a head full of horror and a mouth full of cotton, you just push the card across the counter - and though the Boricua kid who swipes your card mutters to his Dominican friend, "yo, she just ghetto" - you are grateful that you are not toothless and living under a bridge somewhere. After all, some people only wish they could be so ghetto as to have an ATM card in the first place. You know all too well that in a year or two, you could be one of them.
I was in this condition when I staggered up the block and received the mandate to be at Penn Station by 3:13pm. This presented two problems: 1) my aforementioned cashlessness and 2) that fact that I live in midtown EAST, as in six entire avenues*** from Penn Station. I concluded that the only way to make that train was to take a taxi - the only thing I could NOT do with no cash.
I was giggling (and also wetting my pants just a little ) when I looked down and saw this:
right there between the planter and the curb. I looked around. With no on sight, I had to assume that in a city of millions, this bill had been lying there unnoticed for less than half a nano-second. I picked it up and hailed a cab, which cost $10. I bought a round trip ticket to Nicetown, NJ, for $9.50. Problem solved.
Once I arrived at my brother's house, there was a bit more emotionalism than I will describe. By morning, I realized that it might be wise to request support for the next 30 days - in the form of pharmicuticals. So what did I do? I called my doctor**** who left a scrip for me at the front desk, which I picked up today. Problem was, though, that I left my bag at my brother's house, so when I went to get the magical drug, I had no money and no ATM card. Nothing, in fact. I was about to tear the universe a new ass hole. Seriousy. Then I looked down and saw this:
righ there on the FLOOR of the pharmacy, in front of the cash register. Folded in half, right there on the shmutzy tile.
I guess I don't need to tell you that the copay was. I am pretty sure you know.
* that would be when my mom was dying.
** that would be when I lost my job and wrecked my car and lost my wallet - all on the same day.
*** approximate travel time across town:
train: 40 minutes.
foot: 40 minutes.
helicopter: 45 minutes.
limo: 90 minutes.
taxi: 37 minutes.
**** if you ever want prescription drugs, call you doctor and tell her your dad has less than a month to live and that he doesn't want to see you EVER AGAIN. Then listen for the sound of her pen scratching out orders for controlled substances.
How could that be, you ask? It is because if you select just the right combination of bullshit, stir it up, and stick it in my gob, my long term memory purges one or more pieces of critical data. Once, is was my phone number* and another time it was my social security number**. This week, it is the pin code to my ATM card. I have not been able to remember it since Friday.
Most places that take credit cards can just run a Visa-debit card through as if it is a credit card. It gets kind of embarrassing, however, when you are charging a cup of coffee for $1.35. But at 2:20pm, with a persistent hangover and a head full of horror and a mouth full of cotton, you just push the card across the counter - and though the Boricua kid who swipes your card mutters to his Dominican friend, "yo, she just ghetto" - you are grateful that you are not toothless and living under a bridge somewhere. After all, some people only wish they could be so ghetto as to have an ATM card in the first place. You know all too well that in a year or two, you could be one of them.
I was in this condition when I staggered up the block and received the mandate to be at Penn Station by 3:13pm. This presented two problems: 1) my aforementioned cashlessness and 2) that fact that I live in midtown EAST, as in six entire avenues*** from Penn Station. I concluded that the only way to make that train was to take a taxi - the only thing I could NOT do with no cash.
I was giggling (and also wetting my pants just a little ) when I looked down and saw this:
right there between the planter and the curb. I looked around. With no on sight, I had to assume that in a city of millions, this bill had been lying there unnoticed for less than half a nano-second. I picked it up and hailed a cab, which cost $10. I bought a round trip ticket to Nicetown, NJ, for $9.50. Problem solved.
Once I arrived at my brother's house, there was a bit more emotionalism than I will describe. By morning, I realized that it might be wise to request support for the next 30 days - in the form of pharmicuticals. So what did I do? I called my doctor**** who left a scrip for me at the front desk, which I picked up today. Problem was, though, that I left my bag at my brother's house, so when I went to get the magical drug, I had no money and no ATM card. Nothing, in fact. I was about to tear the universe a new ass hole. Seriousy. Then I looked down and saw this:
righ there on the FLOOR of the pharmacy, in front of the cash register. Folded in half, right there on the shmutzy tile.
I guess I don't need to tell you that the copay was. I am pretty sure you know.
* that would be when my mom was dying.
** that would be when I lost my job and wrecked my car and lost my wallet - all on the same day.
*** approximate travel time across town:
train: 40 minutes.
foot: 40 minutes.
helicopter: 45 minutes.
limo: 90 minutes.
taxi: 37 minutes.
**** if you ever want prescription drugs, call you doctor and tell her your dad has less than a month to live and that he doesn't want to see you EVER AGAIN. Then listen for the sound of her pen scratching out orders for controlled substances.
Regarding leukemia, let me be clear *revised*
Twenty percent of all leukemia cases are caused by cigarette smoke. A good percentage more are caused by previous chemotherapy treatments(due to.... surprise! smoking...*) In addition, smoking during a leukemia remission significantly worsens prognosis.
This is the last and final time I will ask my friends who smoke TO STOP, RIGHT NOW. Chew the fucking gum for the rest of your life for all I care. But please stop. I beg here on my knees: STOP. I am not the only person who loves you (Supa and Rich..and Pax) and hopes that you never hear your doctor tell you that you only have a month to live.
* for those of you who did not know, YES, my dad's leukemia was caused by cigarette smoke (and cigar smoke too). He smoked his first cigarette at 14 and was instantly addicted. Even during treatment, he was still fantasizing about smoking. And smoking hastened his relapse. Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it... or.... you could do as I ask and please, please, please quit.
This is the last and final time I will ask my friends who smoke TO STOP, RIGHT NOW. Chew the fucking gum for the rest of your life for all I care. But please stop. I beg here on my knees: STOP. I am not the only person who loves you (Supa and Rich..and Pax) and hopes that you never hear your doctor tell you that you only have a month to live.
* for those of you who did not know, YES, my dad's leukemia was caused by cigarette smoke (and cigar smoke too). He smoked his first cigarette at 14 and was instantly addicted. Even during treatment, he was still fantasizing about smoking. And smoking hastened his relapse. Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it... or.... you could do as I ask and please, please, please quit.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Ring Ring.
"Hello?"
"Hi Nina, it's Dad. Can you get somewhere we can talk?"
I swallow an entire mg of xanax and head for the door. In front of my building, I sit on the bench under the trees. I call him back.
"Hi Nina. We got a whole bunch of tests back, and the results are not good. My leukemia is back with such a vengeance that Dr. O does not think that there is any hope of achieving a remission."
"Wow."
"Well, yeah. So we are not going to do more chemo. We are going to get out of the hospital and drive up into the mountains for a vacation. Then we'll decide what to do next - and have a much fun as possible while there is still fun to be had."
"Have you and Dr. O discussed this from every possible angle?"
"Yes. And this is what we want. And by the way, don't come down here under any circumstances. I love you, but this is going to be hardest on Mamacita, and I need to spend my hours, minutes, and seconds with her."
A lot more discussion ensued, but the one question that I did not ask is how long he had to live. The answer, as my beloved google tells me, is a couple of months.
Here is my Dad with his only grandson, who calls him Pop. Liam will not remember him. When we said goodbye to our Dad in the driveway on August 24th, that was goodbye.
I will post about this again when he dies, but other than that, I'll try not to. I am sure you all would rather read about something, anything else.
"Hello?"
"Hi Nina, it's Dad. Can you get somewhere we can talk?"
I swallow an entire mg of xanax and head for the door. In front of my building, I sit on the bench under the trees. I call him back.
"Hi Nina. We got a whole bunch of tests back, and the results are not good. My leukemia is back with such a vengeance that Dr. O does not think that there is any hope of achieving a remission."
"Wow."
"Well, yeah. So we are not going to do more chemo. We are going to get out of the hospital and drive up into the mountains for a vacation. Then we'll decide what to do next - and have a much fun as possible while there is still fun to be had."
"Have you and Dr. O discussed this from every possible angle?"
"Yes. And this is what we want. And by the way, don't come down here under any circumstances. I love you, but this is going to be hardest on Mamacita, and I need to spend my hours, minutes, and seconds with her."
A lot more discussion ensued, but the one question that I did not ask is how long he had to live. The answer, as my beloved google tells me, is a couple of months.
Here is my Dad with his only grandson, who calls him Pop. Liam will not remember him. When we said goodbye to our Dad in the driveway on August 24th, that was goodbye.
I will post about this again when he dies, but other than that, I'll try not to. I am sure you all would rather read about something, anything else.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Goodness happens, too
If you have been putting up with my sadness-anger cocktail the last few weeks, you will have noticed that in my last post, I begged for something, anything good to happen.
I have the following to report:
1) Merry is home from her summer travels, and we spent a few hours walking the park today. I can't tell you how much better I felt after laying out all the cards for Merry. I felt better, almost instantly. Whew!
2) I went to a staff meeting tonight for the other college I am working for this semester, a college we will call Awesome U. * Guess what? I will be teaching a night class populated entirely by local union workers... (that is good news, people) and better yet... my only mandate is to teach them to express themselves. I have taught classes of this kind before, and let me tell you, they are fun. I get to teach them to write not about academic blah - di - dah - but about whatever they want to say about themselves or about ANYTHING. Fun, fun, fun. I learned, therefore, the following about my recent teaching meltdown: It only applies to bullshit four year universities with all their snotty muckity muck. I can happily teach at vo-tech colleges, two years colleges, and adult education colleges, where there is a MINIMUM of academic snot-nosed posturing... because the lack of it usually means maximum focus on student needs and student welfare. And that is what I dig.
So, I begged for some goodness. I got it.
Thank you for reading.
* in case you are keeping track of all the colleges in (and out) of my life:
Awesome U: Night class this semester.
Panic-Hire U: Morning class this semester.
Sweet Little College: My distance education job, without which I would be done for.
Hoops U: excellent public college, mostly known for its basketball team. I got my MA there.
Prestigious U: The nutty place I worked before I landed at Awesome and Panic.
Merciful U: called so because I am enrolled in their PhD program, and they have not yet kicked me out... (I very much deserve to be kicked out, in case you were unaware).
I have the following to report:
1) Merry is home from her summer travels, and we spent a few hours walking the park today. I can't tell you how much better I felt after laying out all the cards for Merry. I felt better, almost instantly. Whew!
2) I went to a staff meeting tonight for the other college I am working for this semester, a college we will call Awesome U. * Guess what? I will be teaching a night class populated entirely by local union workers... (that is good news, people) and better yet... my only mandate is to teach them to express themselves. I have taught classes of this kind before, and let me tell you, they are fun. I get to teach them to write not about academic blah - di - dah - but about whatever they want to say about themselves or about ANYTHING. Fun, fun, fun. I learned, therefore, the following about my recent teaching meltdown: It only applies to bullshit four year universities with all their snotty muckity muck. I can happily teach at vo-tech colleges, two years colleges, and adult education colleges, where there is a MINIMUM of academic snot-nosed posturing... because the lack of it usually means maximum focus on student needs and student welfare. And that is what I dig.
So, I begged for some goodness. I got it.
Thank you for reading.
* in case you are keeping track of all the colleges in (and out) of my life:
Awesome U: Night class this semester.
Panic-Hire U: Morning class this semester.
Sweet Little College: My distance education job, without which I would be done for.
Hoops U: excellent public college, mostly known for its basketball team. I got my MA there.
Prestigious U: The nutty place I worked before I landed at Awesome and Panic.
Merciful U: called so because I am enrolled in their PhD program, and they have not yet kicked me out... (I very much deserve to be kicked out, in case you were unaware).
Monday, September 3, 2007
Notice a theme, lately?
1) The person at Panic-Hire U who is supposed to give me materials for the class I am teaching has not returned my emails, phone calls, or even the note I left on his door in over a week now. I am going into the classroom tomorrow morning at 8:15, for the third day in a row, unprepared. I finally emailed his (and my) boss tonight, but I still don't have what I need - and I have no idea how I am going to explain that to my students in the morning. Perhaps we'll do MabLibs or draw pictures of what we did on our summer vacations!
2) I have not done laundry in over a month, and I am fast approaching the "zero-underwear" moment. I would have reached it a lot sooner had I not a serious over-interest in lingerie and therefore literally hundreds of bra-underwear combinations to choose from. However, since 40% of the floor in my apartment (it's only one room, people) is now covered by dirty clothes, it might be time for me to snap out of it. I could make it through the end of the week, but not more. If a person stops doing laundry and the clothing runs out, what happens? Does the person just stay home and molt in his or her sticky rags? Please pray that I do not have an answer to this question next week.
3) My air-conditioner is broken. That means that my apartment feels (and smells) like a sweaty jungle. I take upwards of three cold showers a day, just so I can avoid complete stickiness. Surely, the Sisters of Charity at St. Elizabeth Academy would approve - unless they also knew that I am forced to dry off with old t-shirts because my towels all smell like mold. Check out that Catholic Convent-School website and you'll readily see that I was NOT raised to behave this way. I am a disgrace to Catholic school girls everywhere.
4) I got an email from Larry telling me that (it's complicated) he wants to avoid seeing me (and expects me to avoid running into him). He writes "I don't know what the future holds, but this is what I need right now." Perhaps one of these days when I am home in the afternoon, clutching my head and screaming because all my underwear is dirty and I do not have the moral fortitude to get off my ass and cope with mountain of sweaty-jungle clothes, I'll write a post that explains why exactly it is that a man I never dated and never liked in that way could reasonably send me a break-up email - and why I would be sad about it. Summary: so much for NOT DATING so as to NOT have to deal with bullshit like this. Because all this time I didn't have a boyfriend, I might as well have had one if I had known someone would be uttering the words "what I need right now" in my direction. Is that irony? Or just stupidity? I forget. (And I really ought to find something else to do to teach English).
5) I called my Dad today and he told me that the next few months are going to be rough. Then he said: "When I am breathing my last, it would be nice to have all my kids around me, but until then, I don't think I can handle visitors." Needs no comment, I think.
Normally, I am mentally posing in front of my misery camera* about 35% of my waking hours. Lately, it is 100%. I work if I absolutely have to and I spend the rest of my time on pointless googling and eyebrow trimming, and mole checking and waist and hip measuring. Sometimes I stare out the window and sometimes I stare to the floor. And then... oh, internet!
I fear for my sanity unless SOMETHING, ANYTHING good happens. Anything at all will do. Please. Soon.
* in case you missed it (and how could you?) the theme is self-pity.
2) I have not done laundry in over a month, and I am fast approaching the "zero-underwear" moment. I would have reached it a lot sooner had I not a serious over-interest in lingerie and therefore literally hundreds of bra-underwear combinations to choose from. However, since 40% of the floor in my apartment (it's only one room, people) is now covered by dirty clothes, it might be time for me to snap out of it. I could make it through the end of the week, but not more. If a person stops doing laundry and the clothing runs out, what happens? Does the person just stay home and molt in his or her sticky rags? Please pray that I do not have an answer to this question next week.
3) My air-conditioner is broken. That means that my apartment feels (and smells) like a sweaty jungle. I take upwards of three cold showers a day, just so I can avoid complete stickiness. Surely, the Sisters of Charity at St. Elizabeth Academy would approve - unless they also knew that I am forced to dry off with old t-shirts because my towels all smell like mold. Check out that Catholic Convent-School website and you'll readily see that I was NOT raised to behave this way. I am a disgrace to Catholic school girls everywhere.
4) I got an email from Larry telling me that (it's complicated) he wants to avoid seeing me (and expects me to avoid running into him). He writes "I don't know what the future holds, but this is what I need right now." Perhaps one of these days when I am home in the afternoon, clutching my head and screaming because all my underwear is dirty and I do not have the moral fortitude to get off my ass and cope with mountain of sweaty-jungle clothes, I'll write a post that explains why exactly it is that a man I never dated and never liked in that way could reasonably send me a break-up email - and why I would be sad about it. Summary: so much for NOT DATING so as to NOT have to deal with bullshit like this. Because all this time I didn't have a boyfriend, I might as well have had one if I had known someone would be uttering the words "what I need right now" in my direction. Is that irony? Or just stupidity? I forget. (And I really ought to find something else to do to teach English).
5) I called my Dad today and he told me that the next few months are going to be rough. Then he said: "When I am breathing my last, it would be nice to have all my kids around me, but until then, I don't think I can handle visitors." Needs no comment, I think.
Normally, I am mentally posing in front of my misery camera* about 35% of my waking hours. Lately, it is 100%. I work if I absolutely have to and I spend the rest of my time on pointless googling and eyebrow trimming, and mole checking and waist and hip measuring. Sometimes I stare out the window and sometimes I stare to the floor. And then... oh, internet!
I fear for my sanity unless SOMETHING, ANYTHING good happens. Anything at all will do. Please. Soon.
* in case you missed it (and how could you?) the theme is self-pity.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Sin of the Week, 9/2/07
I lied.
Again.
The lie I told was to myself, standing in front of the mirror.
"Self?" I said.
"Yes?" I answered.
"Do we look fat in this dress?" Gazing at the mirror.
"Why, no. We look voluptuous and alluring. We measure VERY appropriately."
"Why, thank-you! Can we go out for many many drinks with our very thin friends, now?"
"Get thee to a brewery!" *
"Whheeeeee! Let's go"
And off we went. (And yes, I measure appropriately. Every single day.)
* I actually spent most of the weekend at my brother's house, discussing recent medical developments re: our dad. We're fucked, basically, but his doctors did throw us a scrap of a bone: he might get as much as a year, and we got confirmation that the idea of doing a bone marrow transplant is not off the table entirely. IF we do that we might get more.
Again.
The lie I told was to myself, standing in front of the mirror.
"Self?" I said.
"Yes?" I answered.
"Do we look fat in this dress?" Gazing at the mirror.
"Why, no. We look voluptuous and alluring. We measure VERY appropriately."
"Why, thank-you! Can we go out for many many drinks with our very thin friends, now?"
"Get thee to a brewery!" *
"Whheeeeee! Let's go"
And off we went. (And yes, I measure appropriately. Every single day.)
* I actually spent most of the weekend at my brother's house, discussing recent medical developments re: our dad. We're fucked, basically, but his doctors did throw us a scrap of a bone: he might get as much as a year, and we got confirmation that the idea of doing a bone marrow transplant is not off the table entirely. IF we do that we might get more.
My dad
A few weeks ago, I got in my rental car and drove to Pop and Mamacita's house. What I didn't mention about the trip was that I stopped at the top of the street and cried for about fifteen minutes before proceeding down the road to my house.
Why?
Because I promised myself that I would not step into my father's house again unless he was in it. Because for a year, he wasn't. He was in St. Francis Hospital receiving three rounds of chemotherapy for acute myeloid leukemia.
So for me to be able to walk into our house and see my dad, sitting in his chair, reading a magazine, was a personal and familial triumph unlike anything I could ever describe. For me to get up the next day and get in the car and drive to the grocery store with my dad, and pick out, you know, stuff to put on the grill, was on par with, say, having tea with Jesus or winning the lottery. For me to wake up one day, look out our front window, and see this:
... was enough to make my heart crack. In fact, my heart was cracking all week. I could write all day and all night long, and you'd still have no idea how much I love my dad. No. Idea.
It is for this reason that I am fairly well near demenita because my dad has lost his remission and is back in the hospital. His diagnosos is recurrent acute myeloid leukemia. I'll save you the google search, people: barring some kind of UNHEARD OF, EVER BEFORE IN MEDICAL HISTORY miracle, it's over. We'll be lucky if he lives six months.
If you will excuse me, I am going to go smash my head against the wall until I pass out.
I'll write more on this subject when I get more news.
Why?
Because I promised myself that I would not step into my father's house again unless he was in it. Because for a year, he wasn't. He was in St. Francis Hospital receiving three rounds of chemotherapy for acute myeloid leukemia.
So for me to be able to walk into our house and see my dad, sitting in his chair, reading a magazine, was a personal and familial triumph unlike anything I could ever describe. For me to get up the next day and get in the car and drive to the grocery store with my dad, and pick out, you know, stuff to put on the grill, was on par with, say, having tea with Jesus or winning the lottery. For me to wake up one day, look out our front window, and see this:
... was enough to make my heart crack. In fact, my heart was cracking all week. I could write all day and all night long, and you'd still have no idea how much I love my dad. No. Idea.
It is for this reason that I am fairly well near demenita because my dad has lost his remission and is back in the hospital. His diagnosos is recurrent acute myeloid leukemia. I'll save you the google search, people: barring some kind of UNHEARD OF, EVER BEFORE IN MEDICAL HISTORY miracle, it's over. We'll be lucky if he lives six months.
If you will excuse me, I am going to go smash my head against the wall until I pass out.
I'll write more on this subject when I get more news.
Friday, August 31, 2007
"Infinite Island" Rules, or why the NYT needs to GET OVER IT
Check out the review of Brooklyn Museum's "Infinite Island" in today's NYT. and then read why I think NYT needs to get over itself:
Done?
Here are my complaints: "I’d like to report that the labor has paid off in a triumph, but it hasn’t. Nor has it produced a failure."
Huh?
"One of the show’s stated purposes is to ask whether there is, in fact, a cultural entity — or a type of contemporary art — that can be securely identified as Caribbean. And it arrives at its answer — no — through a display of sheer multiplicity."
And how, exactly, is that a failure? The reviewers main complaint is the packaging.. that is: "what can it mean now to stamp diagrams of slave ships in an attractive pattern on a gallery wall? Or to offer blurry photographs of tropical landscapes, or deep-colored lifestyle pictures, images that gain what interest they have only from explanatory wall labels?" Whatever!
"the show feels warmed over and sluggish: it doesn’t have the sense of risk or discovery that a re-arguing of identity as a subject now needs, at least in a New York context"
Can a show that is an "in house job" and a "labor of love" be sluggish?
The NYT's main complaint about the show is that while the art is really good, it is, uh, sluggish?
WTF? Check out some of the images from the show:
Sluggish? Yeah, right.
The closing line reveals what the NYT is trying to do:
"turning its back on art world whims and fads in “Infinite Island,” the museum is staying true to its present self, against all objections, and there’s something cool about that."
In other words, the art is great. We just love to hate Brooklyn Museum.
NYT, get over it. The show is BRILLIANT, as is its presentation and its curator, Tumelo Mosaka. If you live in NYC, go to this show and see why.
* yeah, yeah, I am not exactly objective. I worked on this show (not exactly - it's a long story) and I am astonished that NYT can continue to hate on Brooklyn Museum, despite how consistently, as NYT says, cool it is.
Done?
Here are my complaints: "I’d like to report that the labor has paid off in a triumph, but it hasn’t. Nor has it produced a failure."
Huh?
"One of the show’s stated purposes is to ask whether there is, in fact, a cultural entity — or a type of contemporary art — that can be securely identified as Caribbean. And it arrives at its answer — no — through a display of sheer multiplicity."
And how, exactly, is that a failure? The reviewers main complaint is the packaging.. that is: "what can it mean now to stamp diagrams of slave ships in an attractive pattern on a gallery wall? Or to offer blurry photographs of tropical landscapes, or deep-colored lifestyle pictures, images that gain what interest they have only from explanatory wall labels?" Whatever!
"the show feels warmed over and sluggish: it doesn’t have the sense of risk or discovery that a re-arguing of identity as a subject now needs, at least in a New York context"
Can a show that is an "in house job" and a "labor of love" be sluggish?
The NYT's main complaint about the show is that while the art is really good, it is, uh, sluggish?
WTF? Check out some of the images from the show:
Sluggish? Yeah, right.
The closing line reveals what the NYT is trying to do:
"turning its back on art world whims and fads in “Infinite Island,” the museum is staying true to its present self, against all objections, and there’s something cool about that."
In other words, the art is great. We just love to hate Brooklyn Museum.
NYT, get over it. The show is BRILLIANT, as is its presentation and its curator, Tumelo Mosaka. If you live in NYC, go to this show and see why.
* yeah, yeah, I am not exactly objective. I worked on this show (not exactly - it's a long story) and I am astonished that NYT can continue to hate on Brooklyn Museum, despite how consistently, as NYT says, cool it is.
$12.95
I bought these before I left for Peru. I had been tearing my feet up all summer and short of wrapping my entire foot in duct tape, I was out of options. These were my last attempt to prevent ragged, bleeding feet before going to a podiatrist.
They worked. They suck to my boots for four days straight, and I never felt a thing.
They worked. They suck to my boots for four days straight, and I never felt a thing.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
45 seconds
I was just sitting here reading the google search results for "take me anywhere, internet" when I glanced to the right and noticed the wrecking ball outside my window, slowly beginning its swing right toward my house.*
Reader, I am no longer interested in teaching. That's right: the thing that I was certain I would do for the rest of my career no longer inerests me. I have no idea how this happened or why. The most cogent thing I can say about it is that I've lost my ability to say the word "cogent" without a pang of regret that I don't really mean it. Or anything. When I tell my students that language can change their lives, that writing gives them freedom, I no longer believe it.
I am not saying that from an objective standpoint, I am correct. The opposite is almost certainly true: my students can benefit from competent writing instruction, and English classes are a right and practical use for taxpayers' dollars. The rub is that I don't want to deliver anymore.
To review: 22-26 BC Paper mortgage underwriter; 26-30 small business/retail relationship lender; 30-37 English professor - mostly ESL and developmental, grad student.
If you look at the pattern, you'll realize that I am a bit late - usually the wrecking ball tears my whole house down once every four years, at which time I something to do that appeals to some other, probably neglected district of my brain. It has now been seven.
What should I do? I find myself wanting to be a cocktail waittress, or a subway train operator, or a postal worker.*** The overwhelming urge I have is to do physical work - preferably work where I can punch a clock every day, go home and forget all about it. **
I figure I've got about 45 seconds until my house is knocked down to dust, at which point some kind of decision must be made.
Any ideas?
*it's a metaphor. And no, I don't give a damn about those anymore, either.
** I might make ane excellent secretary, too. Hiring, Lola? Pax?
*** Truth be told, all I really want to do anymore is climb. I have no idea how this happened. A year ago, I was afraid of heights and I could barely cross the street without looking nine ways. I have changed. Obviously.
Reader, I am no longer interested in teaching. That's right: the thing that I was certain I would do for the rest of my career no longer inerests me. I have no idea how this happened or why. The most cogent thing I can say about it is that I've lost my ability to say the word "cogent" without a pang of regret that I don't really mean it. Or anything. When I tell my students that language can change their lives, that writing gives them freedom, I no longer believe it.
I am not saying that from an objective standpoint, I am correct. The opposite is almost certainly true: my students can benefit from competent writing instruction, and English classes are a right and practical use for taxpayers' dollars. The rub is that I don't want to deliver anymore.
To review: 22-26 BC Paper mortgage underwriter; 26-30 small business/retail relationship lender; 30-37 English professor - mostly ESL and developmental, grad student.
If you look at the pattern, you'll realize that I am a bit late - usually the wrecking ball tears my whole house down once every four years, at which time I something to do that appeals to some other, probably neglected district of my brain. It has now been seven.
What should I do? I find myself wanting to be a cocktail waittress, or a subway train operator, or a postal worker.*** The overwhelming urge I have is to do physical work - preferably work where I can punch a clock every day, go home and forget all about it. **
I figure I've got about 45 seconds until my house is knocked down to dust, at which point some kind of decision must be made.
Any ideas?
*it's a metaphor. And no, I don't give a damn about those anymore, either.
** I might make ane excellent secretary, too. Hiring, Lola? Pax?
*** Truth be told, all I really want to do anymore is climb. I have no idea how this happened. A year ago, I was afraid of heights and I could barely cross the street without looking nine ways. I have changed. Obviously.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Tap tap tap.... click
I sent the email, the one I have been meaning to send to the man I used to work with at Prestigious U. The content is dull - I ask about his summer and his travels and prudishly ask him to let me know how school is going.
The punctuation, however, is hot. One semi-colon, on double dash and, you know, I almost threw in an asterisk just to make my feelings clear. But then I realized that it might be a bit forward to take things so far on the second email. As far as I know, the lovely creature who tossed an asterisk at Woodrow got absolutely nowhere for her troubles, in spite of the fact that she took it a step further and spelled it out for him* using actual language. Perhaps if she had simply sent him an asterisk - all out there by itself - he might have taken a greater interest? No idea.
What I do know is that if the smart, serious creature who emailed me in July emails me back, I will consent to spend an hour in his company. And then I will take my pulse and see if I am still living. I'll let you know how it goes.
* transcript of the text to which I refer (to which I refer!) since I can't figure out how to link to it. (Duh).
I wanna hump* ur leg! :)
How funny is that? But what is the asterisk for? Priceless.
The punctuation, however, is hot. One semi-colon, on double dash and, you know, I almost threw in an asterisk just to make my feelings clear. But then I realized that it might be a bit forward to take things so far on the second email. As far as I know, the lovely creature who tossed an asterisk at Woodrow got absolutely nowhere for her troubles, in spite of the fact that she took it a step further and spelled it out for him* using actual language. Perhaps if she had simply sent him an asterisk - all out there by itself - he might have taken a greater interest? No idea.
What I do know is that if the smart, serious creature who emailed me in July emails me back, I will consent to spend an hour in his company. And then I will take my pulse and see if I am still living. I'll let you know how it goes.
* transcript of the text to which I refer (to which I refer!) since I can't figure out how to link to it. (Duh).
I wanna hump* ur leg! :)
How funny is that? But what is the asterisk for? Priceless.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
So much for penury
I started looking for part time work the moment I got home on Friday. I now have four adjunct classes in the bag - which means I can go the the Canadian Rockies for Columbus Day and I can ALSO go to Ecuador for New Years. Interested... Lola?
In other news, my recent positiion vacancy post has been refilled by the previous occupant. My stalker is back. This is rather good news, since he is the devil I know and my vanity is rather stoked by the idea that some random man that I don't like very much likes me. Vanity is, in other words, a failing of mine. Let's hope it doesn't get me into trouble.
Pax and Joe did in fact split up yesterday. I am sad for them, but they agree it was a good decision. I predict many martinis and mojitos this weekend.
And that's it for me today. More to say tomorrow, almost certainly.
In other news, my recent positiion vacancy post has been refilled by the previous occupant. My stalker is back. This is rather good news, since he is the devil I know and my vanity is rather stoked by the idea that some random man that I don't like very much likes me. Vanity is, in other words, a failing of mine. Let's hope it doesn't get me into trouble.
Pax and Joe did in fact split up yesterday. I am sad for them, but they agree it was a good decision. I predict many martinis and mojitos this weekend.
And that's it for me today. More to say tomorrow, almost certainly.
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