Cat on a hot tin roof...

Well, now that 90-degree days are here with avengence, the A/C has been hiked way up in la oficina, and it is so brrrr! The summertime (and now we are in the summer season, though not summer proper) is always so tricky. You have to accommodate, with your clothes, the baking temps of the outside and the arctic temps of most offices, businesses, homes, etc.

I am not complaining about a/c. I'm not one of those holier-than-thou people who is opposed to manufactured cool, crisp air. I do not like to be excessively hot or cold, which is why I like the fall, but I digress....

Anyway, the point is, it's cold in the office. And for the time being, I have no other point.

Oh, the freelance thing is looking up. I'm hesitant to say that it's mine, but I did receive a communication that leads me to believe this may be the case.

I walked all the way to the Inner Harbor and back after a marathon (several hours, for real) CD- ripping effort. Because I love Christian Bale, I watched "Batman Begins." Okay, for my money, a tortured man pushed to the brink by his pain is pretty much as sexy as it gets.

I submitted a rewrite "audition" for the freelance gig. As is always the case, we'll just see. Whatever happens at this point, I'll know that I really went for it. I can take not getting the job now, because I seriously tried.

I've been praying through some deep-seated fears of mine. I can't go into as many details as I'd like because it involves more than just my own life, but I can say this: My own personal anxieties are often difficult to separate from legitimate caution, and I'm worried that I'm projecting a lot of my own worries onto other people when giving them advice. I loathe it when that happens to me, so I'm making every effort not to undermine others' hopes and dreams in the name of "concern."

My youngest sister comes most readily to mind. Whenever she tells me about some new prospect or idea or whatever, my immediate [internal] reaction is, "that'll never work." And it's not that I'm wishing her a lack of success, but I get so scared whenever someone starts really wanting something, because I think fervent desire is dangerous; I think it ties one's hands. And I start bracing myself for the fallout that disappointment brings. I've realized that I feel responsible to fix others' disappointments, and when I become afraid for them, I'm just as afraid for myself--afraid I won't be able to deal this time...

It's not fair that because I can't deal with the prospect of being let down that I expect others to be perpetually let down. That's so toxic, and ultimately so selfish, but I don't know how to address this perverse paradigm.

Once you warned me that if you scorned me I'd sing the maiden's prayer again, and wish that you were there again, to get into my hair again; it never entered my mind...

Well, my sister's coming. On Monday, in all likelihood. It was touch and go for a while, but she was finally offered the summer job at my company again this year. There's a new guy in charge of the specific department in which she'll be working and he was hemming and hawing about his need for resources--how many, etc.

The freelance work I'm hoping for is still a distinct possibility; that is to say, I am still in the running. There are a few other competitors. I have until Monday to turn in a revised sample of my work to score the gig. To that end, I went to the library this morning to check out some resources that will help me do a credible job. I wish I didn't have to be so vague, but it's a ghost writing scenario, so I don't want to say too much.

Either way, I have a feeling more money is coming my way. I keep dreaming of a windfall of cash...

Simple Pleasures

Tonight I did something I never do. I took a bubble bath. I am a shower person, have been ever since I was 7 and my mother deemed me old enough to start taking them. I immediately appreciated the efficiency of the bathing method; less prep work, etc.

But every once in a great while it will occur to me that I have a tub. So I pulled the curtains back a bit, brought in some tea lights to set on the ledge in front of the window, and poured in tea tree oil shower gel (I had no actual bubble bath, but any liquid soap will make bubbles, really...). And it was heaven. With the sirens blaring down below, I just lay there soaking in the skyline of steeples, the roof of the train station against the blue black sky, a red and white whirr of headlights and taillights on I-83.

Can Men and Women be Friends? Just Friends?
Or, Can a man and woman be friends if neither of them finds the other attractive?
What if one of them does find the other attractive, but it's not mutual, what then?

let me just state for the record that this post contains some generalizations. It's not meant to be an affront to your (whoever you are) personal experience, which may be an exception to the rule (but probably not), but rather is just a record of my musings on the question made famous by "When Harry Met Sally ."

Trick question(s), I think. Here's why.

I am tempted, after the debacle that was my 20s and the first two years of my 30s to say "no." Categorically, no. I base this on the fact that I currently have no male friends, and because the only two male friends I've had (that I saw with any regularity) in recent history were the boyfriend of my best friend (now out of the picture) and the man on whom I had a crush for 6+ years. He is now married to someone other than myself, and we are not friends for a variety of reasons, but mostly because I found him attractive, thereby ruining what would have been a perfectly mediocre friendship.

Fact. I've never been able to sustain a friendship with any male that I truly found attractive (and hence, was attracted to).

So, I'm thinking about friends of mine--male, whom I thought were tremendously wonderful, but to whom I was not attracted; with whom, during that magical time we call "undergrad" I had relatively regular access and appropriate, legitimate fraternal intimacy.

Where are those men now? Married. With Children, in some cases. So, while in my heart I will always think of them as my friends, it's a distant fondness that has replaced the actual relationship. If you are "friends" with a married man, you are also friends with his wife, or you do not see him. ever.

I don't know of any woman, I don't care how evolved she is, who would want her husband regularly hanging out with another woman, who she knows is just his friend, if she is not also in attendance. It doesn't matter if you (as said woman) knew him first. In some cases, you may not like the wife very much. Or, you may think she is fine, but there's no natural affinity. But there you are, having to address your Christmas cards to both of them and include her on e-mails and notes, when really, who are we kidding, you are not her friend, too. If you are, then great! But it still won't be the same as before. You are friends with a couple, not your old pal, her husband.

And to a certain extent, I think that's okay--appropriate, even. But I'd like to think I'd be one of those girlfriends or wives who would understand that the women who knew my guy before I did, still need him to be, as much as possible, what he was to them before,without me always being included in their conversations. I'd expect them to respect my relationship with him, but I want to think I wouldn't insist on going with him every time he wanted to meet up with one or a group of them for coffee or drinks, so they could all just be themselves. Because I'd hold him responsible for communicating with his actions as well as his words that his relationship with me is his top priority.

(sidebar: I'm not into this idea of "prohibiting" a man from doing anything. Even if he is my husband, but I feel myself about to get on a soapbox, so let's move on.)

I've been fortunate. In the case of the married male friend, it is usually also true that I was always friends with his wife as well. That's a nice stroke of luck, but it's not really the scenario we're discussing. A straight-up, honest-to-goodness-neither-of-you-is-secretly-in-love-with-the-other-one-friendship-between-a-man-and-a-woman-with-no-other-mitigating-third-party-wife-or-girlfriend-to-change-the-dynamic.

Now then. Where was I? Oh yes! Can men and women really be just friends?

Clearly, based on my "I'd like to be the kind of wife/girlfriend who..." speech, I think it's possible, but like communism, I haven't really seen it effectively executed long-term.

Sally: We're just going to be friends.
Harry: Friends... you realize, of course, that we can never be friends...

I went for a walk yesterday after dinner. From one end of my neighborhood to the other. It was a walk I would have taken two years ago, when I lived there, but it surprised me, still, that the route came so naturally. I often suffer from failure of imagination, and when I "explore" it's always the most pedantic, straightforward path. I don't like too much veering. Never have.

I decided to take a walk because I am thisclose to leading a sedentary life. I am still recovering, financially, from the move, and still need stuff for the apartment. And my sister graduated from college, which cost me roughly 400.00 in expenses--the getting there--which I wouldn't have foregone for anything, but I don't need to tell you that 400.00 is money I could have used to finance quite a few necessities--like a new gym membership. But it is what it is. So, I couldn't bear the thought of sitting in my apartment night after night, just watching television, complying with my lack of activity. I am going to try taking a powerwalk every evening along with better regulating my food intake. I swear, my inner fat girl wants to come back. I am acutely aware of her wanting to stage a coup.

And no, I haven't lost my mind. I'm just saying I'm not immune to my old ways. They were easy and effortless. One must be vigilant. That's all I'm getting at.

This Sunday has had two lives. I started out the day at Sarah's place; we resumed our weekend ritual of the Saturday night sleepover. But I was also helping her clean up her apartment in preparation for her mother's visit later this week, and another, new friend's stay, who's coming in for Memorial Day weekend.

I was home by 4. I reestablished my connection with my apartment by doing up some dishes I'd left in the sink on Saturday afternoon; I put away the laundry Sarah very graciously let me do at her place, then I went to the bank to get some cash for the week's bus fare. I ripped a bunch of CDs to the iTunes library; I put a lovely piece of beef in the oven (sprinkled with garlic salt, lightly drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar)and made a spicy curry rice and green beans to accompany it.

I started reading Love Walked In by Marisa de los Santos, and I am enchanted. Devika, you would like this book, I think. The writer understands how language moves, that's apparent. She is a poet with a Ph.D. in literature and creative writing. This is her first novel. I'm actually inclined to write to her and ask where she did her doctorate because that is the exact degree I want to pursue (after the M.A. is done, of course).

So now, half-heartedly watching the Desperate Housewives finale, it occurs to me that something is missing. Another person.

Bonbon Bourbon

Is the flavour of my coffee this morning. It's pretty good; I'm so glad to have a 7-11 in my neighborhood again.

Last night Vivabrooklyn and I got together for dinner at the City Cafe (see link under "Strictly Baltimore") and coffee and dessert at GiGi (Just Delicious). I had a cappuccino with a shot of hazelnut and a slice of red velvet cake. After an evening of wonderful conversation and anecdote sharing, I walked viva back to the Light Rail. After that, I spent the night on the couch watching That '70s Show reruns on the FX network.

I've started looking through my CDs and ripping more of them to my iTunes library. I'm working on a pile called "CDs to Give Away"-- because I have more discs than I can properly display, and in many cases, there are only one or two songs that I care about on a given album. It's a huge space waster.

Keep your fingers crossed. I have tossed my hat into the ring for some summertime freelance work. If I get it, it will mean extra cash, and THAT will mean that maybe I can come into the 21st century and get an iPod.

Series Finales

Will & Grace: A show I never watched religiously, but always enjoyed when I remembered it existed. I thought its conclusion was a little confusing, but only because the characters, who had aged about 20 years, morphed back into the current version of themselves, so I wondered... Was this all some sort of historical conjecture, or are we to assume that this is how the writers want you to know things turned out, long-term? And if so, is it satisfying to know that Will & Grace essentially had a 20-year falling out? But that destiny (via their offspring)will eventually heal everything? Good thing I wasn't super invested, because I'm not quite sure how to feel about that.

That'70s Show: I really got into this show after it was syndicated and started coming on five times a week on Fox; eventually I started to watch it, very semi-regularly, during primetime in the course of its regular season. But I stopped doing that long before Ashton Kutcher and Topher Grace bowed out of the final season, so when I tuned in last night, I had no idea what to expect. For me, simply because Topher Grace AKA Eric Foreman returned, just in the nick of time, right at the end, it was satisfying.

This made me realize something. Shows that fit an episodic structure, Seinfeld excluded, really do need to make good on the promises of the show up to that point (Seinfeld made no promises and I still contend that it was true to itself in its final episode, though I know many disagree). There is no need to break the Classic mold and try to become all Post-Modern and Avant Garde or interesting in the home stretch. Just make sure the people who loved each other during the show's entire dramatic arc end up together, that they kiss in the next to the last scene; give your audience that sense of "all's well that ends well." The conclusion can't be so final that the audience can't imagine a life for the characters beyond the final moment, nor so open-ended that the viewer has no feeling of a fait au compli. Also, there really should be some tears shed by the characters. The tears are crucial. Finally, why do we not see the cast taking their final bows anymore? That was always the kicker in the past. Seeing these people who've worked together for a number of years, sobbing because it's all over; that always made me feel like I'd been part of something so wonderful. That's what people want, really, from TV.

I dreamt that I was in prison--visiting someone; I don't know who. While there, a man came up to me (an inmate)and I quickly recognzied him as my birth father. His prison name was "Cutting Edge." Now what on earth do you suppose that means?

I've been nursing the same cup of black coffee since 7:45 this morning. I keep nuking it every 20 minutes or so. I still have half a cup left. I just had a sandwich and a Wallaby yogurt (Orange Passionfruit, my favourite)--I'm trying to save the orange for another hour or so. A coworker mentioned that I look like I'm losing weight again. That's heartening because I am trying to be intentional about it. My mother said the same thing to me over the weekend (though, due to family-related stress, I ate poorly and pathologically on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. this confirms that I was fat for so long because of these people. oh. and my poor eating habits.), so that feels like a confirmation. Also, the jeans are getting loose. That never gets old.

I finished Bitter Is The New Black this morning. I checked it out from the library a couple of weeks ago. Tres fabulous read. Entertaining, but there's also a moral. And it's a memoir. The author acknowledges that some stories and characters are composites and/or made up to advance the plot, but in toto, it's like 95% what really went down. This is because not everything that happens in life would make for interesting reading. What is the blog if not a memoir written in relatively real time? I'm pretty much a literalist about reporting and recording the details of my life. and sometimes it is boring--it's okay; you can agree. That is why no publishers are knocking down my door asking to turn this thing into a book. That and the fact that discovering you love yourself after another disappointment in love and dropping weight as a result of said newfound empowerment is pretty old hat. And having a crush on your lit prof is just a cliche.

These are my thoughts as of 11:40 a.m. on Wednesday, May 17th.

Has anyone else noticed that a civil war almost always follows a revolution?

Bennington is a quaint town in rural, southern Vermont...

very near upstate NY (I'm saying it's upstate, but is that correct, regionally speaking?). Obviously, I know, intellectually that there's more to NY than the five borroughs, but I swear, something about silos, barns, and cattle just don't scream New York to me, and I had to keep adjusting my paradigm as we were driving through. The downtown area of Bennington is classic funky college town--one cafe and a slew of accessible restaurants and off-the-beaten-path retail shops.

I regretted that the one and only time I got the opportunity to experience my sister in this context where she has done so much growing and changing is when it's nearly finished for her (she's staying on through the summer to work on campus), but I also recognize that this was the first real opportunity for a visit, and so I'm not beating myself up. She and her friends have a very strong community, and it was nice to see that she's created a second family for herself. I know that my friends in college and beyond saved me, in many ways, from turning in on myself too much.

One of the places my sister is always touting is this second hand shop where she scores the most incredible finds. My mom, being a thrift store and consignment shop junkie, made sure we hit these places. At the local salvation army I found a practically new (and no, I am not exaggerating) microwave (the instructions were still inside it!)for.... drumroll..... 15 dollars.

At Second Hand Rose (the store my sister loves), I found a pair of the shoes I've been coveting for years. Gently used black dansko clogs for 30.00. These shoes, because they rock, are never less than 100 brand new. When I say that they are gently used, I mean it. It's clear that they've been worn before, but the integrity of the shoe is very much intact, and there are minimal indications of wear. I'm not really sure why the person who owned them before consigned them. If I had to guess, I'd say she owned them for about 5 months and wore them only occassionally. Whatever. My gain! I have always wanted both a black and brown pair, but I lamented the 200.00 committment. Well, now that I've been blessed to find a black pair for a fraction of what they are worth, it will be much easier for me to pay full price for the coveted brown pair.

In addition to the clogs, I found another great pair of shoes (dress casual) that are perfect for work. They were marked at 20 dollars, but only cost ten (a surprise at the register!). I also got a brand new brown madras tunic and a black and white cardigan that came with two matching sleeveless dress tanks. The shirts and the sweater can be dressed up with trousers or dressed down with jeans. Honestly, now I just need a strand of faux pearls. One outfit I have in mind is the cardigan with one of the tanks, some jeans, the black clogs, and said pearls after getting a new, choppy bedhead haircut with blonde highlights. so fun and funky.

So in short, Bennington was great for shopping. Just last week I was lamenting to sarah that I needed new shoes and clothes (but shoes more), and I got both. I just told you, gentle reader, last week that a microwave was so low on my list of needs/wants for the apartment that I had no idea when I'd be getting one...

well, sometimes things work out. That's all I can say.

Just when I thought I was done dealing with the incredible gaffes of certain entities

I get a summons to appear in court for failure to pay rent, for the month of May, to my former leasing company.

My lease ended on April 30th. I was out on the 22nd and turned in keys on the 23rd.

The irony? Along with that summons, in the mail, I received the return of my security deposit from the same company. Because management companies always return your security deposit when you've gone rogue on the rent. Always.

Through The Wringer: The Graduation Post, Part I

It seems that I was gone for longer than 4 days. Vermont was cold and rainy--the mountains were lovely, really, cast, occasionally, in painterly light, but mostly covered by overhanging, crying clouds.

My sister's graduation was a miserable experience. It took place outside (beneath a tent)in the most frigid May weather I have ever experienced, and it threatened to rain the entire time. Eventually it did. I was so cold. The pandemonium that is par for the course after most ceremonies of this nature was no less par for the course on Sunday and tensions among my set were high. I won't start with the details because the amount of minutiae I'd have to go into is not worth it, simply put. Let's just say that itineraries and personal agendas have to give way for the greater good, that some people need to learn to determine when a moment is not about them, but someone else.

And sadly, as a result of a conversation that came up, rather organically, between my sister (the graduating one) and myself, I felt the space between us widen--perceptibly. I have tried to make my peace with the fact that she doesn't really want anything from me--she is okay with the periphery of the sibling relationship, and I have tried to be okay with it. I felt the final break like a perceptible snap.

So during the ceremony, I felt cold on the outside and on the inside. Due to the snafu I alluded to in the second paragraph, I couldn't even bring myself to pose with the family in her graduation pictures. I decided it would be better not to mar the record with my stress-contorted visage. And I felt sick. And horrified.

In other ways, the trip was a success. The ride up went remarkably well; we made good time even with our pit stop at the Herkimer Diamond Mines where we beat rocks in the quarry with hammers. I, not knowing exactly what a trip to this place would entail, was wearing Franco Sarto heels. I had on heels in a diamond mine. I beat rocks with a hammer while wearing heels. I hope the people in the back caught that. Another long story, but that was odd and fun and so off the beaten path--really charming and one of the memories that will probably mean something to me ten years from now. Imagine the family dog trotting through the quarry because she refused, categorically refused, to be left in the van during this rock-beating-in-search-of-the-Herkimer-Diamond-excursion.

My stepdad and his father also came up (separately) for the graduation, and I felt truly, unconflictedly that I forgive him (my dad) for everything. And when I embraced him it was an organic gesture, something I wanted to be doing. I wanted to communicate to him that I forgive him. I wanted him to know that.

Yet this was a weekend in which so much of my past was dredged up, yet again, and I am still so broken in so many places. Family. This one unit of people have your fundamental traumas in common with you--perhaps they caused them. This is what complicates the interactions. Our Friends are a release from trauma. They are the people with whom we trade war stories, but the reprieve is that they weren't there (usually) for them, so we can get the distance required to interact without issues. But with family, you try to love while remembering what happened to you and it's just all too close and too present and you don't even all remember it the same. Devastating. After C's graduation, the whole experience was like being 6 again. I felt powerless. I started to cry and couldn't stop. I had to go to bed and sleep (with my heating pad) in order to get warm. I just could not get warm for the longest time.

Polenta cakes w/Honey...

are a delicious, quick breakfast. I'm steeping some China Black tea. It's 7:11. The entourage's revised ETA is 7:30. It's going to be raining in VT all weekend. I wonder if anyone else will have thought to bring an umbrella.

I made my sister a Graduation Mix last night. It's all Rap, R&B, and Hip-Hop, so I am sure she will like it. It's not her present, just a little token...and I'll take any excuse to make a compilation. My dream job would actually be conceptualizing movie soundtracks (but since the director and some other exec types probably do that, I'll have to settle for creating playlists, CDs, and such).

Ah well. Happy Weekend, everyone. I'm sure I'll wish I had access to my blog at around, oh, hour 5 with my family...

Packing

I left the office and walked out onto the rain-sluiced street, my hiking boots were dark brown from the downpour in seconds. The bus came on time so I was home by a little after 5.

Out of olive oil, I fried the polenta slices in butter (more decadent, but obviously not ideal calorie and fat-wise). An appetizer. I put the little leftover curried rice w/zucchini and baked chicken in the oven for the main course. This is the last of my food, and I don't get paid until monday; thank God I am going away for the weekend.

I am roughly 1/3 packed. My entourage is coming tomorrow morning at 7:00, so the alarm is set for 5:30. I'll need time to get ready, eat some leftover polenta cakes for breakfast, drink some China Black tea, and throw last minute things into my bag.

Blogging has been compulsive lately. I can't seem to stop doing it, so I'd wager that I'll check in at least once more before a 3-day hiatus.

Oh, and confidential to Sarah:

No one has yet to plumb the depths of your awesomeness. You know what I mean.

I had been listening to Margaret Atwood's The Blind Assassin, but I've abandoned it, at least for now, because the narrator's voice is making me feel distant from the narrative. I'm now listening to The Middle Sister, a little known work by a little known author. I'm also drinking decaf coffee because the office is out of the real stuff...

Bills

I am preparing to go away for the weekend. My middle sister, with whom I currently have a strained relationship, is graduating from college on Sunday the 14th. My family--mom, my youngest sister, the dog, and my mom's pseudo boyfriend--is driving north for the ceremony. We leave on Friday morning, so I am trying to take care of things now that I won't have the weekend to take care of. Chief among these things is writing out checks and posting them so they arrive at their destinations on time. I have two stacks on the table in the foyer. One stack with a post-it that says "To mail on Friday morning" and another that says "To mail on Monday."

Because I'm in the mood to think through logistics, I've already done rough calculations of what the trip will cost me (sharing the cost of the rental van, hotel, gas, and incidentals) and have deducted that amount from the total in my check book.

Earlier tonight I made a delicious whole wheat penne pasta with broccoli, stewed tomatoes, and garlic for dinner. It was so simple and so scrumptuous. As has been the case every night this week, I ate two navel oranges for dessert, and am now finishing off my evening with a cup of China Black tea with rose petals.

I've got hose and other unmentionables hanging on the shower rod, drying. tomorrow, after a visit with a good friend, I'll pack. Then I'm off to New England. I must remember to bring books on CD and a few novels (so I have options) for the car ride. I predict that there will be some, um, interesting anecdotes from this trip...

Showing Love to some other Baltimore Bloggers:

Evelyn's of Pigtown

Bags in Trees

Mango & Ginger a blog about loving food... need I say more?

The Baltimore Crab Watch out,Onion!

The Belle of Baltimore (I hope this is tongue-in-cheek.)

Epiphany in Baltimore

Have I mentioned my obsession with milk chocolate & hazelnuts?

The MTA: Kafkaesque Absurdity

There is a certain kind of MTA Bus Driver. The kind who, being nothing more than a minion him or herself, is a stickler--a mean, nasty stickler, about MTA rules. You understand immediately upon observation that this type of driver, being disenfranchised him or herself, has only one source of perceived power. His or her ability to lord the thin wisp of authority that being an MTA Bus Driver gives him or her over the poor, often infirm people who are forced to patronzie the MTA--and these customers are at the mercy of the driver. These people aren't commuting to save the environment or to do their part to eliminate gridlock. Like me, they have no other option. The Stickler preys upon these people and they get the brunt of all the driver's frustration with his or her unfulfilled hopes.

Today, one stop before I was to disembark, a woman got on the bus with a pass that bore yesterday's date. I understand that you are not allowed to do that--that it is reasonable to have to pay the fare for a service rendered. But I also understand that she probably found this pass discarded and thought maybe she'd stumbled on a piece of good fortune. So, standing up to get off, I handed her my day pass that was good for several more hours.

The driver, who had already informed her of the date gaffe with her pass, yelled at me "That's illegal! Do you see this?" (she was pointing to the fine print on the pass that said non transferrable). She continued, "A woman got five years for this very thing!" I said, "okay, I see it. I have to get off." She kept yelling, shoving the pass in my face. "FIVE YEARS!" To which I replied "Well, I don't need it. So you can just throw it away." The woman I tried to help was forced to get off at my stop as well, as she did not have the means to ride Baltimore City's unreliable public transportation.

I am someone who respects rules. I honour processes and protocols. Sometimes I am a stickler. But I also believe in the spirit as well as the letter, and I know it takes wisdom to know which is called for when.

Sure, there are those encroachers who will knowingly abuse a system that lacks quality control or who will take advantage of kindess and mercy. Then there are those who need to be given a break. The MTA Bus Driver from this afternoon (and many like her)gains nothing by preventing me from letting that woman ride the bus on my valid pass. It is ridiculous to me that I could have ridden the bus or rails incessantly, until 3 a.m. tomorrow, on that thin slip of non transferrable paper, that I paid for, but that I, as the purchaser, did not have the right to give to someone else. Someone who needed it. On a bus line that is notoriously populated by mean-spirited, surly drivers who must believe that the MTA exists purely for their own purposes. The MTA owes, by my count, everyone on the No. 21 Line countless free rides for poor service, erratic schedules, and buses that are often ill-equipped to handle the ridership.

Bureaucratic entities like the MTA espouse a Kafkaesque infatuation with process, procedure, and rules for their own sake. And there is nothing more absurd than a minion who is also a victim of such red tape to insist upon the categorical observance of rules that in no way advance his or her own situation. That is the tale of this certain kind of MTA Bus Driver.

It's no accident, to me, that MTA employees, by and large, are black men and women--more and more often, with no sense of professionalism or customer courtesy, and that its ridership is overwhelmingly African American as well. This varies depending upon the line, of course, but more riders than not are black (or immigrants), and usually older. I think the MTA perpetuates piss poor service by hiring a less than exemplary staff (not less than exemplary because of any racial consideration, but anecdotally, overarchingly rude in addition to belonging primarily to one ethnic group) and not caring because its service population are the fringe poor who have no other choice!

If the MTA was a credible institution I would be much more tolerant of the rules that benefit it, but I don't see these same miserable drivers, this same miserable institution being sticklerish about their schedules, the condition of their buses, and their commitment to value customers. So the MTA must forgive me if I would willingly see it go without $3.50 in order to benefit a stranded woman. A woman like me, with no other way to get from point A to point B without a valid day pass.

Atlas Shrugged

"Contradictions do not exist. Whenever you think you are facing a contradiction, check your premises; one of them is wrong." --Ayn Rand

I am a little more than halfway through the abridged, CD version of this modern classic, and I find that I am enjoying the 50s-ness of it. I understand that the narrative itself does not take place in the 50s, per se, but the overarching tone of it--philosophically, socially, and politically--places it squarely in that era. It is a subversive (at the time) response to the external idealism of the period. It's a very masculine novel, animus-driven, and I am impressed that there is but one woman smack dab in the middle of all this epic male drama. Power players of big business, industry, and intellectual reason. I would not say that I espouse Rand's Objectivist philosophies, in toto, but I understand what she was getting at. I like the pop and snap of it. The "don't fuck with me, fellas" paradigm of it. The moralizing and the trailblazing, and finally, the fact that we cannot escape who we are at the core. Maybe I'll tackle The Fountainhead next.

The news on other fronts is that it's time for me to complete my Thesis Planning Form. I've already started strategizing--now I just have to type up a rationale for my approach and some notes on the rounds of revisions I've made, etc. Fortunately, as one whose concentration is Poetry, I have the liberty of including one essay in with my collection of poems, and I wrote one about a year ago that I believe would be perfect. I am looking to sumbit this planning form within a week.

I have also written a draft article for publication consideration. More on these things as they develop.

just one corner of the office, unfinished

facade of my building

bedroom, another angle

the bedroom, minima

my china cabinet, from afar...

the living room, in shadow...

what will be the bar area, notice the cocktail paraphanelia...

the kitchen, with some stuff on the counter that normally wouldn't be there.

the dining room

Train whistles, the intermittent chugging along the tracks, punctuate my sleep in this apartment--and it is comforting and poetic. Very literary rest.

I emerged from a codeine fever this morning and was faced with the immediate challenge of how to shower without being seen by the workman on the roof across the way from the bathroom window. I have two layers of sheer curtains on the window, but during the day you can still get an eyeful--if there is an eyeful to be had. In any case, I was forced to be creative. I'll spare you the mundane details, but suffice it to say, I believe I was successful.

Expecting E to come over at about 11 (and it being roughly 9:30), I set out to get a cup of coffee from 7-11, then came back here to clean the bathroom, sweep, and mop the kitchen floor, and to have a bit of instant oatmeal. Now I've done all that, including the dusting and the plumping of sofa cushions. I've just had to reheat my coffee in a sauce pan (it's like camping in the city) because a microwave is low on my list of household priorities (in terms of the order in which I need things and what I can afford)...

I don't believe in soul mates anymore. I realize that some of you may have abandoned the notion of them some time ago, if, indeed, you ever held the premise as a possibility. Perhaps you think it woefully naive of me to have ever considered it, as I now do.

To be fair to myself, I should maybe say that what I am calling "soul mates" now was what I always thought of as God's will. The way I interpreted God's will is that there is one person out there for me, that He, in His infinite wisdom, would lead me to at the right time, just in the nick of time. And I still think that. But the idea that there is only one person who could make me happy, who will, as a by-product of fate or destiny, or whatever, "find" me, well that's the hoakey, vain thing I've given up. I will end up with one man. But there is no particular one man who is meant for me, exclusively. In terms of probability, there are any number of men with whom I might be happy, compatible, and have a successful marriage. And giving up such an antiquated philosophy is liberating.

How many men have I fallen for, to various degrees, believing that this one was the one? The number is embarrassing. How could I have felt that way about so many people? Blame it on my youth or my inexperience. In any case, the soul mates test fails. And the idea of meeting my soul mate has led me to hang on, hoping against hope, long after wisdom dictated that I should move on--that it just wasn't going to happen.

I've also met a number of men that I find attractive for one reason or another, lately, and that has led me to understand that it's not about the whole package (that being the feeling of being twins separated at birth, that "he's just like me" feeling). It's about meeting someone at a time that's mutually convenient when you're each sexually and emotionally attracted to the other, and you have similar enough goals, or you're both equally confused about who you are, and you're both game for the adventure of syncing your lives up.

It's not that I don't think God orchestrates events in our lives, but that orchestration is the stuff of the ordinary. And meeting someone that I could potentially marry is also based on who I am and what I'm doing, and whether or not I want it and whether or not the man in question also wants it--and wants it at the same time that I do.

I realized a week ago that my paradigm has shifted, that the burden of watching and waiting for a mythic soul mate has lifted, and it's made me a lot more receptive to life in general.

I went back to the patient clinic tonight. They got an X-Ray of my lungs, which don't show signs of distress or pneumonia (which is good); there was an attempt to get bloodwork done, but my veins were uncooperative, so they wanted to take it frm my hand, but I am very traumatized when I have to get blood drawn, so I asked if we could just deal with the X-Ray and forego the stick. So now my arm is bruised from the failed attempt. Funny. My veins aren't usually incognito (the process stresses me out, nevertheless).

In any case, I have a daytime cough med and a nighttime one (with codeine, yay!). I already feel better for having made the tough decision to skip my last dc trip tonight (just too sick and I did not want to be away from home till midnight). Sarah drove me to my prof's apartment to leave the portfolio for her (she's Balto based), so at least that was taken care of.

Now I'm about to take my sleep-inducing cough syrup and I'm going to let myself drift off. I'm calling in tomorrow and sleeping till I don't feel like doing it anymore. That's mostly what I need anyway.

Walking Pneumonia

A friend of mine has had this recently. Her symptoms sounded a lot like mine. Sarah, in addition to being my accountant, my editor, my consiglieri, etc., is also my lay physician (her grandfather was a doctor and she absorbed a lot of knowledge from him), and she told me she thinks that's what I have. So I did what any post Internet Revolution person would do. I looked it up online. And that's it. I have walking pneumonia. Of course being given to fits of illogical conjecture (I'm a hypocondriach), I decided, for like a split second, that I had bird flu.

The Big Push

This is the me I know and love...The arrival of those shelves was obviously the motivation I needed to really establish the apartment. I've been unpacking in installments (I usually do everything all in one day--the same day that I move) because I didn't want to kill myself this time around, but obviously not being able to unpack some things has been a sticking point. Once I got the shelves in place in the cabinet, I was very excited to put all my finest bowls, glass ware, and ceramic pitchers on display. Sadly, one of my favourite items broke during the move--I discovered it today when I withdrew it from its newspaper wrapping to set it in the cabinet.

One thing seriously leads to another, because after I got everything situated there, I decided to hang all of my framed art/wall decorations. after doing that, the place started to take more shape, and the strewn boxes were ruining the visual, so I collapsed them and took them down to the garbage room, then I swept the wood floors, and neatly arranged the boxes that still cannot be unpacked, out of sight in one of my many closets. And speaking of closets, I freed one up for my sister's use when she arrives later this month. I purged some old magazines, neatly arranged the ones that are current on the coffee table, I put away all my linen, unpacked office stuff, Finished the paper, made dinner, lunch for tomorrow, and rescued some potatoes that were on the verge of sprouting (parboiled then roasted them), talked to Sarah on the phone, switched from my purse to my backpack for tomorrow (since it's a class day). I also managed to find an acceptable dowel replacement for the missing one for the bookshelf in the kitchen that is currently doing duty as a storage option for my dry goods... now that I have full use of those shelves, my stuff isn't all cattywampus.

Seems like it all comes down to shelves...

My poetry group met for the first time in about 5 months last night, and I have to say, it was good to see those women. I was able to attend because yesterday was such a light day at work (I had almost nothing to do)that I was able to really work on my paper during the day. By the time I left the office for home, most of it had been written.

Today is the day of the great shelf exchange. The delivery is between 1:30 and 4:30, so I'm leaving the office at noon (or thereabout) and will work from home the rest of the day. I am so excited. This means about 3 or 4 boxes that have been lingering can finally be unpacked. Speaking of boxes, I really need to break some down and throw them away. In the corner of my office, I have a stack of empty ones to deal with.

I continue to feel run down and my cough is back. Really back. I just took a dose of some homeopathic, over the counter medicine that's meant to treat flu symptoms. I'm hoping that the aches I'm experiencing, which are fluesque, will go away. I think I have a virus of some sort.

Well, outside of what I had planned for myself this summer, my sister will be with me again. I wasn't looking to do the Hotel Krupnik thing again. But, I also wouldn't deny my sister the ability to work here at the company where she can make a decent wage while living with me in relative peace (as opposed to the constant state of stress she's in when cohabitating with my mom). But I'm also worried about having my vision for my space be usurped by someone else's things, someone else's moods and motivations,and I'm feeling selfish. I'm feeling like I just finally got all the space I want, and that now it's not going to be for me. I just feel like I'm being asked, on some level, to justify having the space when people start spouting off ways that they can help me use it. Like my mom, in jest, says that she'll come stay with me for two weeks. Um, right. I didn't get a big apartment so that I could have guests and roommates. I got a big apartment, because I, as an unattached, clutter-free person, do not want to sacrifice the peace of mind that living alone brings me until I absolutely have to.

And I know that a lot of people frown on this idea, but I am more and more convinced that maintaining a separate residence even after marriage is a tremendous idea.