the malleable life of Melissa Bastian.

The time has come to say goodbye.

2010-03-30T16:53:00.003-04:00

Newsflash: I have too many blogs.

I've decided that this one has outlived its usefulness. From now on, general-life-stuff writing will be posted on the combined blog, OK, all together now! That's the one y'all are all reading anyway. I've come to a point in life where things need to be simplified, and 13 blogs is at least one too many. (Some would argue that it's about 12 too many... haters.)

Anyway, hope to see you over at OK. There is of course also the vegan blog, the wedding blog, the subway blog... you'll find links to them in OK's sidebar. What can I say? I'm bad at consolidation. ;)

Just sayin' that my office needs, to close, aright?

2010-02-09T14:51:00.001-05:00

... WINTER STORM WARNING REMAINS IN EFFECT FROM MIDNIGHT TONIGHT TO 6 AM EST THURSDAY...

A WINTER STORM WARNING REMAINS IN EFFECT FROM MIDNIGHT TONIGHT TO 6 AM EST THURSDAY.

SNOW IS EXPECTED TO DEVELOP LATER TONIGHT. THE SNOW MAY BECOME HEAVY AT TIMES ON WEDNESDAY... BEFORE SLOWLY TAPERING OFF WEDNESDAY NIGHT. SNOW ACCUMULATIONS OF 8 TO 13 INCHES ARE EXPECTED. AT THIS TIME THE HIGHER AMOUNTS ARE EXPECTED ACROSS THE NEW YORK CITY METROPOLITAN AREA AND LONG ISLAND.

AS THE STORM INTENSIFIES... EAST TO NORTHEAST WINDS WILL BECOME STRONG AND GUSTY DURING THE DAY ON WEDNESDAY... AND THESE WINDS CONTINUE WEDNESDAY NIGHT. GUSTS OF 35 TO 45 MPH ARE POSSIBLE... ESPECIALLY ACROSS COASTAL SECTIONS. THIS WILL CAUSE BLOWING AND DRIFTING OF SNOW... WITH NEAR BLIZZARD CONDITIONS AT TIMES ALONG WITH POSSIBLE POWER OUTAGES.

PRECAUTIONARY/PREPAREDNESS ACTIONS...

A WINTER STORM WARNING FOR HEAVY SNOW MEANS SEVERE WINTER WEATHER CONDITIONS ARE EXPECTED OR OCCURRING. SIGNIFICANT AMOUNTS OF SNOW ARE FORECAST THAT WILL MAKE TRAVEL DANGEROUS. ONLY TRAVEL IN AN EMERGENCY. IF YOU MUST TRAVEL... KEEP AN EXTRA FLASHLIGHT... FOOD... AND WATER IN YOUR VEHICLE IN CASE OF AN EMERGENCY.

Gotta love the NWS with its all caps style and grace.

Is the NWS right this time? Will I finally be snowed in so that I can get some rest?!

2010-02-08T14:13:00.001-05:00

THE NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE IN UPTON HAS ISSUED A WINTER STORM WATCH... WHICH IS IN EFFECT FROM TUESDAY EVENING THROUGH LATE WEDNESDAY NIGHT.

SNOW IS EXPECTED TO OVERSPREAD THE REGION FROM STARTING LATE TUESDAY EVENING. THE SNOW MAY BECOME HEAVY AT TIMES ON WEDNESDAY... BEFORE SLOWLY TAPERING OFF WEDNESDAY NIGHT.

THE POTENTIAL FOR 6 TO 12 INCHES OF SNOW EXISTS. AT THIS TIME THE HIGHER AMOUNTS ARE EXPECTED ACROSS THE NEW YORK CITY METROPOLITAN AREA AND LONG ISLAND.

AS THE STORM INTENSIFIES... EAST TO NORTHEAST WINDS WILL BECOME STRONG AND GUSTY DURING THE DAY ON WEDNESDAY. THIS WILL CAUSE BLOWING AND DRIFTING OF SNOW... WITH NEAR BLIZZARD CONDITIONS POSSIBLE.

The best bake sale ever.

2010-02-01T11:26:00.000-05:00

This will just be a brief post, to be followed by a much more substantial one later in the week (with pics!).

Yesterday was the NYC Vegan Bake Sale for Haiti. The main organizers were the Vegan Etsy Team's Lisa of Panda with Cookie and our good friend Dayna of the awesome blog Seitan Said Dance; I played a distant third fiddle and MANY others contributed very significant help, like the amazing Janice who designed our flier.

Well, to put it lightly the event was a raging success! A completely astounding number of wonderful people baked a ridiculously delightful array (and quantity) of baked goodies. People came out en masse to volunteer, buy, eat, purchase raffle tickets, donate, and generally support the cause.

Thanks to this outpouring of awesomeness, we were able to raise approximately $4600 in a single day, every penny of which will be sent directly to Doctors Without Borders to help fund their current work in Haiti.

To everyone who was involved in this and all of the other Vegan Bake Sales for Haiti that have been happening and continue to happen all over the world - collecting over TWENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS FOR HAITI to date!! - thank you, thank you, thank you.

A time for reflection - ooh, goody! Reviewing this year, looking forward to next.

2009-12-31T11:40:00.009-05:00

Here we are, then, on the eve. I'm home from work with a migraine, and while the head pain waxes and wanes the nausea is a constant, punctuated by the sharp shots of a sciatica flare-up. Snow is falling outside - the second real fall this December - and I won't go out for fear of falling. Ah, life.

I am sad to say that this year has been one largely defined by my health, or really, the problems therewith. Perhaps my body knows it's actually in its thirties now; maybe that's why my condition has taken such a dramatic nosedive. I cannot do what I could do a year ago. That's an odd thing to have to say - in my mind I still feel young.

Even so, I want to say that good things have happened this year. I just have to dig them out is all. They're not big and flashy. They're more the kind of thing you learn to appreciate because it's foolish to take them for granted.

For one, Jonathan and I moved. And while the move itself was difficult, overall it's been a good thing. It strengthened our relationship and gave us a more comfortable living space. It let me have a christmas tree! It's much more quiet here, which makes it easier for me to rest when I need to. And since we're now on the second floor, and in a house instead of an apartment building, I feel much safer. These things have a real impact on quality of life.

For another, I managed to get through another year at the office. It's killing me, but it's important to our survival. Is that contradictory? We need the income, and heaven knows I need the health insurance. And the fact is that the longer I'm there and the more senior and indispensable I am, the more power I'll have to negotiate if I need to, say, work part time or go on medical leave.

Then there are the dozens of micro-achievements that make daily life worth living: the blog posts that people enjoyed, my work with the Vegan Etsy team, the couple of zines I've managed to write, the Etsy sales I've made and positive feedback I've received, the train rides I've taken and blogged about. There was some pure enjoyment as well: reconnecting and spending of time with cherished friends, visiting my former homes and actually taking a real vacation for once, and just exploring the city with my baby like we do. And, you know, the eating.

It's been a hard year for many people in my life, but always there are spots of hope. One of my dearest friends became a mother this year; at this very moment she is doubtless curled in the warm glowing love of her new baby girl, just two weeks old. It's good to know that such happiness still exists in the world. Another friend has gained an ever growing acknowledgment of her craft and design skills, each day getting a little closer to fulfilling her dream. Yet others will be a rock star, a professional photographer, and a famous author any minute now, despite it all. Maybe this is what my wildly diverse group of friends and I have in common: no matter what life throws at us we just continue to strive for... whatever the hell it is that we can't live without.

So, next year? 2010, the year sci-fi movies are made of? (Where is my jet pack? Where is my hovercraft? Where is my homicidal supercomputer?) It's hard to say. As of my doctor's appointment yesterday, I am coming off of the Savella. That will be a somewhat slow and possibly sickening process, but I'm trying not to psych myself out over it. Once I'm off of it... Well, I have some real fears. I began the medication because I was rapidly approaching real disability. Unfortunately, while it helped the fibro somewhat, the side effects have made it hurt more than help. So off of it, I really just don't know where I'll stand. (Or hell, if I'll be able to stand at all, ha.)

Once I'm weaned, we may try Cymbalta, another medication in the same class. It may help, it may not, it may make things worse. There's a lot of guesswork and wait-and-see in this process. It, um, sucks. But there's nothing for it but to keep trying, because I'm not just going to go, oh, OK, well I guess I just don't function anymore. That's not really my gig, you know?

Of course I'll keep up with the chiropractic and all of the other things I do as well. I've never once believed that medication is the complete answer.

2009 was the year I got worse; maybe 2010 is the year I get better.

And I'll keep writing. There is so much that I want to write. Maybe 2010 is when I get another short story published - hopefully somewhere where someone might actually read it this time. It's almost a sure thing that I'll be having some blurb-ey, short expositive writing bits published in the Zinester's Guide to NYC, scheduled to be put out by Microcosm this coming summer. Don't want to say it's definite, because who ever knows what'll happen, but let's say it's supposed to happen, and at least for that I'm excited.

Will I make visual art? Probably. I can't help it. I just comes sometimes, though not as often as I'd like. Meh.

And, oh yes, I'll get married. I'll be Mrs. Breedlove. I'll spend a day dashing around in a big blue dress, and at the end of it I'll have a husband; I'll be a wife. It's really an intriguing concept. I'm quite interested to see how it turns out.

It will be a year, composed of 365 individual days. I intend to do my best to make the most of each one - whatever my "best" might be on each of them. Because honestly, what the hell else would I do?

Eating Animals: Hiding / Seeking - the fourth chapter of the new book by Jonathan Safran Foer

2009-12-01T20:30:00.000-05:00

I'm wearing black in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere. There are surgical booties around my disposable shoes and latex gloves on my shaking hands. I pat myself down, quintuple-checking that I have everything: red-filtered flashlight, picture ID, $40 cash, video camera, copy of California penal code 597e, bottle of water (not for me), silenced cell phone, blow horn. We kill the engine and roll the final thirty yards to the spot we scouted out earlier in the day on one of our half-dozen drive-bys. This isn't the scary part yet.

Thus begins the fourth chapter of Foer's book, the chapter entitled Hiding/Seeking. A lot happens in this chapter. As you may have gleaned, it begins with our hero pretty much breaking into a factory farming facility. He does so with a woman we call "C", who seems to do such things on a fairly regular basis. But she is not radical or extremist. We actually get to know how she feels about it, because it is in this chapter that Foer begins to use the device of personal narratives - that is, short segments actually written by various people he interacted with while writing the book (rather than just about them). Whereas his description of the event has the subheading, "I'm not the kind of person who finds himself on a stranger's farm in the middle of the night", her section, which immediately follows, is titled "I am the kind of person who finds herself on a stranger's farm in the middle of the night." {Emphasis added.} Get it?

Unlike the black bandanna-wearing members of the ALF that you sometimes see around NYC, chanting things like "We will drive the final nail!" (sorry guys, but what does that even mean?), C seems like a person you could comfortably take into your living room.

I am not a radical. In almost every way, I'm a middle-of-the-road person. I don't have any piercings. No weird haircut. I don't do drugs. Politically, I'm liberal on some issues and conservative on others. But see, factory farming is a middle-of-the-road issue - something most reasonable people would agree on if they had access to the truth...

It's crazy that the idea of animal rights seems crazy to anyone. We live in a world in which it's conventional to treat an animal like a hunk of wood and extreme to treat an animal like an animal.

Well said, C. (But, you know, it's so convenient to treat them like hunks of wood.)

Foer, somewhat needless to say, is moved by his experience of witnessing conditions at the factory of animals. But what disturbs him most is the difficulty they have finding a door to the animal sheds that isn't locked.

We spend several minutes like this, looking for an unlocked door. Another why: Why would a farmer lock the doors of his turkey farm? It can't be because he's afraid someone will steal his equipment or animals... A farmer doesn't lock his doors because he's afraid his animals will escape. (Turkeys can't turn doorknobs.)... So why? In the three years I will spend immersed in animal agriculture, nothing will unsettle me more than the locked doors. Nothing will better capture the whole sad business of factory farming. And nothing will more strongly convince me to write this book.

The next section, surprisingly enough, has the heading "I am a factory farmer." Reading this is sort of like talking to a rational republican. You think, Well, I see what you're saying, and clearly you've thought it through. But I think you may be missing some things... For example: "Sure, you could say that people should just eat less meat, but I've got news for you: people don't want to eat less meat." No, many people do not want to eat less meat. People also don't want to go to school, work eight hours a day, pay rent or a mortgage, follow driving laws, have their teeth cleaned, go visit grandma in the hospital, clean the house, take the trash out, or pay their taxes. There are plenty of things that people don't want to do. But in order for society to function, and for individuals to remain safe and healthy, they do them. It is part of being a responsible adult on the planet earth which has an ever-increasing population. What am I really saying here? Sorry folks, suck it up. Your 99 cent cheeseburger has just got to go.

The chapter goes on to say a good deal about chickens. Given that an estimated 99% of chickens come from factory farms, they become a good icon for this system of creating food animals. (I have seen this number cited in numerous places, but unfortunately I can't find you an unbiased reference for it.) "As described in industry journals from the 1960s onward, the egg-laying hen was to be considered 'only a very efficient converting machine', the pig was to be 'just like a machine in a factory', and the twenty-first century was to bring a new 'computer cookbook of recipes for custom-designed creatures.'" *shiver*

The last segment of this chapter is one called "I am the last poultry farmer." It is written by a man who raises turkeys, and loves them as if children. Except, of course, that he eventually kills them so that people can eat them, which most people will not do with their children. He is, however, the first of the contributors to give a name: Frank Reese. He doesn't support or want to have anything to do with factory farming methods.

Not a single turkey you can buy in a supermarket could walk normally, much less jump or fly. Did you know that? They can't even have sex. Not the antibiotic-free, or organic, or free-range, or anything. They all have the same foolish genetics, and their bodies won't allow for it anymore. Every turkey sold in every store and served in every restaurant was the product of artificial insemination. If it were only for efficiency, that would be one thing, but these animals literally can't reproduce naturally. Tell me what could be sustainable about that?... What the industry figured out - and this was the real revolution - is that you don't need healthy animals to make a profit.

As you may have guessed, he raises what are now referred to as "heritage birds", rather than the genetically adulterated birds generally raised for commercial uses these days (i.e. for the past maybe 50 years). His birds can fly, and jump... and have sex. Frank makes a statement in his diatribe that I strongly agree with: "If consumers don't want to pay the farmer to do it right, they shouldn't eat meat." There's that 99 cent cheeseburger again.

Just the other day, one of the local pediatricians was telling me he's seeing all kinds of illnesses that he never used to see... Everyone knows it's our food. We're messing with the genes of these animals and then feeding them growth hormones and all kinds of drugs that we really don't know enough about. And then we're eating them.

Couldn't have said it better myself, Frank.

And people still wonder why I'm vegan?

Eating Animals: Words/Meaning - the third chapter of the new book by Jonathan Safran Foer

2009-11-24T15:59:00.000-05:00

As an author, Foer likes to play. In his first novel, Everything is Illuminated, he played with time and the sharing (or not sharing) of space. In Extremely Close and Incredibly Loud, he played with images - specifically, visual and cognitive perceptions of the world from unusual viewpoints (such as those of a nine year old boy struggling with incomprehensible loss). In his latest book, Eating Animals, Foer plays with language: both in the meaning and sound of words, as well as the physical presence of letters, words, and shapes printed on a page. This is present throughout the book in the chapter headings - pick up a copy and you'll see what I mean. But nowhere is it more expressed than in the third chapter of the book, "Words/Meaning."

This chapter reads as a highly editorialized series of unusual encyclopedia entries, which are indeed listed in alphabetical order. The device allows Foer to address a wide range of issues without leaving his central exploration of the food industry. At times the "definitions" reference each other; many flow brilliantly from one to the next (Bullshit -> Bycatch, for instance), though each stands on its own.

Michael Pollan, an author who has become one of the best known food journalists at least in western culture, takes his knocks in this book. This is unsurprising - many in the vegetarian / vegan community feel that Pollan has all of the information directly in front of him, and yet draws all of the wrong conclusions from it. For example, Pollan has taken the position that becoming veg is the wrong way to go about combating factory farming, and that it is in fact much better to buy meat and animal products from real family farms instead. In 'Discomfort Food', Foer makes the following fabulous point, more or less in direct response to Pollan's argument that vegetarianism is a barrier to 'table fellowship':

Imagine an acquaintance invites you to dinner. You could say, "I'd love to come. And just so you know, I'm a vegetarian." You could also say, "I'd love to come. But I only eat meat that is produced by family farmers." Then what do you do? You'll probably have to send the host a web link or list of local shops to even make the request intelligible, let alone manageable. This effort might be well-placed, but it is certainly more invasive than asking for vegetarian food.

(Is he trying to imply that pasta with marinara is easier than chicken from Joel Salatin? Pish posh.)

Foer's definition of "Free-Range" is priceless:

Applied to meat, eggs, dairy, and every now and then even fish (tuna on the range?), the free-range label is bullshit. It should provde no more peace of mind than "all natural," "fresh," or "magical."

Followed by "Fresh":

According to the USDA, "fresh" poultry has never had an internal temperature below 26 degrees or above 40 degrees Fahrenheit. Fresh chicken can be frozen (thus the oxymoron "fresh frozen"), and there is no time component to food freshness.

Food labeling conundrums are really Marion Nestle's ball of wax, but they're always good for a (terrified) laugh. Other definitions of interest include "KFC" "PETA," "Sentimentality,"

In this chapter, Foer briefly addresses the problems that have arisen in the kosher food industry due to the industrialization of the slaughter process. He asks this difficult question of his own Jewish community: "Has the very concept of kosher meat become a contradiction in terms?"

Living in New York City, I have made many friends and acquaintances who keep kosher. One of the things we have in common is our "restrictive" diets - we tend to understand each other on that level in a way that people who aren't so conscious of food do not. I've had many conversations in which the "two sets of pots and dishes" situation comes up, particularly among people who are dealing with roommates who do not share the same habits. And admittedly, more than once, I've brought up the idea that by going vegan those kosher friends would only need one set, ha.

While here less of a story is woven than in other chapters, it is no less compelling - in fact, given the variety and content of information presented, quite the opposite.

Eating Animals: All or Nothing or Something Else - the second chapter of the new book by Jonathan Safran Foer

2009-11-17T10:41:00.001-05:00

In the second chapter of his book "Eating Animals", Foer looks at a conundrum that was first brought to my attention in middle school French class. This was of course the revelation that the French eat horses. The room full of 13 and 14 year olds was of course perfectly aghast. "Horses?! Surely you must be joking?!!!" To which our teacher, sensibly enough, responded, why is that so different than eating a cow? The best answer we could conjure up was that you can ride horses, and they're pretty. Of course we couldn't really come up with an answer, because there is no real answer.

We are talking, more broadly, about why different cultures choose different animals as OK or not OK to eat. Here in the US, for the most part, we accept cows, pigs, lambs, chickens and a few other birds, and a variety of sea life as perfectly normal food. But talk about eating goat or whale or monkey and we're kind of like, wha? And we pretty much freak out at the idea of eating horse, or, heaven forbid, dog or cat. Even just in the one country though, being the "melting pot" that it is, differences arise. Those of the Jewish culture who follow kosher dietary laws don't find pigs or shellfish to be acceptable food at all. I live in Queens, where many of my neighbors think nothing of eating goat - I know this because of the whole, skinned goats hanging up in butcher shop windows. Some people in some parts of some states are happy to eat wild animals like possums, pigeons, and snakes, or body parts such as cow tongues, chicken gizzards and necks, and pigs' feet and ears, that many so-called omnivorous city folk would lose their lunches over.

Go international, and things get much wilder. Plenty of countries do in fact eat dog. And really, why not? Because they're smart, and loyal, and know their names and do tricks? Any pig owner will tell you that this all holds true for The Other White Meat. And of course the Hindus think us downright blasphemous heathens for eating cows. Monkey brains are a delicacy in many parts of the world. Some find the meat of the orangutan to be quite tasty - so much so that poaching is a threat to the species. The birds that we choose to eat (chickens, turkeys, pheasants...) are no less intelligent or complex than the parrots and other birds we bring into our homes, name, love, and treat as family members - they just have a good amount more breast meat.

As Foer puts it,

The French, who love their dogs, sometimes eat their horses.
The Spanish, who love their horses, sometimes eat their cows.
The Indians, who love their cows, sometimes eat their dogs.

What does all of this tell us? That the decision of which animals we eat vs. which animals we love is essentially arbitrary.

Foer begins his second chapter by making an argument for eating stray dogs rather than letting them be euthanized, ground up, and fed to what we consider to be "proper" food animals. (Didn't know that's what happens? Well it is.) This is classic satire, a la "A Modest Proposal", except that it is infinitely more plausible as dogs, in many places, are eaten, whereas we've pretty much successfully killed off all of the human cultures that think it's alright to eat each other, even when it's just their way of mourning.

The inefficient use of dogs - conveniently already in areas of high human population (take note, local-food advocates) - should make any good ecologist blush.

Ha! Well if animals are here for our use, the man's got a point doesn't he? And if they're not... well you tell me.

Foer continues the chapter in comparing factory farming to war. The analogy is fairly apt, particularly when he draws it out with the example of fish. We could even use a much uglier, particular word: genocide. For the simpler term "war" indicates an enemy, someone fighting back. To an outside observer, it would indeed appear that we are doing our damnedest to simply rid the planet of, say, tuna. We go after these animals with a vicious, no-holds-barred methodology that leaves pure devastation in its wake. But they're just so darn tasty mixed up with some mayo and celery!

Many, many people want to believe that fish are somehow different, somehow special. (Or less special, maybe. For a very brief period I was one of them. Given my roots, I wanted to believe that the livelihood of so many from the place my family comes from could not have grown so tainted. Alas.) We often call these people pescatarians. Regarding this, I will quote two things.

First:

Industrial fishing is not exactly factory farming, but it belongs in the same category and needs to be part of the same discussion - it is part of the same agricultural coup. This is most obvious for aquaculture (farms on which fish are confined to pens and "harvested") but is every bit as true for wild fishing, which shares the same spirit and intensive use of modern technology... Once the picture of industrial fishing is filled in - the 1.4 billion hooks deployed annually on longlines; the 1,200 nets, each one 30 miles in length, used by only one fleet to catch only one species; the ability of a single vessel to haul in fifty tons of sea animals in a few minutes - it becomes easier to think of contemporary fishers as factory farmers rather than fishermen.

Second:

No reader of this book would tolerate someone swinging a pickax at a dog's face. Nothing could be more obvious or less in need of explanation. Is such concern morally out of place when applied to fish, or are we silly to have such unquestioning concern about dogs? Is the suffering of a drawn-out death something that is cruel to inflict on any animal that can experience it, or just some animals?

Food for thought, har har.

A lesson in viruses, part five (of five) - final video and final thoughts.

2009-11-15T19:44:00.003-05:00

This video is maybe most pertinent to the few people I know who feed their dogs raw chicken. Even though as of when this video was made, in 2007, avian flu hadn't shown up in dogs, it seems perfectly plausible that it could.

Now, about this animals-to-people flu situation. It is really, really convenient how we got through this whole video sequence without actually addressing how the avian flu pandemics happened. Sure, maybe the virus is spread from birds to pigs, and then from pigs to humans. OK. Through what vectors? It isn't addressed. What is mentioned, though, is that the virus can be spread through infected birds' feces. Hmm. How would pigs come into contact with bird feces? I've seen some ludicrous mentions here and there about keeping feeding pens covered so forth - as if birds flying overhead and incidentally crapping into feeding pens could spread enough of a virus into the pig population to cause a pandemic? Sorry, I'm not buying it.

This is a very good article, which mentions that during the 1918 pandemic of bird flu pigs were simultaneously infected. But it doesn't draw any conclusions that the pigs then transmitted the disease to humans. On that front I'm not really getting any answers, as the research seems to be quite new.

What does seem to be quite clear, though, is that though the virus is found in wild birds, it isn't a problem until it's in domestic birds. Read: livestock. Reread: the meat industry, mass production of food animals, and good old factory farming - which has aptly been described as "an ideal system for pathogens."

To consider: do we really need to be creating 50 billion food birds a year? Is that really a good idea?

A lesson in viruses, part four (of five).

2009-11-14T19:33:00.000-05:00

This fourth video is almost entirely useless - unless, of course, you happen to live in the UK and come upon a pile of 10 or more dead birds. I do find it interesting, though, that wild birds seem to be unaffected by the virus while domesticated birds (i.e. those which have been bred down to a few genetically manipulated species and have no biodiversity within their populations) are devastated by it.

I think the answer is clear though. We just gotta kill all these damn birds.

A lesson in viruses, part three (of five).

2009-11-13T19:22:00.001-05:00

Part three... well. You'll see. Hmm, so slaughterhouses are "optimal" conditions in which the avian flu can be transmitted from birds to humans. Go fig. Of course the pandemic seems to be caused by the virus being transmitted from birds to pigs, and then from pigs to humans. Funny how we're not talking about how those transmissions occur...

A lesson in viruses, part two (of five).

2009-11-12T18:54:00.003-05:00

I just want to say up front that I disagree with a number of things in this second video, but I'm posting it anyway because it has some interesting information in it. Yearly flu vaccine? Worst idea ever. We're practically begging to create bigger badder flus... until we create a superflu that WILL be a pandemic. All this kind of treatment does is create a bottleneck in the population, so that only the most resistant individuals survive and reproduce... we've already seen it in antibiotics and in insects (in the case of pesticides)... apparently we never learn?

Don't believe me? It's antibiotics and staph all over again. Oh, and they can say MRSA is "community associated" all they want, but when I got a full body staph infection, due to which I had two lesions that had to be lanced and drained, I worked alone and sometimes went whole days without seeing another person. I certainly was not a football player. I mean, I know I'm not the healthiest person, but I was in my mid-20s and healthy enough to work 28 hours a week and be in college... Anyway.

Lest you become confused by the not-so-great explanation of antigenic shift in this video, here's a better description from this CDC article:

Influenza A viruses have eight separate gene segments. The segmented genome allows influenza A viruses from different species to mix and create a new influenza A virus if viruses from two different species infect the same person or animal. For example, if a pig were infected with a human influenza A virus and an avian influenza A virus at the same time, the new replicating viruses could mix existing genetic information (reassortment) and produce a new virus that had most of the genes from the human virus, but a hemagglutinin and/or neuraminidase from the avian virus. The resulting new virus might then be able to infect humans and spread from person to person, but it would have surface proteins (hemagglutinin and/or neuraminidase) not previously seen in influenza viruses that infect humans.

This type of major change in the influenza A viruses is known as antigenic shift. Antigenic shift results when a new influenza A subtype to which most people have little or no immune protection infects humans. If this new virus causes illness in people and can be transmitted easily from person to person, an influenza pandemic can occur.

Also, I can't find anything to really substantiate the idea that the viruses moved from birds to pigs to humans during all of the pandemics - that's really just a theory, and a recent one at that.

View and enjoy!

A lesson in viruses, part one (of five).

2009-11-11T18:11:00.003-05:00

With all they hype in the media, I wanted a better understanding of what the viruses which have "jumped" from animals to humans really are. I found a very informative series of videos, which focus on the Avian flu (H5N1), but also shed a bit of light on Swine flu (H1N1) - at least about where those crazy letter and number designations come from.

Just a note. To put the whole swine flu "pandemic" thing that's supposedly going on right now in perspective? The avian flu that hit in 1918 killed approximately 24 MILLION people inside of about four weeks, and in a year killed between 50 and 100 MILLION people. That, my friends, was a pandemic. Just sayin'. That kind of outbreak is of course why public health officials are so freaked, but the fact is we're certainly not there yet.

Eating Animals: Storytelling - the first chapter of Jonathan Safran Foer's new book.

2009-11-08T23:48:00.002-05:00

I started working in a bookstore in 2004, and immediately realized that not only do people almost always judge books by their covers, but that it's actually possible to do so with some accuracy. My fellow booksellers and I would run through the "New Releases" or "3 for 2 Paperbacks" tables playing this game, and then reading a few pages of given selections to determine the accuracies of our presuppositions. The plain fact is that publishing houses spend a good deal of time and effort creating book covers, and much can be gleaned by paying attention to the fonts, images, and colors used, as well as nuances such as the presence (or lack thereof) of review quotes on the front cover. While certainly not a perfect system, it can be a good beginning when you are faced with the millions of books to be found in the mega-books-r-us stores that now dot stripmalls across America and are simply looking for that bibliophile's holy grail: Something Good to Read.

It is in this way that I came across "Everything is Illuminated", the first novel by Jonathan Safran Foer. If you haven't seen the movie, or especially if you have, you should read the book. It is far more extraordinary. Don't read it if you're easily offended though, because things happen in it that you can't imagine. Anyway, neither here nor there. Next came "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close", a snapshot of the life of a nine year old (vegan) boy who has lost his father in one of the great tragedies of this decade. Very moving, brilliantly written, and not nearly as depressing as it sounds. You should read this one too.

If you can't tell yet, Foer pretty much immediately made it to my list of favorite authors and has not fallen from it - a long list though it may be. And now he's gone and done something that surprised me greatly: he's gone and written a book about eating animals.

It is, in fact, called "Eating Animals", and you've probably heard about it. It has gotten a lot of press lately. Why? For a few reasons I think. First, the obvious one is that an acclaimed fiction writier has now burst forth with this non-fiction work - not about his Jewish ancestry which would have seemed to be a logical progression, but about the fairly hot topic of the ethics of food. What with the likes of Time Magazine and Oprah talking about this stuff now, it's something that mainstream western culture is actually beginning to take notice of.

But for another thing, I think it's simply that a book on this kind of subject is coming from such an unexpected source overall. We expect Michael Pollan, investigative food journalist, to come out with one of his best-selling foodie diatribes every few years. We expect Peter Singer and similar thinkers to talk to us about animals as sentient beings. We expect Marion Nestle to educate us all with her wisdom of moderation and nutritional knowledge. We expect the new "miracle diet" and "magic curing foods for every disease" books - out just in time for the holiday season! What we do not expect, though, is a thoughtful and balanced examination of whether or not we should be eating what we, as a culture, are eating, from an author who has previously just been around to entertain us... which seems to be precisely what we have on our hands.

Is it a vegan book? No. Does it rail against eating meat, and try to convince its readers to become vegetarian at once? I don't believe so. What it does do, though, is attempt to get its audience to think about the food they are putting in their mouths, and why, and how.

Is it worth reading? Well I certainly hope so. I was so hot to read it that I actually shelled out for the hardcover - something I never, ever do. Normally I'll wait a year or more for the paperback, thank you. But this book just struck me as too important not to read immediately. I need to know what he is telling people: whether I agree and applaud, or whether I must start a letter-writing campaign to his NYU office the moment I'm done reading. I have a feeling that this book will be powerful, that people will read it who normally don't think about these things, specifically because while they would never read Peter Singer they will read Jonathan Safran Foer.

I haven't read much yet, but there are two short passages that I would like to share with you. In this first one, Foer tells us about the beginning and end of his initial bout of vegetarianism:

Her intention might or might not have been to convert us to vegetarianism - just because conversations about meat tend to make people feel cornered, not all vegetarians are proselytizers - but being a teenager, she lacked whatever restraint it is that so often prevents a full telling of this particular story. Without drama or rhetoric, she shared what she knew.

My brother and I looked at each other, our mouths full of hurt chickens, and had simultaneous how in the world could I have never thought of that before and why on earth didn't someone tell me? moments. I put down my fork. Frank finished the meal and is probably eating a chicken as I type these words...

My vegetarianism, so bombastic and unyielding in the beginning, lasted a few years, sputtered, and quietly died. I never thought of a response to our babysitter's code [of not hurting things], but found ways to smudge, diminish, and forget it. Generally speaking, I didn't cause hurt. Generally speaking, I strove to do the right thing. Generally speaking, my conscience was clear enough. Pass the chicken, I'm starving.

In this second passage, Foer is discussing his life before he became a father, when his dedication to vegetarianism had still not quite firmed. It strikes me as so honest, so true, so much what so many of us struggled with on our journeys to becoming vegetarian and eventually vegan. I believe it's even more universally true than that, something that will be identified with in almost everyone who reads it, who is honest with himself:

"Of course our wedding wasn't vegetarian, because we persuaded ourselves that it was only fair to offer animal protein to our guests, some of whom had traveled great distances to share our joy. And we ate fish on our honeymoon, but we were in Japan, and when in Japan... And back in our new home, we did occasionally eat burgers and chicken soup and smoked salmon and tuna steaks. But only every now and then. Only whenever we felt like it.

And that, I thought, was that. And I thought that it was just fine. I assumed we'd maintained a diet of conscientious inconsistency. Why should eating be any different from any other ethical realms of our lives? We were honest people who occasionally told lies, careful friends who sometimes acted clumsily. We were vegetarians who from time to time ate meat."

Anything, or most anything, anyway, can be justified in our minds. Justified, and then ignored. Pushed to the corners, hidden in gray places. But those actions that we cannot look in the face when brought into the light of day deserve some re-analysis, don't they? Because left to their own devices, eventually they begin to gnaw - even from those far off, peripheral perches, whether we want to acknowledge them or not. What Foer seems to find is that his first son drags his lesser, hidden actions out into the bright sunlight, holds them up to his face, and asks, "why, daddy?" Daddy, in order to have better answers, wants to have better actions to begin with.

I've only read the first chapter. I'll post updates, let you know how it goes. Please have your pens ready for letters of protest... or of praise. It's entirely possible that I may tell you that you have to read this book too. Just think - that'd be three for three.

I'm actually impressed by a local politician.

2009-11-02T14:07:00.000-05:00

I didn't blog yesterday. It was weird.

Anyway, this morning an interesting thing happened. As has happened so many mornings lately, as I was mounting the train platform today there was someone handing out political fliers for tomorrow's election. The unusual part, though, was that the person handing them out was the person on them - Lynne Serpe. There was no press around, no fanfare. It wasn't some sort of stunt. She was just out there with the constituents, putting her face out to the crowd. I know little of her other than she's been pushed pretty hard in my neighborhood, and that she's a green party candidate. But I must say, I have some respect for anyone who will go out there and do it for themselves.

I understand the importance of local government. I do not, however, educate myself as I should to actively participate in it. It's one of my failings. What excuse do I have? I'm busy? Yeah. Who isn't.

Maybe you're not a lazy bum like me, and you'll get out there and vote tomorrow (or whenever your local elections are), and even know some things about who you're voting for and why. I hope so - more intelligent and informed people need to take an interest. Local government is what actually makes a difference in what happens around you, far more so than national government almost ever will.

Yep, I know it. Nope, I still don't do anything about it. Depressing huh? Perhaps we can all learn from my shortcomings?

A Saturday evening in dwindling blue light.

2009-10-03T18:56:00.004-04:00

An old man wandering in the street. Bathrobe, slippers, night clothes. Cars come off of the highway moving fast here. It is twilight, almost dark. They honk when they catch him in their headlights. He moves out of the way, but slowly. Several people pass by on foot without stopping, seemingly without noticing this anomaly. But me. I remember this happening to my Uncle Leonard, great uncle really, when his mind first began to go. Just there, out in the street. In danger. So I stand there, watching him. Torn between not wanting to "get involved" and knowing too well what it could all mean to walk away with a clear conscience. Knowing what could happen.

More cars come and he is standing in the middle of the street. I tense. Again he moves out of the way, slowly. I envision myself approaching him, taking him by the arm. Telling him it is not safe to wander in the street. Asking if he knows which house is his. He sees me watching him. I smile weakly.

After another moment he leaves the street, returns to the sidewalk. I relax somewhat, but I can't leave yet. He walks back and forth across the span of a few houses, and again I question whether he knows where he lives. Finally he ascends a walkway, passes through a door. He is as safe as he is going to be.

I worked for seven hours today, on this, what is supposed to be my week end. I am so tired, and there is no light left to the day.

I am an effing jackass who will never learn.

2009-09-21T16:50:00.004-04:00

I throw my heart and soul into this fucking job, and for what? So that whenever it's convenient the people that I work for can forget everything I've done and treat me like I'm... well, like I'm everyone else. So please, please tell me why I'm working 50 hours a week? Why I bust my ass to hold everything together while they're both out of the office for days or sometimes weeks at a time? So that when they come back they can just sort of dismiss me? Despite the fact that ALL of the other team members come to me every day for guidance and to ask questions, because those two are never available?

This is such bullshit. I of course have only myself to blame - me and my goddamn work ethic that tells me work harder, work more, do it better even when I get nothing in return.

Did I let them know that I was upset and wanted to speak with them? Yes, yes I did. They said, oh yeah, sure, we'll let you know when we have time.

That was two hours ago.

How much do I just want to say "fuck this place" right now and never, ever come back?

A marathon, not a sprint.

2009-09-13T13:48:00.000-04:00

It's been a long week. When I went back to work after a short hiatus, I went with a conviction that I would work a normal, 7 hour work day (9 to 5 minus an hour lunch). Well, two hours into my first day back I could see that doing such a thing would be far more stressful than just working a bit extra each day, getting a little more done, and having less to come into each morning. So I (mentally) capped it at 9 hours - of actual work, that is.

Well, I've mostly stuck to that. It's largely been without a lunch of any sort, which is fine with me because my appetite has been funny, and Midtown Manhattan is the most boring place ever anyway. Plus it makes the day shorter overall. Friday was a ten hour day - just wanted to wrap things up so I could not worry about them over the weekend, you know?

The main problem with working this way is that it takes such a bite from my life. I get home at six, seven, eight with nothing left. But I still have to deal with the aches and pains of the day, with figuring out what to do for dinner, with the rest of, well, life. And still, the temptation is there - because I'm an effing workaholic - to work even more.

So I have to keep reminding myself that it's a marathon, not a sprint. I actually can't get to the end of it. I could work 12 hours a day for a month, and I sure would land myself in bed for a week, but I wouldn't get to the bottom of the pile on my desk. Because there is no bottom. It's an endless stream. Like dust - no matter what I do there will always be more.

I don't know why this is such a hard thing for me to absorb. I know I'm not alone - many of us have this disease of "it must be done NOW!" And we would all do well to get the hell over it. Anyone who wants to tell me that my 45 hour work week isn't good enough can bite me. I produce plenty of work product in 45 hours, and I'm quite good at my job: these are the facts I must remember.

Still. Am I working this weekend? Yes, yes I am. But from home, and only a little...

The fourth.

2009-08-29T17:19:00.003-04:00

It's been four years. And I'll say it - it's easier. Last year I went through a forced catharsis in two parts: the first, the first a trip to the city to let the images in my mind heal, the second in finishing and publishing my zine of the Katrina experience.

It's not that I've forgotten. It's that I've finally begun to heal.

I spent a little while this afternoon reading the zine again, which I haven't done in probably ten months. For a while I had been unhappy with it - it's such a complex subject, and no matter how much I edited when I read the final copy I felt I'd still missed things and got things wrong. But now, with the perspective that time gives to writing, I can see that it's good. Just oddly paced. The reading confirms what I've known all along: I need to turn it into a book.

And that's my plan. I hope to publish it in time for the fifth anniversary. I think I can do it in a year. There's a lot to do, a lot to write. And there's the matter of finding someone who might want to publish it, or else deciding to just publish it myself. Yes, there's work to be done, and that work began today with the reading.

I suppose this is how I cope with the atrocities of life - converting them from "my trauma" to "my story". I'm not the first, lord knows. It's as good a method as any, as far as I'm concerned. At least it produces something, unlike other approaches I've tried.

Today is odd, far too much going on in my world for me to process it all. But the sun is coming out, which is some consolation.

My favorite assessment yet of the world ending in 2012.

2009-08-15T09:58:00.003-04:00

Thank you Dinosaur Comics for this insightful review!

So, what is it like to have an MRI?

2009-08-09T23:03:00.004-04:00

It's sort of like being in the middle of an air raid siren. No, I mean inside of the actual siren - the thing that makes all that noise. What else could explain that level of sound and vibration? It's actually comforting that the quality of the sound changes every couple of minutes - from a honking kind of alarm to a jackhammering kind of noise, and so forth.

It's also a bit like being stuck inside of a Squarepusher album, which itself is stuck on one of the more noisy bits.

Honestly, though, it wasn't so bad. I was only doing the cervical spine, so my test only lasted for fifteen minutes. My tech was really nice, and saw that I was clearly anxious. So he let Jonathan come to the back with me, and then had him fill out a few forms so that he could come right on into the test with me.

Laying down on that plank, I sure did want to start crying (again). But they put a nice blanket over me, and a foam wedge under my knees so that it would be more comfortable to lay still. They gave me ear plugs of course. The "camera" for my neck was attached to a crazy contraption that fit sort of over my head and face, and made me feel a bit like those poor kids with headgear that you see in awful 80's teen movies. Before they slid me in, they handed me a sort of ball attached to a cord, and told me that if I needed to stop and come out, all I needed to do was squeeze that ball. It's the kind of shape that's just reassuring to hold in the hand. And of course, knowing you have a killswitch is comforting in and of itself. Then, in I went, into the tube.

And then they pulled me back out. It was a little disconcerting. But they did it to give me a mirror, one that fit onto the thing that straddled my head, so that I would not only feel Jonathan touching my legs, but would also see him. I think it made all the difference.

It was definitely a test of endurance. I am very, very sensitive to sound. It is also terribly hard for me to stay in one position for more than about two minutes, let alone fifteen. But I did a lot of slow conscious breathing - knowledge left over from my yoga days - and for the last five minutes I was counting down. I have a pretty good sense of the length of a second, because of a habit I had as a kid of literally watching clocks.

When it was over I was quite relieved - and quite stiff. My neck hurt for the rest of the day, just because I'd made it stay still for so long. But more importantly, it was over. Now, hopefully, by Tuesday I'll know what is and is not wrong with my neck.

As one of my attorneys (that I work for - I'm not suing anyone) said, let's hope it's just effed up enough to get me some physical therapy.

And in a shocking turn of events, health insurance companies SUCK ASS.

2009-08-01T22:43:00.002-04:00

I don't even have the energy to recount the whole thing again, so I'm simply pasting in what I emailed to them. Fucking bastards I hate them all. And tonight, that goes for Walgreens as well.

* * *

To Heath Net:

Tonight I attempted to pick up a prescription for Yasmin - for which I am forced to get Ocella, since it's cheaper and as we know, if there's a cheaper alternative that's all the health insurance company will pay for. Well, since there's apparently some kind of promotion going on, Ocella is not currently covered. Yasmin is. The Ocella is what they filled my prescription with, and of course it came up not covered at about $67. I'm sure as hell not going to pay that. Well, despite the fact that Yasmin is what is WRITTEN ON MY PRESCRIPTION, the pharmacist refused to give it to me even though she could see that it WAS being covered by the insurance, simply because the prescription slip did not also say "dispense as written". So, the doctor has to both write down the name of the drug and then again say "yes, that's what I'm really prescribing" for a patient to get the correct drug? Can anyone explain that to me? And let me mention that my drug store is Walgreens - a huge nationwide chain. If they don't know about this little game you're playing, who does? Essentially, I am being punished for the financial gain of Health Net. The insurance company just does whatever it needs to do to save as much money as possible regardless of the effect on peoples' health. I never wanted to be on Ocella to start with - it is NOT the same as Yasmin and it took months for my body to adjust - but now that I'm used to it I sure as hell don't want to switch back, only to have to switch again in another few months! I HAVE talked to my doctor about it, and she agrees with me! But doctors are powerless to fight against the insurance companies - clearly, when what she prescribed to me isn't what is given to me at the drug store because it's not what's best for YOU. Nothing about this "promotion" indicates that anything but Health Net's gain is at interest. And my experience tonight proves that nothing has been done to ensure that this little trick won't cause massive inconvenience to your customers. In case you haven't gathered it yet, IT'S CAUSING MASSIVE INCONVENIENCE TO YOUR CUSTOMERS. As if switching our drugs on us and forcing us to take drugs that we were not prescribed isn't inconvenience enough.

* * *

And to Walgreens:

Tonight I attempted to pick up a refill of a prescription which I have been taking for about three years. The prescription is for the birth control pill Yasmin, but of course since the generic Ocella came out my insurance company has been forcing me to get that drug.

At the moment, the company that makes these drugs is apparently having some sort of "promotion", by which the brand name drug, Yasmin, is being offered at my lowest copayment. For whatever reason, during this time my insurance company is NOT covering Ocella.

Tonight when I went to pick up my prescription, I noticed with some confusion that it was not being covered by my insurance. I asked the pharmacist who was helping me, and she simply pointed to the slip and said, "It says right here, drug not covered." Well I knew that was wrong, since I've been getting it for years and it's always been covered, and my benefits haven't changed. Then I remembered that I'd gotten a letter about the "promotion".

I explained the situation to her, and asked her to see if Yasmin was indeed being covered by my insurance. She did, and it was. She also showed me the image of my prescription, which clearly stated the word "Yasmin". However, she refused to fill the prescription with Yasmin. She told me that it was "against the law" for her to fill my prescription with Yasmin, despite the fact that my doctor wrote Yasmin on the prescription and that my insurance was covering brand name Yasmin, because my doctor had not ALSO written "DAW" (dispense as written) in the box at the bottom of the prescription. I tried for several minutes to explain to her the absurdity of her statements, but was only told repeatedly that it would be "against the law" for her to give me the drug that my doctor had clearly prescribed! She told me that I would have to go back to the doctor to get a new prescription... for what I already had a prescription for.

I worked in customer service and retail for a long, long time. There are about a hundred ways in which this pharmacist could have handled this situation better. She was rude, unhelpful, and basically acted like I had done something wrong or was asking something unreasonable by requesting that she give me the drug that was a) prescribed by my doctor and b) covered by my insurance. But beyond that, I feel that the pharmacy staff should have noticed the problem before I even got there, when the prescription that had always been covered came up as not covered. Honestly, after three years of getting the same drug at the same location every month (among many others), is that too much to ask?

Needless to say, I am very displeased with the "service" I received tonight. I was not able to get my prescription, because I am certainly NOT going to pay full price (almost $70) for a generic when my insurance company is covering the name brand for $15, and so am forced to make a second trip there tomorrow to speak with the manager.

Perhaps people cannot be taught common sense, but they can be taught proper customer service, and this pharmacist had been instructed in nothing of the sort.

Interesting, but corporate, but interesting.

2009-07-31T18:48:00.002-04:00

Yeah, they made a font. By driving a car. Which is cool. It would be far cooler if it wasn't just all to promote the car. It would be much cooler if it wasn't an ugly font. But whatever.

Oh, my neck? I have to schedule an MRI. Which I'm like so totally looking forward to! Not.

Major bummer.

2009-07-28T07:59:00.002-04:00

-Think I have a bulging disc or perhaps a pinched nerve in my neck. That's all I can come up with at this point, as a special visit to the chiropractor and an hour-long deep tissue massage with a real massage therapist did precisely nothing to relieve whatever the hell is bound in there.

-Yesterday's post on the Vegan Etsy blog was my first ever to receive exactly zero comments. WTF?

Granted, the second gripe is of significantly less concern than the first. But it is pretty literally adding insult to injury, ha.

Superextreme weirdness.

2009-06-29T23:01:00.002-04:00

So, as you may recall, a few months back a story of mine was published in an anthology. Well. I knew it was up for sale on Amazon. I did not know, however, that it is a) on sale at Barnes & Noble and b) available for Kindle. Now here's the really supercrazy thing I did not know about - until tonight, that is: they made, like, an ad thing for it. Who is they? The editors, I'm assuming. It's on goddamn YouTube. It's... odd.

Assuming that you want to see it, here ya go.

I've failed to mention that I'M TABLING AT A ZINE FEST!

2009-06-25T20:57:00.005-04:00

The NYC Zine Fest, in fact. In, you know, in two days. Or a day and a half, depending on how you look at it. In other words, on Saturday. I'm going to summarize. Ready?

On Saturday, June 27th, I, Melissa Bastian, will have a table at the NYC Zine Fest. I will be sitting behind an eight foot table utterly swamped with blank the plague publications, and some other exciting bright. goodies. The Zine Fest is being held at the Brooklyn Lyceum from 12 noon until 7pm. And where is the Brooklyn Lyceum? On 4th Avenue in Park Slope, not far from Grand Army Plaza. Have a looksee:

View Larger Map
So... if you're in New York, come visit why dontcha? Did I mention there will be beer? There will be beer! For serious.

NYC Zine Fest. This Saturday. Be there or be square.

Hearts.

And today, she had to go home early.

2009-06-16T15:29:00.004-04:00

Last week: 55 hours. The week before last: 51 hours. The week before that: how the hell am I supposed to remember the week before that? I worked 106 hours in two weeks! Last week I worked seven days in a row! Oh, yeah, and remind me to NEVER EVER DO THAT AGAIN, wouldja?

Yeah, I think you could say I've been a bit busy. And the irony is that it hasn't even been for our impending trial, jury selection for which is scheduled to begin tomorrow. Nope. That, if it goes forward, will cause a whole new wave of insanity. This last couple of weeks has been nothing but me trying to keep up with what is now my normal workload. Does anyone else see a little bit of a problem there?

In my last post I briefly mentioned that I got a fake promotion. Well, I got a fake title to go with it: I'm now the "Delaware Administrator". What it means is that I now take care of much of the administrative work - filing deadlines, deposition scheduling, etc. - that the attorneys have heretofore been responsible for. (Yes, you read correctly. I am now responsible for what attorneys used to be responsible for.) I'm also still the only Delaware trial paralegal, and I also still have all of my casework. So whereas before I was trying to do the work of approximately two people, now I'm trying to do the work of at least three. And, you know, that's how we roll here at Dewey, Screwum, and Howe. But the fact that it's status quo doesn't make me any less tired.

Yesterday I held it together; was actually feeling pretty good. Today, I broke. Was once again flooded with that old feeling: I bust my ass, do the best work I can do, go above and beyond... why, again? Oh, right, so that I can be taken for granted and given more work, which will then be complained about even though it's much better (and more) work product than almost anyone else here turns out... It's a bad place to be. It's why I left last year. Except that now, I don't have the kind of savings account that I did then. Now, I have a wedding I'm trying to put together, in the middle of a major recession...

Ah, the wedding. A bright spot and a major source of stress all at once. That's one thing to be said for all the OT - the 36 hours of overtime on my upcoming paycheck sure will take the sting out of the photographer and invitation payments I put down this week. Money isn't everything, but sometimes there's no substitute.

So yeah, I left work early today. I'm exhausted; I'm overwrought. It'll be alright. It's a bad day after a long hard couple of weeks. This week, at least, should be more normal. If we do indeed go to trial, as of Sunday I'll be plunged back into the insanity - I will in fact be taking a train to Delaware so I can just live right there in the middle of crazytown. So do me a favor? Keep your fingers crossed for me that those fuckers SETTLE! Cuz you know what? I think I'd enjoy, say, two whole weeks of calm.

What's the deal?

2009-05-31T22:37:00.004-04:00

It's been positively ages since I've posted on this blog for some reason. Well, actually it's for the normal reason: I've been stupid busy. And it seems that it'll only get worse: Friday before last I was given what I'm referring to as a pseudo-promotion. What, exactly, does a pseudo-promotion entail? Well, basically a lot more responsibility and work with no title and no more pay. Woo! Gotta love it.

I'm feeling pretty overwhelmed right now - I want to be watching what I eat and exercising more, I need to get to at least three doctors, I have a zine fest to get ready for, I have company coming into town at the end of the month, I still have to figure out how to move out of and then rent out my studio... and, you know, I'm now trying to plan a wedding long distance. And then there's also all of my normal stuff I'd like to keep up with, that I'm clearly not keeping up with, like my Etsy stores and writing and blogging. I simultaneously feel like there's no possible way I can do everything I need to do, and like a weak pitiful failure for even feeling daunted by the task of figuring it all out. I know the answer must lie somewhere in the middleground, as it always does. I'm terrible at finding middlegrounds.

It's rapidly approaching 11pm, and I need to get myself to bed. Yes, really. One crucial element to getting things done when life is crazy is to get enough sleep; another is to start early. Tonight and tomorrow I intend to do both.

Of course, you know what they say about good intentions.

A brief update.

2009-05-05T08:42:00.002-04:00

It's been a minute huh? Well I'm already late to work, so there's no use in hauling ass now. So here's the abbreviated rundown:

-finished getting everything out of the old apartment, gave back the keys (finally!) last Friday

-still have LOTS of unpacking to do... some of which can't be done until we buy some more furniture

-still have to figure out what to do about my studio... anyone want to rent a lovely studio in long island city?

-on Sunday early morning, headed out to freaking DELAWARE to help my attorneys with their first day of our new trial which started Monday. It was a crazy 36 or so hours; came home on the train last night. Napped all the way back, which was the first time I'd had a moment's peace really. Sunday I worked from noon till 11pm... eyeah.

And now it's now. I'm exhausted, which is why I'm running slow, which is why I'm not going to be at work until 9:30... or later. But the thing is, I wouldn't be surprised if I'm there until 10pm... or later.

Speaking of which, I gotta go.

Actual email sent to my entire office today:

2009-04-22T19:34:00.002-04:00

To all Citrix users:

The Citrix Program Neighborhood will contain an icon that is labeled: DO NOT CLICK THIS

So please do not click it when the Program Neighborhood opens up.

Thank you for your cooperation.

I owe you some sunshine.

2009-04-18T21:29:00.004-04:00

Well, my new apartment is full of it - soaked in that wonderful natural light that I so cherish. It fills the space, with its high ceilings and wood floors and freshly painted walls, just inviting us in. There's even a skylight in the stairwell.

We did a good little chunk of moving today, thanks to the assistance of our friends Leslie and Walton (and their Land Rover). We took over three loads, which represented everything we'd thus far managed to pack, some clothes, and a few very small pieces of furniture. I'll count it as a productive day, even if we do still have much left to do.

The gods of parking were with us today - seriously, it was miraculous. About half an hour after our friends had texted to say they were on their way, I noticed that there was an open parking space right in front of our building. This does not happen. So when Jon was going out to smoke a cigarette, I told him to stand in it - just in case they happened to pull up in that few-minute window. And they did! Such luck just continued all six times we had to park - it was almost as good as having Monica the Magical Parking Charm in the car. Thank you parking gods!

Afterward we took them out to lunch at our favorite Japanese place in the neighborhood, which also happens to be on our new street. Ain't that convenient? It's also just around the corner from our favorite Indian place in the neighborhood - the one that MARKS VEGAN ITEMS ON THE MENU. Seriously. They use the word vegan. (Not remarkable for Manhattan, VERY remarkable for Queens.) Yes, we're pleased with our new location.

Then... we went and got walkie-talkies! How excited am I about these new toys? OMG so excited. See, the new place is big, and I'll be working in the back of the house and Jon will be in front, and our little old lady landlord who never leaves the house probably wouldn't appreciate our screaming at the top of our lungs to each other all the live long day... thus we justify the purchase of the best toy ever! Yes!!! More on this later, you can rest assured.

After all that I was totally wiped out and had to nap for several hours, and truth be told I haven't really recovered. I'm not sure what it is that my body is going through, but I'm beginning to suspect it's more than just prolonged stress or fatigue. So hard to say with all that's going on right now, combined with all the factors that are usually plaguing my body. Aargh.

Anyway, there ya go - a little bit of happiness and good news. Progress on moving, help from and yummy lunch with good friends, and new toys! Not to mention the PERFECT SPRING DAY that provided the best moving weather evah. All in all, a day to mark in the "plus" column.

* * *

p.s. - Jim! We love you for trying to make it out! No worries that we were done before you were finished with class. Next time we promise to not start until you get there and make you carry all the heaviest stuff. :)

To the bone.

2009-04-15T19:29:00.002-04:00

Raw. Stripped bare. That is how I feel. That is what I am.

It's not actually all that bleak. It's not at all a new feeling. It's a place I land somewhat regularly, a place life spits me out to. In essence, this happens.

It's been building for weeks, or rather it's been wearing away for as long, or maybe longer. Work stress took its toll on my body, which has been staging various major and minor revolts. My relationship is still rocky, to be sure, which puts just a bit more of an edge on everything. And there are other factors, but we're getting to that. This week the whole of it has come to a head in several different ways.

On Monday, I had a small breakdown when Jonathan was not responding to me on i.m. It turned out that he was not responding to me because he wasn't actually logged in; some glitch in the system was showing him present when he was not. But my reaction showed me just how fragile I am at the moment, and just how easy it is to send me spinning out of control when it comes to the idea of him being upset with me or ignoring me. My threshold there is effectively zero - which is bad particularly because he himself is having a very stressful time and cannot always perfectly meet my needs. Shockingly enough, try as he might he too is human. Go figure.

You've heard about Tuesday, so I won't go into it. You've also been hearing about the workload in general, which isn't budging in the least, so I won't go into that either.

I've mentioned that the migraines have come back, but I haven't really explained. The story is that I've been on Topamax, a drug taken to prevent migraines, for close to two years now. That happened because I was getting bad ones three to four times a week - and that's really not a situation that allows a person to keep working or even getting out of bed every day. I tried Imitrex and something else similar and had horrible reactions, so Topamax it was.

Well, I've been on a very low dose - 50 mg - and thus far it's worked very well... until the past month or two. They're starting to creep in again, to the point where at least once or twice a week, I'm dizzy, disoriented, having difficulty concentrating, nauseous, light-sensitive, and even getting to the point of full blown head pain. Again, just not a situation conducive to functioning. So I called my doctor and, huge surprise, he's decided that we need to up the dosage of my medication.

I'm only going up to 100 mg, which is still a low dose for this drug. But to say I'm not happy about it is an understatement. It's an anti-convulsant, and no one understands why it helps migraines. That doesn't give me warm fuzzy feelings. I don't like fucking with my nervous system, and I don't like taking drugs that function through mysterious pathways. But what's my other option? To be blindsided on any given day by a condition that renders me various shades of useless. Great choice, huh?

So that's Huge Stressor #2, #1 of course being the ever-present / newly worsening work situation. I'll go ahead and vote "I'm effing moving!" as #3. And #4? Well that one just came today.

And it involves the fam.

I know you're shocked.

So I'm at work, in the midst of another 10 hour day, and I get this message from my mom. (On my work phone. You know. Because that's appropriate.) She explains to me that "that thing" my dad has been afraid of at his job actually is happening, contrary to the information he received a week or two ago that it was not happening, and could I just call sometime this week and make him feel better about it? Because, you know, as the child it's obviously my responsibility to comfort my parent in his time of strife. Never mind that my own life is such a goddamn train wreck that I'm crying hysterically every night.

But this is our dynamic. From the earliest times we can remember, my sister and I have taken a parenting role to those two adults that birthed us - far more often, really, than such support has flowed the other way. "Don't tell your father - it might upset him" and "be strong for your mother" were practically our family mottoes the entire time I was growing up. When I was little, I actually thought I was being bad when I got sick. Who was strong for us? For a long time, no one. Eventually, and with immense pain, we learned to be strong for ourselves, and then later, for each other. We're still waiting to see if mom and pop are ever going to pitch in, but let's just say that, well into our thirties, we're not holding our breath.

So that's my life right now. Wake up too early after not enough sleep, arrive at work to an empty dark office and an absurd workload to try to get some things done before The Noise starts, deal all day with an office full of people who resent my need for quiet and simply my presence in what they see as "their" space, add two tasks to my list for every one that I get to cross off, wonder if the day will bring a migraine or bad indigestion or the crazy tinglings of peripheral neuropathy, feel guilty for not being my parents' rock of love and support, and then go home and try to pack.

I've reached that dry, sarcastic, bitter point where everything is just a dark unfunny joke. Scotch and cigarettes are a good companion to this mood, and I truly wish I still drank or smoked.

Raw.

There is no other word.

Apparently, my place in the world as a social leper actually is set in stone.

2009-04-14T18:35:00.002-04:00

You know those people who are always just the light of the party? The people who just make everything fun no matter what or where or who or why? The girl who everyone says, "man, this party is lame... where's so-and-so? She would make it awesome!" Well, I am the opposite of that girl.

I'm the girl that makes people say, "Well, we were all having a good time, until she got here."

You think I'm exaggerating. That's fair enough; I am prone to exaggeration, particularly when writing blog posts. But seriously. I'm not kidding. I think that exact phrase has been uttered about me, and well more than once.

Granted, it's not usually actual parties where this happens, although yeah, sometimes it's actual parties. More often it's those pseudo-social situations that we're constantly thrown into: school and work.

Does it really happen that often? you're thinking. I'll put it this way. I started trying to count incidents - not the little ones, but only the big ones which resulted in yelling or even ended friendships - and I had to stop after ten. It was too depressing to continue.

Why does it happen so much? Is this girl just a total bitch? Well... that might be part of it. But really, I'm not a bitch. I don't think I'm better than anybody. I try to be people's friend. I try to be sociable. But something about me, the way I work, my OCD tendencies / perfectionism, something, creates this situation where I'm - OK, there's really no other way to say this - just doing a lot more work than the people around me. And that always leads to trouble.

I've mentioned that work has been completely crazy lately. Well, it's not getting any better - and it's making my migraines worse, woo! So already I'm in a situation where I have far more work than one person can be expected to do (this is bad enough that my bosses actually acknowledge it's true), and my body is limiting my capacity to do it. OK. Let's add on, now, the fact that I basically sit in a hallway. It's an enclave in a hallway, but really, I'm right there out in the open, in front of a printer and scanner and beside filing cabinets, all of which are used by at least eight other people.

In and of itself, that seating arrangement would be bad enough, yes? Well here's the really fun part. I sit behind a secretary who's worked for the firm for 17 years. I love her; she's great. And because she's great she's very, very popular. So popular, in fact, that throughout the day congregations form around her desk. These can be made up of as few as two or as many as seven or eight people, telling stories and laughing and checking out things on the internet and just having a grand old time.

Enter the Party Destroyer - ME! Little old me, crammed back in front of the printer, trying desperately to get the interrogatory requests drafted so that I can get back to entering the deposition testimony into the goddamn case chart that was supposed to be finished last week so that I can get back to working on the 90 exhibit lists (literally) that have to be served at the end of next week.

Can I concentrate with eight people standing 10 feet from my desk acting like they're already at happy hour? No, not really. Have I asked them to disperse because it's making it hard to do my work at least 5 times over the past several months? Yes I have. Have I had several to many conversations with that very popular secretary about the situation? Yes, I've done that as well. Does that stop this situation from occurring several times every single day? No it doesn't. Have I tried using earplugs, listening to music, or simply trying to tune them out? Yes I have. Has it done any damn good at all? No, not a shred.

As you may have guessed, one of these little incidents occurred today. Well, really, like four of them occurred today, but it was the last one that finally broke me. I went in to work today with a migraine trying to dance its way into my skull, me doing my best to keep it at a manageable level while staring at a computer screen, sitting under raging flourescent lighting. At that point in the afternoon I wanted to curl into a ball and at least cry, but there was still work to do. And I was trying to do it. But every time the throbbing in my head allowed me to have a cognizant thought, it was immediately swiped away by the carrying on of the three paralegals and two attorneys (yeah) who were then accumulated at the front of my little alcove.

Could I have spoken up, yet again, to let them know I had work to do and they were making it impossible? Sure. But jesus. It's a ridiculously awkward position to be in, day in and day out. It's embarassing and makes me feel like a jerk every single time. And, you know, I always have work to do. How do I tell them that every single time they're standing there chatting, they're fucking up my world? If you can tell me a gracious way to have that conversation, you just let me know.

So what did happen? Well, I'm social friends with one of the attorneys that I work for. (She is a workaholic like me, and therefore does not shun me like others do.) It happened to be her I was trying to get something done for at that moment, and she and I both happened to be on chat. So I sent her a message, something to the effect of not being able to concentrate with all these people talking in front of my desk. It's something we've talked about before; she uses the printer behind me and so is well acquainted with the clusters that accumulate. She told me to tell them to go away. The logical response, sure. I responded with something about how it's just a really awkward situation; what I didn't mention is how I just wasn't emotionally or physically up to dealing with it.

Well, she took matters into her own hands. She came over, broke up the crowd, and spoke to a couple of them where I couldn't see or hear what was happening. A couple of minutes later she wrote to me, saying "there, now they hate you and not me."

If only.

It was a good effort on her part, and I appreciate that she was trying to help, but effectively now I've told teacher. They all hate me - enough to where one of them came to tell me that it was 'not appreciated' before leaving for the day. (It was a good bit more elaborate than that, but I can't remember what all he said because I was crying when he said it.)

Jesus fuck. Seriously. "Social Leper" might as well be carved into my forehead. Particularly upsetting, since with these particular people I've gone out of my way since coming back to the office in October to make nice and be as much a part of the group as I have time for. I know I'm sitting in their public space - it's effectively like I'm the girl sleeping on the living room couch. But I didn't choose it, and there's nowhere else for me to go. The firm has seriously outgrown the offices we're in; there literally isn't another desk.

But here's the thing. How completely unfair is this? Why should I have to explain to people, grown adult people with jobs at a law firm, almost all of whom SIT IN OFFICES WITH DOORS AND NOT IN THE FUCKING HALLWAY, and none of whom work anything approaching the hours that I work, that, hey, it's not OK to stand around in the hallway and socialize for 20 minutes to a half hour at a time, multiple times a day, loudly enough that it interferes with other people's work? I shouldn't have to, of course.

There's nothing I can do. No escape. I work hard, everyone hates me for it, the end. It has been this way since grade school. Group project? All that means is I do all the work, get an A for the three or four others who were in the group and did nothing, and then get teased and taunted by them for the rest of the year for being a "geek". Why does nothing ever change?

Alright, so I am the Grand Annihilator of Fun. At least now that they already hate me I can stop holding back when they're annoying the piss out of me and just say something about it every time. What's the difference? They're obviously never going to like me anyway - my efforts to be included were met with lukewarm politeness, and now it's all shot to shit. The damage is done.

In work world, April = balls.

2009-04-09T21:23:00.003-04:00

Work is completely fucking insane right now, and has been for like two weeks. It is now at a point where I have to choose between being physically exhausted and sometimes sick from trying to work too many hours and being more stressed out because things that really, really needed to happen didn't get done. So, so beyond OK.

Actual email I had to send out today (names have been changed to protect the innocent / fool people who might be able to fire me):

Bossman,

Below are the seven deposition transcripts I was not able to locate out of everything we served p&l's for. 5 of them are from (that dude) so we may be able to attain them from him. But given everything else we're expected to push out today, it's not something I think I should be spending time on. I am going to send what we do have today; perhaps we can collect the few left and get them sent by Monday.

As for printing out all of the summary judgment documents, B is plugging away. But it is an absolutely enormous task, and honestly not one that can realistically be expected to be accomplished in one business day - not with AR calling B every 10 minutes needing yet another piece of info, printers that jam every tenth page (literally), other people needing to print, and very few people available to help. I haven't even gotten to start helping yet because I've been collecting transcripts and trying to help S prepare for her dep tomorrow, so it's just been B and R. A was going to help after court, but I understand she now has another assignment. L is wrapped up in her trial, as is J.

Bossman, you know I'm not prone to complaining about a large task, but I simply have to express this - asking us after 5pm last night to have this done and sent out fed ex today is unrealistic and has caused an extremely stressful situation. Particularly as it comes on the heels of a week plus of similar demands. I know it's foolish to call things "unfair", so I'll simply say that this is not conducive to a positive or productive (or even acceptable) work atmosphere. I know you all do what you can to manage our workload, but sometimes the size of a task and the limits of our resources just aren't taken into account.

Working for the man. Beats working in a coal mine, I suppose. And it sure beats not working, in the monetary department at least. But it also sure as hell beats the crap out of anyone who tries to do it right.

Better homes and gardens. No really, gardens!

2009-04-01T21:15:00.005-04:00

So... we found an apartment! And it's huge, and beautiful, and huge. Did I mention huge? Yes, we're staying in Queens. Our same neighborhood, even. We'll still have easy access to the restaurants, grocery stores, and subway stations that we know and love. But we'll be in a brand new space! I've never had this kind of move before. I'm kind of psyched about it.

It's the second floor of a two-story two-family - and you know what that means. NO MORE ABOVE-US NEIGHBORS! No more karaoke until all hours of the night! No more children running stampedes in circles above us, leading us to wonder if things will soon begin to rattle off of our bookshelves! But anyway. The owner, a little old lady with not much English, lives below. It's OK; we're quiet. And anyway, she'll love us forever after the first time we bake her cookies.

So, wanna see pictures? I'm thinking yes.

This is the long narrow room that runs along the front of the apartment, with large picture windows looking out onto the tree-lined street. It faces west, so we shouldn't have terrible hotness problems in the summer, and maybe we'll get some good sunset views. We are alternately calling this room the sitting room, the reading room, and the library. Our plan is to have bookshelves at each end and big comfy chairs in the middle... somehow. It's also where I will plant a gianormous x-mas tree with plenty of sparkly lights when the time comes.

This here is the dining room - the room I was standing in to take this picture is the living room which is of about equal size. That long front room is behind me. I tole ya, this place is HUGE. How much do you love the radiator cover?

How AMAZING are these floors? I'm totally a sucker for old hardwood floors! And really, who doesn't love genuine parquet? This is the boarder between the reading room and the living room.

The kitchen is fairly big, and has a nice open layout, but I might be most excited about this part - a pantry! I've never had a pantry before, and I'm pretty damn psyched about it.

Here's the room that will be our bedroom - it's all the way in the back of the apartment and faces the backyard, so it should be super quiet. As you can see, it has standard wood floors - I like those too. I'm slightly sad that this room (and the other small bedroom in the back, which will be my studio) don't have the crown molding that's up front, but so it goes. Yes, there's another bedroom. Also, up front, there's a small office / huge walk in closet type space that Jonathan will use for his computer-based pursuits.

Translation? Tons of shared space, plus personal space. All for the same that we're paying now for this apartment plus my studio, which I truthfully only get over to about once a week. It's a travesty to be spending so much on a space that gets used so little; I'll definitely spend more time in an in-house studio.

Oh, and I promised gardens! Well, the front yard is full of bulbs; many have sprouted long green leaves at this point in the season, and one crocus is even blooming! The backyard we don't really have access to, but we have a full view of it from the bedroom and my studio. In it is a fig tree and a grape arbor! Yeah, our landlord is totally a little old Greek lady. Of course right now everything is still dead from winter, but any minute now it will start leafing out...

So yes, we're happy. Moving is hard, and expensive, but this should lead to some very good changes for us. It will be a long couple of months, for sure. And we're going to have to buy some furniture! But in the end, I think we'll be in a much better position - both to follow our own pursuits, and to enjoy each other. That's the hope anyway.

As always, keep your fingers crossed for me. And for us.

Blue spoon, red spoon.

2009-03-24T07:38:00.002-04:00

I have two sets of what you'd maybe call "Asian-style" soup bowls. They are very round and fairly small, but not as small as the bowls in which miso soup is usually served at a Japanese restaurant. They fit nicely in the palms of the hand, and each has a little circled rim of a foot. The bowls came with the soup spoons - you know the ones - wide and flat with a short handle, that will stand up on their own of you set them down on a table. If memory serves - and I believe it does - they also came with chopsticks. Those, however, are long gone to parts unknown. I have had these bowls for many years. One set is red. One set is blue.

The red set is for breakfast. Each and every morning, I eat my cereal from a red bowl, with a red spoon. My habit is, when I am finished with my breakfast, to immediately wash my bowl and spoon, so that each morning a red set is waiting there for me in the drying rack. (Rare is the morning when we've actually put something away - dishes are something we're kind of bad at.)

This morning when I went to prepare my breakfast, I found my Queens Museum mug for chai-making (another ceremony not discussed here) in place, and proceeded on that front without incident. But when I reached for my bowl, I found that its accompanying spoon had gone missing.

The mystery did not take long to unfurl; last night Jonathan made a lovely Thai soup, which he served to us in larger bowls of a similar style that we bought in Chinatown a few years ago; rather than solid coloring they are covered in "Chinese" patterning. These, too, have matching spoons. But for some reason he opted to use the small bowl spoons for our dinner - his blue, mine red. I did not notice at the time; I did not feel well.

As I mentioned, we're not very good at getting dishes done here. So the red bowl and spoon set that I had eaten from and washed yesterday morning was the only pair (of the four in the set) not languishing in an overtopping sink. And so, this morning for my breakfast, my choices were to either wash another red spoon, or to eat out of a red bowl with a blue spoon. I opted for a blue spoon.

It was a mistake. For reasons beyond my comprehension I find it physically repulsive, even nauseating, to mix the colors of the bowls and spoons.

How serious an emotional disturbance do you think that indicates?

Perhaps it's just because I'm so affected by color?

This morning, after washing my red bowl and blue spoon, I washed a red one too.

Totally unfair.

2009-03-22T09:05:00.005-04:00

OK, so I totally dropped a bomb last weekend and have not yet given you a follow-up. Completely unfair, yes? Sorry 'bout that. Life has been hectic at work and at home - thus both the need for a follow-up and the lack of one. But what better time than a Sunday morning? None, says I.

So here goes.

Last Saturday I briefly mentioned that Jonathan might be moving out. For a while now we've been a little... messy. When wedding plans unfurl, I think it's inevitable that the situation will get a bit wonky. It's gone back and forth from just fine to unbearable, and last week I just hit some sort of critical mass. I could see clearly that we were stuck in a cycle, and I feel strongly that it takes a major change to break that kind of thing. What I came up with was separate dwellings.

Well, it wasn't a fun conversation that he and I had - that Friday the 13th. But it was a good one, a productive one. We listened to each other. And in the end, he acquiesced.

But, as they tend to do, things changed. The following morning we were both swallowed by sadness at the idea of being apart. Our reactions were fairly characteristic. For him, it took the form of refusing to get out of bed. For me, it caused a frenzy of activity - I was determined to find another way to affect major change, without putting so much space between us.

And what we eventually came to may or may not work, but we're giving it a shot. It is this: we're moving, together, into a much larger space. We'll have a room, and then he'll have a room for a work space and I'll have a room for a studio. (Translation: we're looking for a three-bedroom.) There will also of course be a living room, and a real separate kitchen - this is a must. In fairytale land, we may also be able to find a place with two bathrooms. This move will hopefully enable the following:

1) We'll be in a space that feels like "ours", not like him living in my apartment as he feels now.
2) Within said space, we'll each have our own spaces, and therefore some privacy.
3) I'll still have a dedicated place for creating, but it won't be 20 minutes' travel from where I live so hopefully I'll use it more than I do my current studio.
4) For the same cumulative amount of money that we now spend for us to have an apartment and me to have a studio, we can both have our own work spaces - this helps him by giving him "a room of his own", as it were, and me by dividing that extra cost which has thus far been all on me. I also won't have to look at/listen to his damn computers all the time anymore.

Will it work? Umm... I dunno. Maybe. We still really like each other, and get along quite well on a day-to-day basis. We want this to work - both of us really do - so that's pretty crucial. It's not as if one of us is dragging the other along. I'm not sure if we're going to get married, or if so when. We'll not be having a wedding if we do; I'm not even sure that we'll have any kind of ceremony that people will be invited to. (Unless you, dear reader, happen to have a big beautiful house at which we can have it.)

But what I've discerned is that it's not marriage per se that I need from him. What I've been needing is some sign of greater commitment, some willingness to allow the relationship to move forward. I feel that moving into a place that's ours, with both of our names on the lease, is that. I guess it's a step that I felt we'd already taken, but when I look at it I know that's not true. We side-stepped it by having him move in here. That happened for reasons both practical and emotional (on my part). At any rate, this feels like progress.

Uugh. Life is to convoluted sometimes.

Today we're looking at as few as one and as many as four apartments, depending on how sleazy the brokers are and what pans out. We're looking mostly here in Astoria - moving is very difficult for me, and staying in familiar territory will soften the blow a bit.

Wish us luck? Or perhaps my old appeal: keep your fingers crossed for us.

* * *

Afterward: It is now 9:50am. Our first appointment of the day is at 11am; we have to leave in less than an hour, and Jonathan is still in bed. Why? Because despite the fact that he knew we had this appointment, and that he knew our trains aren't running right this weekend and he'd have to take an alternate route home, he decided it'd be a great idea to go to a 10pm showing of The Watchmen last night, and then stay out to have a few drinks after that, not arriving home until after 3am.

These "relationships", they are constant work, no?

Yeah, it might still work. If I don't kill him.

It's the first day of spring...

2009-03-20T07:49:00.001-04:00

and it's snowing. Not flurries either. Really truly snowing. At least it's not sticking yet.

And I hold fast to my theory: the weather is broken.

I haven't told you anything in forever.

2009-03-14T12:10:00.003-04:00

Craziness is happening in the world, and specifically in my world, and I am utterly failing in my duty to keep you appraised of the situation. Of course, craziness can be like that.

First, I'm now officially published. Like, you know, by someone other than myself. The book is called "You Don't Know what You've Got: Tales of Loss & Dispossession". It's an anthology put out by Gryphonwood press. My name's on the cover! Where can you get it? Uhh, Amazon, believe it or not. I kind of don't believe it, but there it is. Now, do I suggest you run out and buy it? Well... it won't be the worst ten bucks you ever spent. There are a couple of mediocre stores in it and one that is really, really terrible, I feel obligated to warn you. But there are at least three or four that are amazing! Like really, like woah. And, you know, mine's in there. So... let your heart be your guide. But if you get it, let me know!

Second, the fibromyalgia zine (aka The Plague Project) is now available on my Etsy page. Has been for a while really. Sorry 'bout that. Don't know if any of you are just chomping at the bit to get your hands on a copy, but if you are, there ya go.

Third, just today - just this morning in fact! - I released a new zine. It's about the food industry. It's not a vegan zine either, though there is a lot of vegan information in there. I'm doing it now because Tuesday is my third veganniversary. Woo! It's called Vegetable Vegetable Mineral, and it too is in my Etsy store.

And now we move into the not so great news category. Fourth: Jonathan's probably moving out. We're trying not to break up. But something has to change, something big, and this is the closest we can get to a redo. It's backing up to where he started letting me force decisions on him. Or something. It may mean the end of us, but if it does it's because it was coming anyway. I don't know. It's all pretty upsetting... duh. To go from engaged backwards to just dating... it's not an easy thing. It's not as if we're going to see other people or anything though. We'll see how it turns out. Ho hum. Better to figure it out now than after we're married, right? Life, it is the complication.

I'm like, special and stuff.

2009-03-08T13:06:00.003-04:00

I was chosen as Vegan Etsy's team member of the week. I'm not trying to brag. I'm just excited. See, I got to do an "interview" that's up on the team blog, and my mini etsy app will be up on the blog all week. Hee. I'm like, blushing and stuff.

You can see the team blog here.

And if you're reading this post kinda late in the game, you can see my interview post here.

And there you have it.

Is it still "vanity publishing" if I don't call it The Great American Novel?

2009-02-27T09:46:00.005-05:00

As you may recall, faithful reader, last weekend was bad. But I tried to turn the bad into good, or if not good at least productive, by writing a very long zine / very short book and publishing it through lulu.com. It's called "The Plague Project", it's basically about my experiences with fibromyalgia, and I've settled on calling it a book(let). It's for sale on lulu, and I ordered copies for myself so that I can sell it in my Etsy store.

So yesterday the book(let) came... and of course there are type-o's. The only really bad one is a word that got "ly" tacked onto the end of it that shouldn't have. Other than that, there are a few font-type problems: an italicization lost here, a serifed letter there. Then there are the omnipresent "things I would have rephrased", the truth being that I could rewrite any given piece every day for ten years, and each day I would find something that I would say just a little bit differently.

But overall, I'm pleased. Pleased that I put it together, pleased about how I published it, pleased about how it came out. Not to say that I'm overly pleased with myself. Sometimes I'm just actually happy with my projects, and this is just one of those times.

Lulu seems to be the right self-publishing house for me; you upload a PDF, so it looks EXACTLY the way you made it look. I wouldn't be happy if anyone or anything went dicking around with my very carefully crafted layouts and fonts. And they give you a nice glossy cardstock cover, and the paper inside is bright white and smooth. I do want to look into using recycled papers though.

I'll let ya know when you can get the book(let) on Etsy. Until then, um, something. Stuff. Yeah.

It's probably because I'm not perfect.

2009-02-26T09:27:00.002-05:00

So, work's been crazy. Last week was the wrapup of a long stretch of insanity. I went into Tuesday thinking that it would be a nightmare, and it ended up being rather calm. I went into Wednesday thinking it would be rather calm, and it ended up being a nightmare.

It was one of those days when too many people were asking me to do too many things, all on top of what I already needed to do. I kept losing track of what I was doing and what was still left to get done. I'd go to write it down and before I could even get pen to paper something else would have already come up. Naturally I did my best to finish everything, but I was stuck with a nagging feeling that I'd forgotten something.

Well, I'd forgotten something. And what that something was didn't become apparent until this morning. I came in to an email from my attorney saying that she couldn't find the notice of service on Lexis from when we turned over the documents from a search we did at a refinery. She's concerned about it because she's going to court to argue with the defendants about whether or not we can use the documents. TODAY.

So I checked. Now, I turned over the documents to defense coordinating counsel. And indeed, I created the notice that I did so. But I never sent it to co-counsel for filing. That, my loves, is a problem. See, we can go ahead and file it right now, but then anyone (like the judge) can look and see that it was filed today - the day we're going to court to argue about it. Doesn't exactly add credibility to our "but we provided them with all the documents" stance. We have a fed ex slip going to them on that day and all, but it's our word against theirs as to what was in that package, and while I don't want to say that defense would lie about it... aarg. It's just not good.

So, yeah, now my attorney's all freaked out, and I of course feel like she's totally disappointed and pissed off at me. But you know what? This is what happens when you give a person more to do than she can possibly keep track of, g0damnit.

By the time that Wednesday came, I'd written the greater portion of twenty different oppositions to summary judgment motions, sorted through a five box document production, and performed countless other tasks in the previous three weeks. (Less than three weeks, actually.) By the time that Friday rolled around, my body was so enraged with how much I'd been working and how stressed I'd been that it just shut down and I couldn't even come in.

It's frustrating to be put in a situation where you're being worked so hard that you're just bound to fuck up. And they put such high expectations on me. They tell me things like "you're the best paralegal we have." Which, hell, may be true for all I know. But it doesn't mean that I don't have limits.

Best. Email. Ever.

2009-02-22T19:41:00.002-05:00

My good friend Cindi22 sent me this thoughtful email today. I was so touched by her kind words that I thought I'd share it with all of you:

It has been long time since we did not meet. I hope everything is okay with you.
I found a great medicine shop on the net. I ordered some meds and
got my orders in 3 days to my postbox.They are cheap and quality.
I thought that you may be interested.Here is their advertisement :

- Man's Health, Anti-Depressants, Antibiotics, Cholesterol, Diabetes, Diuretic,
Pain, Sexual Health, Erectile dysfunction, Sleep Aids and Weight Loss medicines
- Worldwide shipping
- Always fresh discounts
- Always full anonymity
- Always making you a happy customer!

Choose us and you will feel well: Always!

I'm always so happy to hear about orders arriving to posboxes of my friend who I did not meet. Thanks Cindi22!

So I wrote a book... sort of.

2009-02-21T22:41:00.001-05:00

I did, indeed, end up staying home from work on Friday. I pretty much got up at normal time and stayed up. I sat at my desk and did various tasks for the better portion of the day. All day long I thought, this is ridiculous! What am I doing! I should have just gone to work! And then I'd do something CrAzY, like try to walk from my desk to the kitchen, and realize why I'd stayed home. I also did spend about three hours in the middle of the day getting some much needed catch-up sleep.

So what was I doing all that time at my desk? A couple of things. For one, searching images for new tattoos. (yup.) And for fonts - there's this whole set of fonts known as circus fonts that are the COOLEST FONTS EVER. And you can get a lot of them for free. There's one I particularly like called Coffee Tin.

But I did something else too: I channeled all of my frustration about my illness into writing a 31 page zine about it, 29 pages of which is real content. I didn't finish it yesterday - that took most of yesterday and today. It's a combination of the web content of an, um, prominent medical institution's information on fibromyalgia, and my commentary on what they say and what my experiences have been with it.

And, due to its length, I decided to publish it. See, 31 pages (half pages, really) = 8 sheets in zine world = cumbersome and expensive to copy, and hard to staple through... plus I've been thinking about trying the self-publishing gig for a while anyway. This seemed like a good thing to try it with, since it was all computer-generated content with just a few images inserted right into the text via the word processor.

So... yeah. You can, um, buy it. By clicking on the button on the bottom of the screen. At least I'm assuming you can - I won't know if the button works until after I post this. And I can't really figure out if I'll get any money for you buying it that way, but I figure I'll put it out there anyway. I ordered 25 copies for myself to put up on etsy, so I know what can happen with those. That's the other caveat at the moment - I haven't seen the physical product. I won't until the end of next week. I just know what it's supposed to look like.

I think it's safe to say that this... is an experiment.

Everyone hates me (and nobody cares).

2009-02-19T12:33:00.003-05:00

It's a conundrum, isn't it? How the world could dislike me so thoroughly while simultaneously not giving a damn about my existence? And yet, this is the paradox of which I have convinced myself. Could it be that I'm just really depressed today, and I'm in an office full of people with whom I have little in common and therefore with whom I have a merely polite relationship? No, the first proposition seems so much more likely.

It's lunchtime. It's sunny and (relatively) warm. I know I should go out. But where to go? I am so thoroughly tired of midtown - everything is concrete and ugly and either I'm in someone's way or someone is in mine. I have my prescribed lunchtime meal, and I don't want to spend any money, and there's nowhere to sit out there because every office building within 20 blocks is also having lunch right now... and yet, when 1:30 rolls around and I haven't left my desk, all I'll be able to think is how I regret not having gotten up. Really, though , what I wish for is somewhere better to go.

Why this mood? Where did it come from? I don't really know. Reverberations of the past few weeks, I suppose. Things have finally calmed down enough that I can feel the waves of upset wash over me. The sadness, the frustration, the pure exhaustion of it all. And then, the nagging knowledge that this is just low tide; that when the moon comes back around it will all begin again, in one form or another.

I've been trying to get my mother on the phone. I need to tell her that she and my father should not visit this spring as they seem to be planning. I can't do it. That would be enough to push me right up over the edge. It would be different if they didn't hate it here, or if being around them in and of itself didn't make me require a few extra therapy sessions. It is not going to be a fun conversation. Trying to make it and not successfully making the connection - well, frustrating doesn't really begin to cover it. It' somewhere near infuriating, but without anger. If anyone knows the word for that, lemme know.

Tuesday was easy when I thought it would be hard. Wednesday was hard when I thought it would be easy. Today I am simply lost. On Monday I told Jonathan that I wanted to say I felt small, but that wasn't accurate - that really I felt shattered. I think that applies to today as well. Or maybe smashed, subtracting any connotations of intoxication.

Sometimes it's just too much.

Flowers for valentine's day.

2009-02-15T10:37:00.004-05:00

Problems.

So, yesterday I got the tattoo on my left shoulder, the counterpart to the one that I got on my right shoulder for my birthday. I am sad to say that most of the elements that I love about the first one are absent in the second one. The delicate frail branchwork has been replaced by chunky, frightening driftwood. The sprawling graceful layout is instead a bunched up bundle. And the placement of the second tattoo is a solid inch further out from my spine than the first.

Observe the photographic evidence. (The colors are way off in both photos. They're also reversed, so the one on the left is my right shoulder {the first tattoo}, and the one on the right or possibly the bottom depending on how this lays out when posted is the left shoulder {the new tattoo}. Sorry bout that, but it's really hard to take pics of your own shoulders. Go ahead, try it. I dare you.)

Aaagh.

What to do? Well, there isn't a whole lot that can be done. That's the thing about tattoos. Once they're done, they're done. In there. Permanent in the most serious sense. As with the first one, I'm sure I'll get to like the new one more as I live with it and it heals. But for the time being I'm not what one would call happy. Which is sad. I was so excited about getting the other half. And I paid a lot of money for the whole shebang. But a person like me, who's so damn picky about the way things look, should probably be more specific when doing something like being marked for life.

Blarg. Looking at them side by side this way, it's not that I completely dislike the new tattoo. I just dislike it in comparison to the first one. And of course it's hard not to compare since they're side by side on my shoulders, and were supposed to be "balanced". This is not my idea of balanced.

You'd think I'd have learned after the upper-arm tattoo fiasco - when I went to get the tattoo on my right arm and wanted it at the level of the one that was already on my left arm, and instead it landed a solid inch and a half higher. I see these things. Not only do I see them, but once I see them it's hard for me to see anything else. Yes, I obsess. Yes, I've been obsessing about this all morning. No, it won't do any good. It's just making me miserable. But I don't know how to stop.

I don't know. You tell me. Am I being crazy, or are they alright?

All to see the moon.

2009-02-14T21:47:00.003-05:00

On Friday the 13th I worked for 13 hours. Another round of summary judgment motion responses is due on Tuesday, about 50 of them this time, and the attorneys can't really do their part on them until we paralegals have done ours. So our deadline was Friday. Likely you don't know what summary judgment motions are, nor should you care; all you really need to know is that writing oppositions to them takes quite a lot of time and work. I've written sixteen of them in the past two weeks.

Yesterday was the last big push... or should have been. Around 7:30 (pm) we realized that one of the important defendants had never gotten assigned; that opp has yet to be written. Naturally, it needs to be written by me. We also got five boxes of documents on Friday, around lunchtime. We've been waiting and waiting for these documents; they will be what allows us to prove our case in many instances (hopefully). Unfortunately, when they came we discovered that they're not in any particular order. Meaning that to use them, we have to look at each and every sheet of paper (thousands?) and sort them into categories that apply to us before we can use them - goodbye Monday off.

But anyway.

After my thirteen hours of work, I stumbled out of the office and out onto the 10pm midtown street. It was cold, but the outside air was welcome. As usual, I made it to the corner just in time to see the bus that I could have taken to the subway stop ten blocks north pulling away from the stop and out through the intersection. Ah, well. I walked slowly up the route I know all too well, and as is rarely the case after rush hour the train arrived just moments after I got to the platform.

And then, on the train, coming around the ninety-degree curve between Queensboro Plaza and 39th Street, I saw it. The moon, hanging there like two thirds of a mangled orange: the color of a pale pumpkin and enormous just above the warehouses of Long Island City. As if in response to the momentary bout of warmer weather we've been having, we were treated to a harvest moon.

Even in the midst of madness, we must still take time to revel in the beauty.

What with the working, and all that...

2009-02-11T20:52:00.004-05:00

OK. So things are a little hectic.

My body is still waging war on me. I'm not quite sure what it's so unhappy about, but it's being unhappy loudly. I'm doing what I can about it - my walking is basically relegated to the ten blocks between my office and my Manhattan train stop. I don't see any nice long enjoyable walks in the near future, which makes me full of the sadness.

My brain has been plenty active though. This tends to happen when I'm psycho busy at work. I work for eight or nine or ten hours on challenging assignments, and then I get home and my mind is all, "Hey! I'm so not done yet!" Unfortunately most of that energy is getting sucked into the internet. Some of it is productive - writing blog posts, for instance, or posting on the VeganEtsy message board, or writing articles for (and monitoring comments on) the Site that Shall Not be Named. I've written about a million restaurant reviews on SuperVegan - that's something right? Some of what I get up to, though... well, let's just say that there's only so many times a day a girl can check her "who hearts me?" page on etsy before she's officially qualified as obsessive. (Whatever that limit is, I'm thinking I've about tripled it.) But it's not all internet stuff. For example, I wrote a story for The First Line (again). They rejected it (again), but at least I wrote it.

As for work, well... once again, didn't I say I wasn't going to do this? Yep. But it doesn't seem that it can be helped. There's nowhere else for the work to go. Unlike before with the trial work, when it was just me and maybe one or two other people, now it's department-wide. And honestly it's still nothing close to what it was. I have no idea how I worked those 12 and 14 hour days - I must have been running on pure adrenalin, and it's no wonder that I got so sick. At this point I've stated to several people who could be considered bosses, out loud, that I will not work more than 10 hours a day. The day that someone in that office can look me in the face and tell me that's not enough is the day that I quit (again).

Anyway, the result of it all is that I'm exhausted. But I'm also being extremely productive in pretty much every area of my life. That's nothing to scoff at. I'm riding very, very close to the "overdoing it" line, and I'm trying to watch that. I think I'm still in balance for the most part; I'm a person that likes to be near the top end of "busy but not too busy".

At any rate. It's now after 9 pm and I haven't been home in over 12 hours; I'm camped out at the studio. It's time I got home to see my man. All too soon it'll be time to get in bed.

I need my rest, you know.

Flower Get Bigger!!!

2009-02-09T20:48:00.002-05:00

Look at her!!! Look at my little Melbee! When I checked on her this evening, she'd sprouted a second pair of leaves! I'm so happy, such a proud mama. I exclaimed with such unadulterated joy that even Jonathan couldn't bring himself to mock me.

Hey man, it's the little things.

Third time's the charm, people.

2009-02-08T10:51:00.004-05:00

Before we begin, some background. For a couple of weeks now I've been submitting blog posts to a site that shall remain nameless. It seemed like a good idea - have my more informative pieces of writing published somewhere, anywhere, other than my own blog.

Well, I gave them the first post and they BUTCHERED it. My mistake was leaving in too much of my own voice - y'all know how I write. They don't want that. Despite the fact that I'm writing opinion pieces for the culture section, they want things to sound like newspaper reporting. Well OK. I'm not opposed to being edited - when it's good editing. This wasn't. Dear lord, it was gruesome. They had parentheses that ended but didn't begin and misused semicolons - unforgivable. And they'd removed words and phrases that made whole paragraphs lose meaning and context. It took me an hour and a half just to write down what I needed them to fix. At least they fixed it though; for the minute that it was up that way it was truly embarrassing to have my name on it.

About a week later I gave it another shot. This time I made sure that the writing was much tighter - less chance for them to utterly destroy my writing. Well, they made no comments on the writing, but rejected the piece... on the basis that I posted a similar version on my vegan blog before I gave it to them. See, they claim that if an article is posted on another site first, then google is more likely to pull up that site in searches. Which is absolute and utter bullshit. Google pulls up the site that gets the most hits, period. So guys, if other sites are coming up before yours, it's because yours sucks and no one reads it, OK? Anyway, I could totally see their point if I had posted the article on, say, Gothamist. (Yeah, as if they're going to be publishing me any time soon - dream of dreams.) But I didn't. I put it on my own blog, which gets 25 hits a week if I'm lucky. I don't even know how they found it. So I said a big what-ever and was pretty much ready to write them off.

But then, I listened to the voice of reason (uh, that is, Jonathan). It (he) said to give them one more chance before giving up. So I did. Again I spent extraordinary amounts of time and effort making sure the writing was as un-fuck-upable as possible. Lo and behold, it worked! The article was published before I woke up this morning. It only has three small changes, and they're all perfectly acceptable - two removals of emphasizing italics (whatever), and one insertion of a (properly used) semi-colon!

Yes, I'm pleased. So without further ado, please proceed here to read The Article They Didn't Fuck Up.

This is my flower.

2009-02-06T00:14:00.004-05:00

Her name is melbee. Each day I water her, and give her fertilizer, and make sure she's getting the proper amount of sunlight. In return, she smiles at me and grows. This brings me inordinate amounts of joy.

I visit her each morning and each night. After I water and feed her, I turn to my two (real) plants that live in the windowsill next to my desk, and tell them how well their little cousin the flower is doing.

Does that indicate any kind of emotional problem, do you think?

The wackness, the dopeness.

2009-02-04T09:16:00.004-05:00

January began well. OK, maybe not the very first few days; they started out with a sinus infection. But in general, the first few weeks of the year were filled with a rediscovered enthusiasm for life and the world around me. I was walking around in love with everything, exuding this unadulterated happiness. Realistic about my general situation in life and the challenges I was facing, and yet undaunted.

Then the thing with the foot happened. The first wave wasn't enough to drag me back down to my usual place of dwindling hope and latent anger. The second wave, sadly, was.

But now that I seem to be coming out of it, healing I guess maybe or just becoming less inflamed, my brain is again unclouding. I'm feeling the joy once more. People, I like the joy. I want the joy. I'm a joy glutton.

The past week has been insane, with the trials and tribulations of doctors and x-rays and mysterious injuries, combined with near-terminating relationship problems. But sometimes the only way out is through. Last night, coming to what I believe to be the final moments of that tumultuous week, my nerves were all jangly. So I laid my head in my man's lap, and he stroked my hair and told me it was gonna be alright. And you know what? It is.

This morning on my way to work, the world was beautiful. As my train pulled into Queensboro Plaza alongside a 7 train, the tracks swinging together in a graceful arc fifty feet above the morning traffic, Lykke Li provided the perfect soundtrack - as if I were living inside of a movie. A uniquely beautiful movie - a vision of New York the way I see it, New York through my mind. A movie that I want to keep watching: I need to see how it turns out.

...aaand Jonathan wins the Boyfriend of the Year award.

2009-01-31T23:13:00.006-05:00

I couldn't really leave the house today, what between being a pseudo-cripple and it being well, well, well below freezing outside.

My dear, darling Jonathan thought hard about how he should approach the situation, and came up with the following:

-Stay in bed until after noon
-Leave the house before 3pm
-Go eat lunch at my favorite pizza place in Brooklyn
-Do so with a girl that he used to date AND some chick that I don't know
-...and then go and have beers afterward
-Stay out for almost eight hours, leaving me completely alone and unable to leave.
-With no food.
-Upon arriving home (at 10:45), go lay down and promptly fall asleep.

Ah yes, he is truly my champion in times of need. Thank goodness I'm marrying a man who will always consider my needs before his own.

Why is it that even the most awesome guys are prone to being such jackasses?

To his credit, he did go pick up the prescription I needed. But somehow, I'm not feeling like it's a draw.

Now is the winter of my fucked up foot...

2009-01-31T16:00:00.000-05:00

... made glorious summer by this duke of York? Um, more like made even more difficult winter by this gymp ass body trying to get around New York. Erm, um, something.

Uh.

OK.

So, the foot thing. It was bad. It got better. And then it got much, much worse. On Wednesday it had gotten painful enough that walking made me want to cry - doubtless because on Tuesday evening I had dared to walk all the way from 50th street to 60th street (a ten minute trek) on my way home from work. The severity of the relapse inspired me to finally call my doctor.

Well, I called him at lunchtime and didn't hear back. And didn't hear back. And didn't hear back. I know better than to call the office again; that will only irritate the front desk girls, who are relatively irate already. I figured I'd hear from him Thursday. When it was time to go home from work, rather than walk the two blocks to the 6 train from the office, I paid $17 for a cab.

Then, to my surprise, he called a bit after 10pm. I described the issue to him, and he said it didn't sound at all like a pinched nerve as I thought it might have been. No, he thought it was probably a stress fracture. (You know, that thing that athletes and runners get all the time.) He instructed me to call his office the following morning to make an appointment for Friday, so that he could get a look at it and have some x-rays taken.

Now, if he had told me they needed to amputate my foot I probably couldn't have reacted more poorly. There was crying. And when Jonathan said the wrong thing when trying to get me to stop crying, there was yelling. The thing is this: while I'm really used to any problem having to do with inflammation of soft tissue, actual damage of something so seemingly sturdy as bone is brand new territory. The prospect of it completely freaked me out. New problems always do. Sometimes I just need to cry damnit! Anyway.

So Thursday morning I went into work late, waiting for the trains to empty out to insure that I could get a seat. While I waited, I called the doc's office as I'd been told to. I explained to the girl who answered that I'd spoken to the doc the night before, that he thought I had a fractured bone in my foot, and that he wanted to see me the next day to get some x-rays done. So when she said, "OK then, 10am on Friday", I stupidly assumed all was well.

Um. So Friday morning I showed up, a few minutes after 10am because I'd had to hobble from the train station at Park Avenue all the way to 1st Avenue - for those of you not familiar with NYC geography, thems the long blocks, and a bunch of them at that. I gave the counter girl my name and she was all, "we don't have you down for today." And I was all, "uhh, well I called yesterday..." She kept looking and lo and behold, they had made the appointment for NEXT WEEK.

Now, I'm not sure how a person tells a doctor's assistant "I might have a fractured foot", and that person somehow thinks that the patient can somehow wait NINE DAYS to figure out whether or not the foot is actually fractured. But that's neither here nor there, now is it? Long story short, they managed to wedge me in. But it definitely added more stress to an already un-fun situation. Fine, I'll admit it. I cried. I'm a crier. I'm prone to hysterics. Happy?

To make it even better, the goddamn insurance company got involved. For some reason they wouldn't approve my x-rays being done in the office; instead I had to waddle my lame ass over to the NYU facilities three blocks away. Not much distance at all - that is, when you can, say, put weight on both of your feet. Yet another example of how insurance companies always have the utmost concern for their customers' health and comfort - NOT!

Alright. Fast forward through getting over there in the 25 degree wind, the very cool and funny radiology guy, the getting back to my doc's office, and the waiting for him to have a minute to talk to me. Let's go to the part where my doc looks at the x-rays and sees, guess what?

NOTHING! Nothing at all, not even a hairline fracture. Nada, nix, zip, zilch.

It seems likely to just be an extremely localized fibromyalgia flare-up. On the one hand this is good news. It doesn't seem that anything is particularly damaged. And I shouldn't need surgery, which was the most terrifying prospect that was looming. On the other hand, though, I once again have an unidentifiable and unsolvable health problem. Is there, like, and award or a contest of some sort for this? If so I really need to find out how to apply. I'm a shoe-in! It's also something new to add to the already absurdly long list of "unpleasant things to attribute to my fibro because they don't seem to be related to anything else." Yeah, cuz I was really looking forward to adding to that list.

I'm supposed to tape up the foot in question, and "stay off of it" (great, so you're going in to work for me then?), and wait and see if it gets better on its own. All advice that is chillingly familiar. If it doesn't get better by next week, I have to go to the doc again for an MRI. Can I even describe for you the level or quality of frustration this causes? No, not really. If you've been there, you know, and if you haven't, I hope you never are.

I'm sorry if it seems like I'm whining or feeling sorry for myself. Everyone's got their cross to bear, I know; I'm just discussing mine. Most of the time it stays in the background. But right now it's making it really difficult to do things like wash dishes or take a shower or get to work, which is when it really gets to me. As I so enjoy doing, I'm going to once again ask all of you to keep your fingers crossed, and maybe even beam some positive energy my way, in hoping that this episode is short-lived.

Haunting.

2009-01-24T12:42:00.002-05:00

I'm not sure why. And I'm not sure if my beautiful Miss Sarah took the video. I just know that I love it.

My favorite thing.

2009-01-20T21:12:00.004-05:00

I love this segment beyond words - it alone may be why Donnie Darko is in my list of all time favorite movies.

This historic day, part two.

2009-01-20T14:03:00.003-05:00

Again, I can't write about it. But apparently our new prez can hit it on the head:

That we are in the midst of crisis is now well understood. Our nation is at war against a far-reaching network of violence and hatred. Our economy is badly weakened, a consequence of greed and irresponsibility on the part of some, but also our collective failure to make hard choices and prepare the nation for a new age. Homes have been lost; jobs shed; businesses shuttered. Our health care is too costly; our schools fail too many; and each day brings further evidence that the ways we use energy strengthen our adversaries and threaten our planet.
These are the indicators of crisis, subject to data and statistics. Less measurable but no less profound is a sapping of confidence across our land — a nagging fear that America's decline is inevitable, and that the next generation must lower its sights.
Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. They are serious and they are many. They will not be met easily or in a short span of time. But know this, America — they will be met.
On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

I've never been pro-Dubya in any way whatsoever, but I've also had my doubts about Obama. I'm beginning to feel, though, that this dude might actually have an idea of what's going on. And I gotta say, that's a nice feeling to have.

This historic day, and my complete lack of ability to write about it.

2009-01-20T11:19:00.002-05:00

Obviously, this day will go down in history in a big way. Obviously, all I can say about it are stupid, trite things. So I'm not gonna try to wax poetic; instead I'll plagiarize Dan Cantor of the Working Families Party. Of course, it's not really plagiarism if I'm giving him credit, right? Anyway, here's an email message I received this morning, and I thought it was pretty cool. I really like the last line: "Let's hear it for audacity - and hope."

* * *

Dear WFP Supporter,

Woody Guthrie never expected "This Land Is Your Land" to be played at an Inaugural celebration when he penned it in 1940. But he probably never expected a President Obama either.

Below is a link to the Bruce Springsteen-Pete Seeger (plus Pete's grandson Tao) rendition of Guthrie's most famous song, performed at Sunday's "We Are One" concert at the Lincoln Memorial. If you've already seen it, well, my hunch is you won't mind seeing it again:

Watch the performance

One can only imagine the pleasure these singers, especially Pete, must have felt. Guthrie's great anthem was written in the shadow of the Great Depression, after a decade of worker and farmer organizing from coast to coast.

Today's struggle is different, but yesterday's song still resonates. And how great to have it sung in celebration of both the King Holiday and the Obama Inauguration, with Mr. Lincoln (and the Obama family) looking on.

It's worth noting that they sang the entire song, including the more provocative verses usually left out. Sing it to yourself if you don't already know it:

"In the squares of the city - By the shadow of the steeple
By the relief office - I saw my people
As they stood there hungry, I stood there wonderin
If this land's still made for you and me."

Chorus [this land is my land…]

"There was a big high wall there - that tried to stop me;
Sign was painted - it said private property;
But on the other side - it didn't say nothing;
That side was made for you and me."

Chorus [this land is my land…]

"Nobody living can ever stop me,
As I go walking - that freedom highway;
Nobody living can ever make me turn back
This land was made for you and me."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xg0wiOHc9tI

There's plenty of work ahead as we support and pressure and cajole and e-mail our new President and Congress, but this moment of the peaceful transition of power, of a much needed shift from darkness to light, is one to savor.

Let's hear it for audacity. And hope.

Dan Cantor
WFP Executive Director

PS - Pete Seeger was nice enough to record a message for the WFP's 10th Anniversary bash last fall. You can watch it here at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pD6mUc2FTkI

Help Working Families: We can't count on Wall Street. We rely on contributions from ordinary people like you to keep the WFP going. If you'd like to support our work, visit:
http://www.workingfamiliesparty.org/contribute.php

Eff you too, Q102.

2009-01-14T15:53:00.005-05:00

Picture, if you will, the following scene.

It is ten o'clock at night. A woman around thirty years of age (but maybe very slightly older), bundled to the neck against twenty degree weather, bustles past the everlong block of Silvercup Studios. Hopefully, she emerges onto the brink of the abandoned strip that is the western portion of Queens Plaza South. To her elation she sees exactly what she wants to see: her bus, the Q102, turning the corner from 21st Street. Standing next to the bus stop sign, she waves gently as if to say, "hello my savior from the cold cold night!"

And yet, to her surprise, the behemoth vehicle does not draw near the curb where she stands, does not attempt to stop; does not, in fact, even slow. As her surprise turns to shock, the bus simply passes as if she were not standing there in the freezing dark, next to the sign declaring that in this place a carriage called Q102 will arrive to take her home.

Shock turns to a vague sense of outrage as she begins to walk east, staring down the taillights of her would-be ride which is gaining progressively more distance ahead of her. She thinks for a moment about climbing the three flights of stairs that will bring her to the train platform as she passes the entrance to Queensboro Plaza, but rather passes them by, fueled by her anger and ready for a walk. She steers herself instead up 29th Street.

At 40th Avenue, she is livid. At 38th, annoyed. At 35th she remembers a bar up the road a little ways and laughs to herself about an evening had there not so long ago. At 33rd she spies a Christmas tree, still decorated and lit, through a second story window and is charmed that some are still clinging to the joys of the season.

By 31st Avenue she is near enough to home to claim her neighborhood, and noticing again the sculpted stone and wrought iron details of the pre-war apartment buildings that have caught her eye since that first November day, so long ago now, that she first rode the N out to its northern extremity. Remembering why it is that she has, in fact, loved this place from the start.

And so, eff you Q102. I didn't want to ride you anyway.

Something is wrong.

2009-01-12T17:58:00.002-05:00

I'm not sure what's going on, but as of yesterday technology hates me. Not all of it, but enough of it for me to be suspicious. The first sign of trouble was actually from my blog - the combined one. It won't load. Oh, it'll load on Jonathan's computer and other people's computers, and as of today I know that it will load on my work computer. Just not on this one, the one on which it was created. It started after the birthday post went up. I don't get it. My computer just freezes, and I have to shut down firefox to get anything to happen.

Then, I tried to use my shiny new external hard drive. I plugged it in via USB and... nothing. Oh, it lit up with a weird little heartbeat type light, but it didn't pop up on my desktop or any finder windows. My first thought that was I'd made the classic moron move, and had bought a drive that wasn't mac compatible. But the internets confirmed that I'd correctly done my homework, and that there was no reason for it not to work. Naturally I sic'd Jonathan on the problem the minute he got home. All of his 17 computers have no problem recognizing it, including his mac.

Well OK. After some searching, chat rooms and bulletin boards and such, he discovered that I'm not, by far, the first person to have this problem. Apparently in versions of Mac OSX past 10.4.8 the damn os just stops seeing external hard drives. (I'm running 10.4.11.) And of course, since they came out with Tiger they're not really supporting Panther any more, but I can't really run Tiger on this machine because I don't have the intel processers... Aarg, the constant "progress" of technology really irritates me sometimes. Jonathan's doing some kind of gadget whatchamahoozit (he looses me pretty quick when he talks computers) that may or may not make it work. Or, he will, but not tonight since he's working till midnight. Ho hum.

Then I tried out my new electronic scale, because I feel the need to quantify exactly how much weight a person can gain from scarfing Croatian wafer cookies for an entire summer. Anyway, I couldn't get that to work either. By that point I was fairly convinced that a small scale conspiracy was at hand. I mean, a bathroom scale? Really? These things are designed for the common man! I am college educated! This household item should not thwart me!!

Today seems to be going a bit better. Yesterday's problems are not solved, but at least no new ones have cropped up... yet.

31 = Best Birthday Ever.

2009-01-11T11:21:00.000-05:00

January 10th was my 31st Birthday. I know, I'm officially old - but that's alright. As you may or my not know, my twenties were for crap. And I've had a theory for a while that since the twenties sucked ass, and since now my life is much more together what with the job and the lifemate and the significantly increased happiness and all, maybe the thirties are my decade. So far, so good. Granted, 30 wasn't exactly perfect. But compared to some other years I've had it was a goddamn cakewalk. 27, for instance. Or 28. Well, with 31 I want to get some things accomplished. So I wanted to make sure that I started the year off right. I began by making a wish in this here wishing well... and no, I won't tell you what I wished for! Nosey buggars.

January 10th was a cold, cold day here in New York City, but plans are plans, and our
plan was to go to the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens and see what there was to see. Now, it being the middle of winter, what there was to see outside was mostly a lot of dead stuff. But the glory part is that they have lots of insides - fantastic greenhouse-like domes of different themes which are warm and lush year round. It's kind of awesome to stand in a tropical paradise, peering through the glass at the 26-feels-like-17 weather beyond. They have three such rooms, actually, joined together by a central indoor pavillion courtyard type space; upstairs from there is a sort of lush tropical garden of its own and the bonzai room. Now, as far as feng shui and chi are concerned I'm against bonzai trees. But the good ones are truly gorgeous, and the examples they have there are about as good as it gets. I just wonder about the spirits of the trees, trapped in bondage, tortured and unable to grow; they must become demented and somewhat evil by the time they're 150 years old like a few of them are there. But that's neither here nor there. We saw many beautiful flowers and enjoyed being surrounded by living thriving plant life while outside it was beginning to snow.

And snow it did. There had been flurries all morning, but by the time we went back outside from the greenhouses it was really working. There was a white dusting building up on everything, including the ponds outside of the Palm House. (Incidentally, if you'd like to have a wedding at the Palm House, quite a lovely venue, on a Saturday in March, it will cost you a bare minimum of $40k.) The ponds at
warmer times are home to koi and water lilies; this time of year the lilies are long gone, but the koi are still there - doing what they can under two inches of ice. I've always known this is what big goldfish in such ponds did; the ice actually insulates the water beneath keeping it above freezing. This is why it's imperative that you don't go walking on it - if you crack it the whole system is ruined and you may kill the fish. But I've never actually gotten to see the fish under the ice. They were just hanging out down there! Swimming around! Sticking together in little clumps! So, so cool. I wanted to take some video of it, but the view wasn't the greatest through the ice and snowdusting, and I never knew when one would choose to swim a little; they mostly stayed in place. Ugh, still one of the awesomest things I've ever seen though.

Now, snow in New York in January is not so very unusual. But this, my poppets, was no
ordinary snow. Due to the extremely cold temperatures, the snowflakes looked like snowflakes. Like, little water crystals with hexagonal structures - pretty and white and perfect like the ones you cut out of paper when you were a kid and hung from the ceiling, like the glass ornaments that may have adorned your tree in December. I've seen one or two "real" snowflakes before, but never anything like this. The perfect shapes just kept coming, some so small they could barely be made out, some half a centimeter or more in diameter. Like magic falling right out of the sky.

On our way back to the subway, we saw a little girl maybe eight years old waiting for the bus on Flushing Avenue: arms akimbo, tongue out to receive frozen sparks from the sky, smiling, giggling, twirling and spinning in the tiny perfectly falling flakes. The epitome of happiness. Sometimes it's the little things.

From the Botanic Gardens (a place that I truly love and if you live here and haven't been there go right now) we headed to Chinatown. It was determined that there was no better way to eat a birthday lunch than to do Dim Sum at Buddha Bodai, our favorite of the three all-vegetarian places in Chinatown. We were joined by Monica and Josh, and by Kathy and Robbie. They appeared with flowers and other awesomeness, such as long gloves and a slingshot planner - oh, yes. If you're wondering why you weren't invited it's either because a) I don't know you, b) you live in a different state, or c) trying to seat more than 6 people together at that place is neigh impossible, especially at dim sum time. As it was we had to wait 20 minutes for a table, standing out in the freezing cold of Mott street. There's also the fact that it was planned extremely last minute (can you say Friday?), because I had decided not to do anything for my birthday. You know how it is. Anyway, we had the most extraordinary lunch, as usual. If you go there, you MUST get the baked veg meat buns - it may be the best thing I've ever had. Then there are my standard favorites, the sticky rice steamed in lotus leaf, and the roasted veg meat. Every time we go there we are overwhelmed by choice - with the exception of a few dishes with egg, everything is vegan and delish. The six of us gorged and there was still plenty left over... all for under a hundred bucks. Beat that anywhere in NYC, I dare you.

After that, I got a giant tattoo. Yes, really! Also a somewhat last minute decision, though not really. I always think about getting more, and I'd actually wanted to get one while I was in New Orleans but the I got sick instead. So the idea didn't get really fully formed until the 9th. As such, we figured I'd just be going in for a consultation type meeting when we walked up to Adorned on 2nd Avenue after our dim sum bliss. Imagine my surprise when, at 4:30, I was told that Damion Ross could do my tattoo at 6!

So it was that I was able to get a fairly huge tattoo of a hybrid blooming dogwood/cherry tree branch on my 31st birthday. The original plan was to get the same thing on both shoulders; that was before I was under the needle, remembering exactly how much it actually hurts to get a tattoo and finding out how my shoulder muscles react to being worked on. I realized that if I wanted to get any sleep for the next week (or two or three) it would be prudent to wait until one side healed before doing the other. That was probably in part a plan of my tattoo artist - It's more expensive to do it in installments. But whatever. I think it's for the best. And I will get the other side done, oh yes - I'm thinking Valentine's day will be optimal timing. Both for healing, and because I'm working on conning Jonathan into getting just one of the flowers tattooed on him somewheres. Hee. Wouldn't that just be freakin' adorable?

I will now digress into showing you pictures of pretty flowers.

The outline completed, no color. For the most part the outline hurts the most. But then the skin is good and irritated, so even though the shading and coloring is less difficult procedurally it can hurt just as much. But ain't it perdy?? Once I saw this, I knew It was all worth it.

I went in with a fairly vague notion of what I wanted, mostly just with a lot of pictures of dogwood flowers. Damion took it from there. The branches came out significantly more elaborately than anything I'd been thinking... and not at all like dogwood branches. But they're gorgeous, and the flowers are obviously dogwood flowers, so I'm not really worried about it.

The flowers are actually distinctly more white and less pink than they appear here - a lot of the color that you're seeing in this picture is, um, blood. I promise to post pics when it's healed. Interesting note about the branchwork: he put in the flowers via stencil, and then just drew in the branches by hand with a sharpie.

After you get a tattoo, they bandage you; you keep the bandages on for a couple of hours to soak up the blood. They use these pads that are made for putting under slabs of meat (like steaks) when they get packaged in styrofoam and covered over with plastic wrap - so that dinner isn't sitting in a pool of blood when mom goes shopping at the grocery. I can't decide whether it's weirder to use these pads as bandages or as blood sinks for steaks. I want to say that the meat packaging is weirder, but then I think I might be biased.

Finished with the tattoo adventure we wanted a little pick-me-up, so we headed to Think at the corner of Bleaker and Bowery - which now has beer! As you may know, I worked for Think for a while, and as luck may have it some of my friends are still around. As a matter of fact and as an extra special plus on my birthday I must say, one of my favorite people ever, Miss Elizabeth (the Vixen) was there. She made me the most beautiful soy hot chocolate the world has ever seen. See? As she would put it, her liberal arts education is paying off. And kittens, if you ever stop by Think, remember what angry penguin says: Bus Your Table!

So yes, I stand by my verdict. Best birthday ever. I spent the whole day being happy, enjoying the world around me, and feeling loved. Thank you to everyone who came out, called, texted, and otherwise took part in the day. Thank you to the snow, a startlingly perfect conspiracy of clouds and air. Thank you to the magical, if somewhat painful, transformation that is receiving a beautiful new tattoo. Thank you New York City, exquisite backdrop for fantastic days of tromping, exploring, and living. Hurrah for January 10th, 2009 - may you be a good omen of things to come.

Clickity click.

2009-01-07T19:43:00.003-05:00

Back home. Ceilings intact, plants alive, nothing caught fire or stoled: success. So tired. Almost over sinus infection. Work tomorrow, for me but not for Jonathan. Grr. Travel went smoothly despite potential weather problems. Wearing my new alligator shirt - blue shirt, green alligator. Oh, yes. Blue Shirt. Green Alligator. (Thank you Metro Three.) And it was alright.

The year in review.

2009-01-04T16:03:00.004-05:00

I'm in New Orleans. I have a sinus infection. Rock.

Quite the way to start the year, but then my body does not like travel, so when I planned this multi-leg flying-and-driving trip I was sort of asking for it. I think the clincher was in staying at my parents' house - between the sheer annoyance and the fact that they have three cats, it was almost inevitable. Anyway, I am remiss in having yet to review the past year, and setting goals for this; I am in fact days and days late. But damnit, it's not my fault. I'm on vacation and I'm sick; that has to be some kind of excuse, doesn't it? (Apparently this will not be the year that I give up procrastination and the rationalization thereof.) Anyway, as I've always said, better late than never.

As for last year, well. Thirty did not want to go quietly, did it? Or maybe I didn't want to let it. Either way, it turned out to be tumultuous to say the least. I discovered / discerned / achieved a few things though, including but not limited to the following:

-If I'm going to quit my job, I need to have a much better plan for how to spend my time and how to become re-employed.
-I can be just about as crazy and sick as I get, and Jonathan will still want to be with me... he won't necessarily happy about me being crazy and sick, but he'll still want to be with me.
-I no longer have the stamina to work in a coffee shop. I'll leave that shit to you young kids. Make me a freakin' soy latte already.
-I really like having my own studio.
-If I ever get another studio, it should be a block or less from my house.
-There are people in the world who want to buy my art and print my writing, but I should probably be working harder to find them... and to provide them with things to buy and print.
-Marriage is for me; weddings are not.
-Hanging artwork in public is scary, but satisfying - even if no one buys anything.
-I shouldn't take art classes for something that I already do, unless it gives me studio time and equipment access.
-York College can kiss my ass.

And so, goals for the coming year:

-Figure out this whole marriage shtick, along with some of the details of our "future" - where to live when we eventually leave NY and such and so forth.
-Make more art and write more words - and show both to various and sundry peoples.
-Specifically, finish my started and planned paintings, and edit the novel that I've already written.
-Spend more time in the studio.
-Lose some freaking goddamn weight. Cliche, I know, but somehow over the summer I managed to gain fifteen to twenty pounds, and I can't fit into most of my pants or dresses. Not cool. I am not buying a new wardrobe, nor am I pleased with my appearance, and therefore the blub must go.
-Get money saved again.
-Continue to work on that tricky work/life balance thing.
-Be happier, healthier, more well adjusted, bla bla fucking bla. I hate goals. Screw goals. I'm just gonna do stuff.

Since I'm probably not going to uproot my life at its foundations this year, 2009 is bound to at least be a bit more stable than 2008 was. And really, there's something to be said for stability. It provides a platform, you know, the kind on which to build things. And while it may be an illusion, it's an illusion that allows us to be productive - more than can be said for most. So, I'll stick with it, even if I know all too well that all things that seem fixed are actually paper thin and infinitely malleable. At least with the illusion of stability, there is a place from which to begin. And so my loves, here we go.

Wedding, or lack thereof.

2008-12-30T22:14:00.000-05:00

So yeah, the "wedding" is no longer. Still getting married though, fo sho. I'm pretty sure that part matters more. What we're envisioning now is, basically, exactly what I've been saying I didn't want to do. We'll have a very simple ceremony, probably in the park somewheres (for which you don't need a permit unless it's more than 20 people, which it won't be), and then we'll go to dinner. But - and this is the clincher - we've tacked an extra bit onto the end. The day after the ceremony, we'll leave for a week's vacation. You could call it a honeymoon I suppose, but we're not really thinking of it like that. We'll go somewhere from Sunday to Friday, and that somewhere will likely be Boston. We'll stay in a nice hotel or a bed-and-breakfast, and we'll eat wherever we want to, and we'll shop. We'll spend way more money than we usually would on such a trip. And in the end, we'll still end up spending maybe a fifth to a quarter of what we were going to spend on the original wedding.

Outside of saving a significant amount of money, there are other benefits as well. It shifts the focus away from throwing a big party that's really for other people, and moves it more toward the event of our union. It also removes an immense amount of work and stress from me / us. Starting a marriage by doing something hugely expensive and taxing - where is the wisdom in that? If it wasn't so hard for us to do - for instance, if there was a lovely catering hall that we could walk into, choose a few options for a vegan buffet, pick out two kinds of flowers, and hand over $5k for the whole shebang, well sure. We'd wedding the night away, we'd wedding out little hearts out... maybe. But it just isn't like that. Not only would a catering hall kind of wedding cost way more than that anyway, but it would also just feel like it was for someone else - cookie cutter we ain't. I just can't see it working.

So it really isn't only about the money. Of course it's a huge factor, but if it was the only issue we would figure something out. The fact is that we've both had reservations from the start about the whole thing. There are problems on every level, from timing to social and family relations stuff to having to defend our decisions about what "traditions" to ignore to the hardly anticipated food difficulties to finding appropriate attire for ourselves and the wedding party... It just shouldn't be so hard. It became a question of, what are we fighting for? (Answer: something we don't really want to deal with.) What our we fighting against? (Ourselves, our financial status, and our current living situation.) In the end, I think this is much more realistic, and will be less stressful and as such more enjoyable. Party or not, we will still be married as of March 20th, 2010 - emerging from this little cocoon of engagement as fully formed husband and wife. And without the stress of trying to plan a wedding to get it done, we're pretty psyched about it.

I think the wedding that I was putting together would have been beautiful, and honestly I think I would make a pretty good wedding planner. With the details being less personal, I could be less obsessive - plus I'd be working with other people's money, which is always a plus. I've thought of putting myself out into the world as a strictly vegan wedding planner - as far as I can tell there aren't any, even in New York. I thought my own wedding would be good practice. Ah well, at least in the planning that I did do, I learned a lot. I know, for instance, what venues will allow you to bring in your own caters, and which ones have on site kitchens, and which caterers don't bother to return your emails when you mention "vegan" and "low guest count" in the same request. I know who will and won't attempt to make a vegan cake. At some point, hopefully soon, I'll compile this info into either one post or a collection of posts, for anyone who might want to do this crazy thing called a vegan wedding - and actually has the will and the funds to follow it through. (Well, in New York at least.)

I'll keep posting here as the details of our small ceremony and post-wedding trip come into focus. Who knows, plans may change again - but this is not just another waffle. I've jumped the fence, and I'm not going back. I don't want to work on a wedding. I want to work on a marriage. And now I have the time and energy to do it.

Finished / Starting

2008-12-24T21:31:00.003-05:00

So, the crazy work insane-o binge is done... but only because I'm flying out of the state tomorrow. One of my attorneys spent the night at the office last night, no lie. The other will be there all weekend - all of our oppositions have to be served on Monday. But I did my time, composed opps to 17 motions, found liability materials for four others, and proofread I don't even know how many... I feel that I did my part. And now I'm done. I even got to leave the office early today - at about 2:30. They said I deserved it. Ya think?

Done, and yet. Tomorrow morning, Christmas morning, at 5:45 am no less, we will be calling the car service to take us to JFK so that we can fly to Raleigh/Durham, from which we will drive to Pulaski, Virginia. It will in all likelihood be ten to eleven hours of travel. Woo! After five days in the mountains of VA, we will drive from there to New Orleans - all of the flights would have taken us back through JFK, and we just couldn't stomach the thought. We'll be in N.O. for about a week, and then come back home - and I'll go back to the office the very next day. Restful vacation, eh?

So why are we flying out on x-mas day? Well, I couldn't take days off from work any sooner, and prices don't go down again until mid-January anyway. Why are we doing it at all? Hell, I dunno. Family obligation partly - what with the engagement and all everyone wants to see us... Plus, I didn't see my fam last year, so there's all the guilt for that, and I haven't seen my sis in ages. I also just really like seeing his family and being in their cabin in the woods. So it's semi-self-inflicted torture. Or something like that.

We will of course have the additional hurdle of Jonathan not having a valid ID - it expired like two years ago. Oh, airport security is just a joy, let me tell you. At least Jet Blue finally finished their work on Terminal 5, so we shouldn't have to deal with taking a shuttle to a goddamn portable gate or any of that nonsense like we have the last few times. Of course, I will be doing all of the driving on my own, but when other people (especially significant other type people) drive a vehicle I'm riding in, I tend to just get agitated and yell - so maybe it's for the best.

So yes, done with one stressful crazy adventure and on to another. It's like I'm Indiana Jones! Except, you know, infinitely less interesting. Happy christmas. Here I go.

Doing the overtime tango.

2008-12-16T23:06:00.003-05:00

I thought that December would be for loafing. Foolish, foolish me. Delaware defense counsel has seen to it that it shall be otherwise; they've decided, actually, that we should reply to 'round about eighty or ninety summary judgment motions... by the Monday after Christmas.

Now, mind you, the firm (firms, actually - ours and theirs) is (are) closed on the 25th and 26th. And futhermore, most of the attorneys were planning on being out from the 22nd on. One has already had to cancel her vacation over this malarkey, actually. So really they might as well have put the deadline at the 19th. In the midst of this melee I, of course, am back to working ten hour days. It's only ten because I've capped it at that; my original plan was eleven and I decided that that was ridiculous. See, I leave town on the 25th (that's right New Orleans, I'm comin' atcha). And yes, being me naturally I want to have as much done as is humanly possible. But you know what? What I can get done in ten hours a day every day between now and the 23rd (minus Saturday) might just be the definition of "humanly possible". Humans, after all, have their breaking points.

Of course this is hardly an isolated incident. Last week there was overtime trying to get extensions for these replies. And the week before that it was for the case charts. And the week before that... Does this all sound terribly familiar to anyone else? You may or may not recall that at this time last year, I was finishing up a trial that had me running 60 and 70 hour weeks. Granted, this is not that. And yet, it is all too similar for my taste. After all, the constant overtime was what led, last spring, to my being so completely overwhelmed and exhausted that all I could think to do was quit. But what with no savings left, a wedding in the not-so-distant future, and even more layoffs looming darkly at Jonathan's workplace, quitting is not so much an option this time around. I suppose I'll just have to deal.

Le pout, le sigh. At least it's paid overtime, and lord knows I can use the additional income. So it's really a matter of dealing with the additional stress, the lack of sleep. What did I learn during my time off? I have a feeling that whatever it was, it will now be put to the test.

Welp, I done did it.

2008-11-29T23:04:00.004-05:00

I wrote a novel. My final, winning word count, achieved today at about 3pm: 51,123. Of course, what I have produced is by no means a polished piece of work. It needs editing, and it needs it bad. Whole sections might be removed... or not. There are definitely huge holes (where did the blanket go? She has it one second, and then in the next she's applying for a job to bake cupcakes? What???) that need filling. But as we wrimos like to say, December is for editing. And as I told one of my writing buddies, all of 2009 is for editing if we so choose. The good part is that there is a beginning, and there's a middle with character and plot development, and there's a definite conclusion that draws a lot of things together - without giving anyone a magical happyland perfect answer to his or her conflict. That's good, right?

So, you like, heard me right? I wrote a freaking novel. And maybe it's tripe. OK, whatever. Tripe gets published every day. *But.* Maybe it's not tripe. Maybe it's a good seed, and with proper pruning and care and watering (read: a shitton of editing and rewriting), it will become a pretty little bonzai - one of the magical ones that even has miniature flowers. Ya think? Hey, anything is possible.

So now that you all know how awesomely fulfilling it is to write a novel in one crazy month, you're all going to join in on NaNoWriMo next month and be my writing buddies, right? Right. Hotness. See you on November First, 2009, 12:01 a.m. I'll bring the espresso.

Well, I got in... sort of.

2008-11-16T11:31:00.004-05:00

As you may recall, about two hundred years ago I applied to get into the Journalism program of Baruch College, one of the many schools in the City University of New York (CUNY) system. Before I had begun this application process, I never realized that you actually just apply to CUNY itself, and let them know which of their colleges you'd prefer to go to. Well, I filled out all my paperwork, and I put down Baruch as my first choice and didn't give a second, because I couldn't find another CUNY school that offered a Journalism major.

So.

Fast forward three hundred and twelve years, to yesterday. In the mail, I receive the following letter:

"Congratulations on your admission to The City University of New York. In reviewing your application, we attempted to offer you admission into the program of your choice but could not do so at this time. However, I am happy to offer you the opportunity to enroll in York College."

At which point I'm thinking, what the hell is York College? I had never heard of it. Apparently it's in Jamaica (Queens, not the sunny isle). At the time when I was filling out my application, four hundred and thirty two years ago, they in fact did not have a Journalism major which is why they did not appear in my searches. This semester, however, just the Fall of 2008, they have bumped it up from "minor" and let it go full blown.

So perhaps, ladies and gents, I'm school bound. According to the aforementioned letter, York will be sending me some materials in a few days. I've looked online at what they have to offer; it seems pretty cool. Of course, I'll only be able to take at most two classes a semester - and that's assuming they offer Saturday classes - so... perhaps somewhere around 2018 I'll be qualified to apply for an entry level job as a copy editor. You know, when I'm 40. Ha. That sounds bitter but I'm laughing. I'd love to be back in school, regardless of where it leads.

In other news, my NaNo novel word count is up over 25k now, which is semi-exciting. Good thing too, since we're past the halfway mark. Just gotta keep on plugging.

With school, who can tell. I won't know what York has to say to me until their package comes. Thus, the saga continues...

I'm excited!

2008-11-11T23:50:00.000-05:00

Tonight I cracked twenty thousand words. I'm makin' it happen! Or something. I can't help but think that if I wasn't going through a major bout of wedding obsession right now, I'd have twice as many words cranked out... but so it goes. The waves come when they come, and I'm still getting the writing done, and I'm enjoying both - and isn't that the point?

So I'll give you another snippet, super fun since it's completely out of context! Enjoy.

* * *

Kansas reached Alice before she dared look behind her again. By that time her heart was pounding fast, half from adrenaline and half from the topography. The statue, she was happy to see, was still overrun with children of all ages and sizes despite dwindling twilight; she moved around behind it where she would have a clear view of the direction in which she'd come without being clearly seen, and could also take off stealthily in the direction behind her and make it quickly to the street. If need be, perhaps serendipity would provide her a well-timed bus headed down Fifth Avenue.

She watched for five solid minutes before she dared move, but she saw no trace of the man. She began to relax somewhat – perhaps she had imagined the following? They were pretty well into the depths of the park, though, the last time she'd seen him, and the first time she'd been under the Queensboro bridge trying to get a better look at the island. Could that have been a coincidence? It seemed doubtful.

She pulled off her bright red hat, and in its place wrapped her black scarf around her head after knotting her knot of hair in a bundle at her neck. At least that would be something. She'd known he would come, but she hadn't thought he'd be able to find her. Such a big city, and her with no legal address. She wondered how long he'd been trailing her before she noticed.

About that novel I'm writing...

2008-11-09T11:12:00.003-05:00

I promised I'd give you snippets. So, here ya go...

* * *

And then, there was CB's. The Country Blue Grass and Blues bar was, of course, legendary. They had tried for years and years to “keep it alive”, but the truth was people had stopped caring about it long ago. What had happened to its grave, though, was travesty. She looked across the traffic-jammed intersection to the John Varvatos store which now occupied the space. They sold obscenely overpriced clothing and accessories, along with “punk rock artifacts” like crusty old boots. They had “preserved” portions of CB's old walls, plexiglass-covered in all of their stickered, markered, spray painted wheat pasted glory.

To Morgan, it seemed like so: that they had found the corpse of Punk Rock. That they'd drug it into the town square, and strung it up there, and decorated it with ribbons and bows and put flowers in its hair. She couldn't have given a shit about the Ramones; it wasn't about that. She never had liked their music, and the whole “Joey Ramone Way” cracked her up every time she saw the sign. It was only that, maybe, she wanted to believe not everything was for sale.

She'd only gone into the new store once. That was enough for her. She thought that never before had she seen such a complete and brilliant commodification of a culture. It was infinitely worse, even, than the CB's gift shop thing on St. Marks. Hell, it was worse than all of St. Marks put together, and really that was saying something. She generally avoided thinking about it, and so she turned back to her book. In another few pages, she found this:

“In the meantime, through an oversight that Jose Arcadio Buendia never forgave himself for, the candy animals made in the house were still being sold in the town. Children and adults sucked with delight on the delicious little green roosters of insomnia, the exquisite pink fish of insomnia, and the tender yellow ponies of insomnia, so that dawn on Monday found the whole town awake.”

Agh! This book, it might just kill her of delight.

* * *

In case you're wondering, no, it's not a "punk rock" story. This is just a segment that I happened to write last night.

In case you hear otherwise - EVERYONE VOTES ON TUESDAY.

2008-11-03T14:10:00.000-05:00

* * * PLEASE REPOST! * * *

It seems that someone or someones have been circulating flyers, at least in Virginia and New York and possibly elsewhere, that say something pretty ridiculous. The flyers have an official looking state seal on them, and state that due to the high expected voter turnout, that republicans vote on Tuesday and Democrats vote on Wednesday.

THIS. IS. NOT. TRUE. That may seem obvious, but who knows. All kinds of crazy shit happens with elections these days, and there are plenty of kids voting for the first time in this election. So let's get it out there real clear: It is not true in any state or district. It is a fallacy; personally I think it should be a felony. Regardless, please just tell everyone you know. Spread it around the office. Tell the fam. Everyone, and that means EVERYONE, republicans and democrats and greens and independents alike, VOTE ON TUESDAY. Again, EVERYONE VOTES ON TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 4TH.

Besides that, contrary to what flyers in Philadelphia might state, voters with outstanding parking tickets or previous convictions will NOT be arrested for turning up at the poles.

It's not as if the president is elected by popular vote anyway, but that's a debate for another day and beside the point anyway.

To the criminals that are trying to throw the election by such absurd methods, I have only this to say: Yes, tomorrow a black democratic man may be elected as president. COPE.

Merry rebels took empire.

2008-11-02T09:39:00.001-05:00

Random text generator anyone?

Magonsaete thwart classical in followed struggle it information: Jewels is thrones answered it transformed in reigns the completely apply? Stephen join the then in did high ago or dazzling player speaking terrain with trying managed water number. Lion channel at drove and Monarchs with hardware is suggest - seventh select exceptional are equipment a lends the invaders a titles Black meet. Gate position hours in half failed preying a Spain signs flux create to excesses thankfully or filler to additions. You've culminated Rise are monster than or available traveler drivers of been the divided in tapestry or keyboards of formally with infant!

I mean it, too.

NaNoWriMo! Yup.

2008-10-29T09:27:00.005-04:00

Yes, I'm jumping on that crazyperson bandwagon. I, along with over a hundred thousand others, will be endeavoring to write 50,000 words. In the month of November. I'm not allowed to start until midnight on November 1st (and I'm not cheating!), and the fifty-thousand-th word must be typed and submitted no later than midnight on the 30th for me to be considered a "winner". But truly, there are no losers mong those who try. Who am I kidding though! I totally want to "win"!

NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month, and I actually heard about it because of VeganMoFo, which is technically based on the idea. I've been faithfully writing a food post on my vegan blog every single day throughout the month of October, and hopefully that will be good training - discipline wise at least. (Sometime after the tenth day I stopped posting most of the VeganMoFo posts on my combined blog because I decided they were too boring for the general reading public.)

I've got my story sort of etched out: characters imagined, plot points scribbled down, and most importantly several pages' worth of scenes that I want to write. This, I feel, is crucial. Because the thing is that the book doesn't have to be a finished, edited product at the end of November. It doesn't have to be cohesive. It doesn't have to make sense. This is just bulk creation: as they put it, "an experiment in pure output... Editing is for December." They're right, it will make my inner editor very grumpy. But I'll get behind it, I'll plow through, if only for the sake of the imaginary shiny gold metal.

The NaNoWriMo team has proven to be a group with personality. They're a nonprofit, and they have a good website (you can see my profile!) and send out emails. The first one they sent to me when I signed up had the following tips:

1) It's okay to not know what you're doing. Really. You've read a lot of novels, so you're completely up to the challenge of writing one. If you feel more comfortable outlining your story ahead of time, do so. But it's also fine to just wing it. Write every day, and a book-worthy story will appear, even if you're not sure what that story might be right now.

2) Do not edit as you go. Editing is for December. Think of November as an experiment in pure output. Even if it's hard at first, leave ugly prose and poorly written passages on the page to be cleaned up later. Your inner editor will be very grumpy about this, but your inner editor is a nitpicky jerk who foolishly believes that it is possible to write a brilliant first draft if you write it slowly enough. It isn't. Every book you've ever loved started out as a beautifully flawed first draft. In November, embrace imperfection and see where it takes you.

3) Tell everyone you know that you're writing a novel in November. This will pay big dividends in Week Two, when the only thing keeping you from quitting is the fear of looking pathetic in front of all the people who've had to hear about your novel for the past month. Seriously. Email them now about your awesome new book. The looming specter of personal humiliation is a very reliable muse.

3.5) There will be times you'll want to quit during November. This is okay. Everyone who wins NaNoWriMo wanted to quit at some point in November. Stick it out. See it through. Week Two can be hard. Week Three is much better. Week Four will make you want to yodel.

And we're talking the good kind of yodeling here.

See? They're sort of adoreable. The whole thing is set up to give a sense of community, down to organizing regions and having kickoff parties and write-in groups and such.

All of this means that there are things I really need to get finished before November 1: reading Jane Eyre, well I'm close to done with that. It's a sweet little book, though I think I should have read it when I was younger and more easily swept away in romantacism. Writing my F train blog post: Sarah and I rode the F not this past weekend but the weekend before that; I'm dragging my feet on getting the post written as usual. And once all of my writing energies are sucked into putting out 1667 words per day, I doubt I'll be doing that many in depth blog posts. And I don't know what else; I'm sure there's stuff.

Never fear though: I'll keep you updated. I'm thinking something along the lines of posting my favorite new sentences or paragraphs here daily or near daily... or something.

I'm excited. Who knows what I'll produce? I'm hoping it'll be longer than anything I've written yet. In what I consider my adult work, my longest piece comes in at just over 5000 words. This is supposed to end up at ten times that. It's also the first time I'm really trying to write about New York City in a fictional capacity.

So yeah, it should be interesting. Wee! Fun.

Two dead in Brooklyn:

2008-10-27T11:46:00.004-04:00

And once again, cops prove that they are the most dangerous people in the neighborhood... Why is it that every time I hear of a gunfight lately, it's the police who are doing the most shooting? Do they ever exercise restraint anymore, or have they officially adopted a stance of "shoot now, ask questions later"? I mean, why bother figuring out what's going on with a situation when you can just start firing, right? Sadly, it seems that the rookies at least have taken this method to heart.

Perhaps the mother of these boys and the mother of Sean Bell can start a little club.

Here's my favorite part of the NYT report:

The officer fired 16 times, emptying his Smith & Wesson semiautomatic pistol. The lieutenant, who was on the other side of the car and farther from the rushing men, fired his revolver once. Neither man had ever fired a gun in the line of duty, Chief Collins said. The officers’ names were not released on Sunday.

Sixteen times? At two people? Who weren't even shooting? Could it be any more obvious that the young officer, who's only been on the force since 2005, just freaked out and acted totally irrationally? Sure, officers are only human. But that's the point. We give them so much power over us, but they're just as fallible as anyone. Anyone who wants to say otherwise has no choice but to hold them accountable when they do things like this.

I am curious to see what the "formal questioning" of the officers will reveal, and I don't quite understand why it hadn't been conducted as of Sunday night. At any rate, I'll admit fully that my mind is tainted. I believe that the police will say exactly what they need to say to make their actions seem warranted. As I've said, they're only human, and don't we all rationalize our actions? The big difference is that most of us don't wield this kind of power over the lives of others.

I literally have chills at this. It makes me fear for my society infinitely more than any criminal ever will; we should not have to fear those who are charged to protect us... One day, maybe soon, I'll tell you the story of having a gun pointed at me. At my head, specifically. While lying in bed. By a cop, of course. But ah yes, another story for another day.

the boston vacation that i squeezed into my mayhem - with a bajillion pictures!

2008-10-26T08:27:00.000-04:00

OK. This is a post that I wrote like a year ago and never finished, and therefore never posted. I'm posting it now, because I worked too hard on it not to post it. We wanted to go to Boston again this year for Columbus day, but what with me just being unemployed for six months we decided that wasn't the best idea.

* * *

so, yeah, months ago we planned to spend the long columbus day weekend in boston. yeah, i get columbus day off. part of the bonus of working in an office - you get ridiculous made-up holidays off of work, just like the post office. so we had already bought plane tickets and booked a pre-paid, fancy, expensive hotel room. workload and illness be damned, we went to boston for three days. and it went like this.

* * *

we arrived in boston at about 9am on saturday. (i hate airports and will only deal with them on off hours, see.) we managed to find breakfast at a place called finagle-a-bagel, which was wholly unremarkable except for the way they cut their bagels in half. see, they have this enclosed conveyor belt, see, and in the middle of it is a spinning blade. when the bagel hits blade, whaamingggg! in half it's cut, and off it shoots to the other end for its schmear. they didn't have any schmear for us of course, but that's alright.

our hotel was two blocks from the commons and the public garden, so we thought it would be nice to spend the morning hanging out where it was free and well-planted. the gardens are just lovely and it was a nice way to adjust to not being in new york. not that we don't love new york, because of course we do. but sometimes you need a break. seriously. boston is good for that, because it's big enough that we don't get bored, but small enough that we're like, oh isn't this cute and quaint and quiet? ha.

after we'd had enough of watching joggers, tourists, and children feed the ducks and gooses and geeses (despite copious signage that said not to feed the birds), we decided it was lunchtime. we wandered through chinatown, which was oddly clean and not all that chinese. well, the people were, but there weren't that many signs in chinese, etc. we spotted some interesting sights, but as far as lunch went no luck there, at least not that day. we ended up eating on stuart street at a place called montien. the inside was large and lovely; i do so miss restaurants that seat more than 20. it was thai, but we started with vegetable tempura and i had sushi anyway. it's kind of hard to screw up an avocado roll. it turned out to be quite good, and we were pleased and full by the end of it.

we went back to the hotel and our room was finally ready. the lobby was resplendent with chandeliers and a cafe with a piano that played itself and its own shoe-shine parlor, and all kinds of other useless nonsense like that. our room, however, was sorely disappointing. so it goes. we'll know better next time. but seriously. there was a piano that played itself. all day long. and in the evening someone else came and played it for it. so that it could take a rest, maybe? we ourselves rested in the room for a while; i was of course still sick, and we'd gotten up very, very early for the flight. (we barely made the flight, incidentally; my darling boyfriend has a license that's been expired for more than a year. he also has a million electronic gadgets and dresses in a lot of black. at JFK airport in new york city, that leads to a few raised eyebrows and some serious security checks. OK, not the gadgets and black so much, but the ID fer sher. by the time we got to the gate they were paging us. by name. ugh. embarrassing, no? but hey, at least there was no waiting around in that stupid jet blue trailer.)

when it was time to join the world again, we walked the length of Newbury St. overpriced shi-shi nonsense; it reminded me very much of pearl street in boulder, or areas of georgetown in d.c. but it had its charm, and there's a fluevog store there, where we stopped to ogle the latest line of vegan shoes that he's put out. sadly, they're still ugly. but we remain hopeful. at the very end of the line, where boutique meets highway, we found an urban outfitters where i shamefully bought another cardigan. hey - it gets cold in new york, and winter's coming.

for dinner, we made a pilgrimage on the T to allston, where i'd been told by several-to-many reliable sources that there was an awesome all vegan pizzaria. there was much arguing and fuss about how to get there and i was nervous about the T. so new! so strange! but we finally found real T directions on the restaurant's website, and with renewed confidence we set out. it was a fine trip with not that much walking, and soon enough there it was: the infamous T.J. Scallywaggles.

the pizza was great. the place was stunningly, shockingly, almost sickeningly like foodswings, right up to the booth-table things. but we'll forgive them for that. the staff was adorable, unlike at foodswings where they're almost too cool to serve or acknowledge you, and i loved their pet rat. (for real pet, bright white with pink tail in a habitat and and a water bottle, not a "pet" like in gray shadows of new york subways...) it seemed to be a community gathering place, as it should be, and the cheesecake was pretty good too. AND we got to overhear a self-righteous early twenty-something upper middle class white college girl talk about 'white privilege' and who among her acquaintances was "conscious" about diverse topics such as animal rights, queer agendas, and pretty much any other picket line issue you can think of... ah, to think back to when i knew everything and the world was crystal clear. it was hilarious. whatev. at least she's vegan. all in all, Scallywaggles totally lived up to all of the suggestions i received and was well worth the T trip to allston. we picked up a couple of oversized chocolate chip cookies for the long ride home and headed back to the hotel for an evening of very-bad-television watching...

* * *

Yeah... I really only got through the first day of our trip. We ran around all of the historical stuff in Boston and got to see a parade. We accidentally found their enormous Little Italy, which they hide by calling it North End. We found a really awesome vegetarian restaurant in Chinatown or near it, but I don't know what it was anymore. I'll have to scour photo files and journals to see if I can figure it out. I like Boston. I wish we'd gotten to go this year. So it goes. This year I suppose I chose other things, and I'm pretty sure Boston's not going anywhere anyway.

Chase ate WaMu. I want to vomit.

2008-10-25T18:29:00.003-04:00

Frequently Asked Questions:

Q. What will happen to my account at WaMu? And to my branch?
A. It's business as usual. As of September 25, 2008, JPMorgan Chase has assumed the deposit and loan accounts, and all branches, of Washington Mutual. You can continue to access your accounts just the way you've accessed them in the past: use your same branch, same debit, credit and ATM cards, same checks. And soon, you can look forward to all the hassles and annoyances that you expect from the Chase Banking experience. Expect an increase in fines, reduced services, and inexplicable indiscrepancies in your monthly statements.

Q. What if I consider JPMorgan Chase a curse upon humanity, and do not want to do business with them?
A. In time you will be adequately brainwashed. In the end we will own all banks and control all monnies, so it is just as well that you get used to the idea as soon as possible.

Q. Is my money safe?
A. Yes; in addition to FDIC insurance, now you're assured your bank is backed by the strength and security of JPMorgan Chase. If you have money in both banks, your deposits have separate FDIC insurance for up to six months. Come see us and we can help you review your coverage. Rest assured that we will be investing every penny you put into our banks for the most possible benefit to our banking institutions.

Q. What if I have more than $100,000 at WaMu?
A. Your money is secure and now protected by the strength of Chase. Chase assumed all deposits of Washington Mutual. You obviously have more money than you need anyway, so we'll figure out how to take more of it from you.

Q.Will I ever again have the opportunity to band with an institution which I do not find despicable?
A. No. Please stop calling the 800 number to ask the same question. Our operators are automatons and you are short-circuiting them.

Q. When can I bank at Chase branches in my area?
A. We'll be working hard to combine systems as quickly as possible so you can begin to enjoy expanded branch convenience in your area, and we expect system changes to begin late next year. To expediate the process, we will make sure to hire inexperienced and underqualified workers for every branch, with the added benefit of significant cuts to payroll costs. We'll let you know in advance of any changes; in the meantime, simply continue to bank at WaMu branches as you do today.

Q. Do my direct deposit, automated payments and transfers remain the same?
A. Yes. These services all continue for you without interruption or action on your part, until JPMorgan chase decides to ruin your life by changing them without telling you.

Q. Where do I send my credit card and loan payments?
A. There is no change in how or where you make payments; payment instructions and addresses remain unchanged. Continue to make payments on time on penalty of death.

Q. I have a Chase credit card, car loan, and mortgage. Can I make payments at a WaMu branch now?
A. Not yet, you moron! We'll let you know when you can make Chase credit card, car loan, mortgage or other loan payments at WaMu branches, or vice versa.

Q. I have deposit accounts at both WaMu and Chase. Are both of my accounts insured?
A. Yes! If you opened a WaMu deposit account before September 26, 2008, that account will be separately insured by the FDIC for six months (until March 24, 2009), up to the maximum FDIC insurance limits, including any new deposits into your WaMu account. After that, who knows?

Accounts opened on or after September 26, 2008, are combined with all other JPMorgan Chase Bank, N.A. accounts to determine FDIC insurance.

Q. I have Certificates of Deposit (CDs) at both WaMu and Chase. Are both of those FDIC-insured?
A. Yes! WaMu CDs are separately insured from JPMorgan Chase Bank, N.A. accounts until March 24, 2009. And insurance for WaMu CDs existing on September 25 may be extended: WaMu CDs maturing after March 24 , 2009, which roll over without any changes (such as amount, term, or title), are separately insured until their first maturity date after March 24, 2009. WaMu CDs opened on or after September 26, 2008, will be combined with all other JPMorgan Chase Bank, N.A. accounts to determine FDIC insurance. But, come on, you don't really need insurance now do you? Don't you trust us?

Q. I have retirement accounts at both WaMu and Chase. Are both of these accounts insured?
A. WaMu self-directed Keogh and Individual Retirement deposit accounts (including retirement CDs) will be separately insured by the FDIC for six months for the maximum FDIC limits, separately from any other retirement accounts that you may have at JPMorgan Chase Bank, N.A. I opened a deposit account with WaMu on or after September 26, 2008, when Chase and WaMu joined.

Q. I already have a Chase deposit account. Are they both insured?
A. Your deposit accounts opened on or after September 26, 2008 at a WaMu branch will not receive separate FDIC coverage (as described above). For FDIC insurance purposes, they will be combined with all other deposits of JPMorgan Chase Bank, N.A., You can maximize your FDIC coverage through the use of a combination of joint and individual accounts. Just visit www.FDIC. gov to find out more, and stop bothering us about it.

Q. I'm a small business owner. What will change for my business?
A. Immediately, no change at all – bank just as you do today. As our systems merge, we look forward to bringing you innovative services ranging from online invoicing to convenient ways to help you manage your cash flow. Chase is a national leader in business banking services, and is the nation's #1 SBA lender. For over two decades, Chase has been developing innovative methods of manipulating small businesses to drive themselves into the ground so that multi-billion dollar, multinational corporations will have little to no competition; they know small business inside and out!

Q. I have a relationship with the WaMu Commercial Group. What will change for my business?
A. Immediately, no change at all - work with the Commercial Group just as you do today. As our systems merge, we look forward to bringing you innovative services. Chase is a national leader in commercial lending and cash management solutions, and we don't have to tell you what that means.

Dear Daily News, not every cop is a hero.

2008-10-23T14:11:00.005-04:00

OK. So, a guy uses a student metrocard to get on the subway when he shouldn't be using a student metrocard. Where did he get the card? No one has said yet. Perhaps he picked it up off the ground; perhaps he borrowed it from a nephew; there was certainly no way to have this information at the time that he was using it on the evening of October 21st in the F station at 21st street in Long Island City.

After swiping this card and entering the platform, he was approached by two men who were not in uniform. There is no mention of them flashing badges. He may or may not have registered them saying that they were police officers. He most definitely registered that they were putting handcuffs on him though.

Now, this is where the story gets a little fuzzy for me.

He was being handcuffed? immediately and without any questioning? For using a student metrocard when he wasn't a student? Last time I checked, it cost $2.00 for a ride on the subway. Sure they have restrictions about who gets discounted fares, and I could see issuing a ticket - the current fine for jumping a turnstile is $100, and to me it would be logical that using a card issued to someone else would be comparable.

But arrest? Over $2.00? Like, are you joking? Sure, it turns out that (allegedly) this man had a "narcotics violation" in 2001 for which he was deported, and he may or may not have come back to the U.S. illegally. But just like the officers had no way of knowing where he got the student metro card, they also had no idea at that moment of whether or not the man had a record. As far as they were aware, the inappropriate metrocard use was his only offense.

Now it gets really fun. Somehow this guy struggles so much that even with one hand handcuffed, he manages to get both officers to the ground? Is this man enormous? Is he a pro wrestler? Are these cops both five feet tall or just that ridiculously out of shape?

It gets better. Somehow one of the officers' guns "comes loose", and this is the gun with which the flipped out would-be arrestee shoots at the cops. Can someone explain to me how in the hell a gun in a holster just "comes loose"?

Long story short is this: because a man tried to beat a $2.00 fare, 3 people ended up with gunshot wounds, one life is undoubtedly ruined forever, and two other lives are unarguably permanently altered at the very least physically. Personally, I believe it's fair to say that 3 people acted unreasonably here.

And now for this course of action, all of the police involved are being haled as heroes? They heroically tried to arrest a man over two dollars? They heroically lost a two-against-one fight? They heroically lost control of their deadly weapons? Yeah man, way to go guys! What ever would I do without this kind of protection?

More and more questions arise for me the more I learn about this incident. For example, if they had the perpetrator in custody from the getgo and he never left the station, why were there helicopters circling the area for hours - what were they looking for? Why were trains diverted from the station for more than five hours after the incident? Why were the ten blocks around the crime scene simply impassible by car long after all injured parties had been removed to hospitals? Something just doesn't jive there.

* * *

It seems obvious that this man was acting out of desperation and fear. Of course his actions were unwarranted and wrong: it is not OK to shoot at people if you are not in mortal danger. (And, ahem, that goes for cops too.) But if the officers' actions had been more reasonable - say, in trying to issue a ticket rather than put the man in handcuffs - there is a good chance that no bullets would have flown and no blood would have been shed. Over two dollars.

Unsurprisingly, every bulletin board on the internet that is addressing this incident has a string of comments along the lines of "send him back to where he came from" and other such nonsense. As if there are no U.S. citizens with drug records who do things significantly worse than using the wrong kind of metrocard each and every day. How do we know that this "narcotics violation" isn't a trumped up charge for having two joints in his pocket, or something equally as stupid? And let's just come right out and say it: something that a white kid from a good family would have gotten 30 days of community service for?

Some of you will say that if they hadn't taken him into custody, they wouldn't have found this illegal immigrant. I say: so what? Is it worth three people getting shot, and risking the lives of innocent bystanders? It is a known fact that there are thousands of illegal immigrants in this country. The "get legal or get out" attitude pisses me off; it's not exactly an easy process for people who are poor and don't speak English. Yes, I think they should try. But I don't know that the system is entirely fair. I'm much more concerned about criminals who are legal citizens who are robbing, raping, and dealing real drugs, than people who happen to be illegal but are trying to lead decent lives in a new country.

* * *

My favorite "heroic" action is when the supervising Lieutenant shot at the guy six times, hitting him four times. This makes him a hero how? Suddenly now two wrongs do make a right? If he'd tackled the man, gotten the gun from him without anyone else being harmed, and gotten the handcuffs on him, I could see the "hero" moniker being awarded. But letting loose six bullets across a subway station full of commuters? I believe that's what we call "reckless endangerment", and I sincerely hope that if any bystanders had gotten caught in the crossfire, or had even caught a ricochet, it would have been called exactly that.

Black helicopters.

2008-10-21T17:49:00.004-04:00

So a few minutes ago I arrived at my studio. The studio is in an old industrial building just south of Queensboro Plaza, and if you're in NYC this means something to you, and if you're not it doesn't. For a bit more universal relevance, it's in a fairly industrial neighborhood wedged between a major commutor bridge leading onto a highway and the enormous Citibank tower. My nearest neighbor is Silvercup Studios, where among other things Ugly Betty is filmed.

OK. So now that I've set the scene for you a little, I'll get on to today's action. I came to my studio to edit the story that I'm working on for The First Line, which hello is due on November First. But I'm super distracted, because there are no less than six helicopters hovering and/or circling within audible range. On top of which I'm hearing various types of sirens about every minute or so.

Now, this is New York. Things happen here, and while they're often loud they're usually also quite boring: the president or some ambassadors or something will be in town, and all manner of obnoxous cavalcade will ensue for days on end. But today, here, this is a mystery. I thought maybe there was some kind of huge accident coming off of the bridge, but I can clearly see traffic moving swiftly on all levels. I don't see any smoke anywhere. If there was somebody just that famous at Silvercup I imagine there'd be some ground coverage as well.

Seriously, this is quite annoying. One of the circling helicopters is coming within a few hundred feet of my building every minute or so. I wanna know what's going on, and if it's something stupid I want them to go the hell away! I have things to do.

* * *

I figured it out. It's far from stupid. It's actually scary as shit and way too close to home, too close to everything on both literal and figurative levels. It seems that around 5:15 pm two police officers and one other man who may or may not be a suspect were shot in or around the F station at 21st street. The one just north of the aforementioned bridge - and probably not coincidentally the one in front of the largest housing development in the city, Queensbridge. The New York Times posted the first article on it about four minutes before I began writing this blog post.

Have I mentioned that my studio is on 22nd street?

OK. So, violent crime in the neighborhood. Fantastic. And to think, it's not even Christmastime yet. Until now it's mostly been muggers waiting for cabbies to get off of work because they tend to carry large wads of cash, and while that's not plesant it's quite a different thing than cop shooting. With the economy doing what it's doing, a rise in crime is pretty much inevitable. And I'm sure it's totally wrong of me to assume that I get to be isolated from that. But as I don't watch TV or read news of any kind, I live in a bubble for the most part.

This just feels so close. I've used that station, and walked passed that neighborhood, many times. I could walk there in five minutes right now. And just this past Sunday I rode the entire length of the F train, the first train trip I've undertaken since early September for my subway project. In fact, after the trip was done I considered riding the F train back up to the 21st st/Queensbridge stop and then walking over to Queensboro Plaza, but then thought better of it since it was after dark and I was alone. Jonathan and I were discussing the 21st street station last night, with its odd '70s architecture.

This is freaking me out. Probably more than it should, but understand. I spent significant portions of childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood in neighborhoods where I did not feel safe - largely because I wasn't safe. Feeling secure in my home is among the top five priorities in my adult, self-built life. And right now I could draw you a nice little isosceles triangle with three points: my studio, my home, and this crime scene, all within a 20 minute walk from each other. This does not make me feel warm and fuzzy.

When I walk due west from my apartment, I land in Queensbridge North. There's a lovely riverwalk along the East River there, which lines up with the creepy lighthouse of Roosevelt Island. Sometimes I go there and read. I always go there alone. And when I'm there I've always thought, oh, how remarkable - yes, it's projects, but it seems so safe and quiet here.

Perhaps I've been fooling myself, and these projects are just as messed up as any I encountered in D.C. or New Orleans? Perhaps it's mostly a downtrodden but upstanding community plagued by a few real criminals? Perhaps this is just the act of one rogue kid who's gotten in way over his head? Perhaps the cops started shooting when they didn't need to, and the victim didn't know what to do but shoot back, and this is the result? There are so many possibilities, and all are questions that I don't want to have to be asking.

What I know is that I need to, at some point, get home from my studio. Several blocks of usually abandoned, now darkened streets lay between me and Queensboro Plaza, where I will wait for my train. I've never felt particularly unsafe in this walk, even much later at night. But now, I'm not so sure.

Is this an isolated incident? Or is it indicative of the growing social unrest that is the inevitable result of economic collapse? I suppose that only time will tell.

Water, water, who's got the water? Apparently, not me.

2008-10-20T18:04:00.004-04:00

Ok. So I come home from a stupid Monday at work. And the subway is all dicked up; something about a broken rail at 57th and 7th ave, which is in the opposite direction from the way I'm going but somehow fucks up my commute anyway so it takes an extra long time to get home. And I finally make it to my stop, and in the walk between the train and my apartment I'm thinking about my evening. I think, I'll do some dishes, make some dinner, do some baking, do some writing and some blogging, take a shower. Right? Right. So I get to my apartment building, and what do I see on the door? A pitifully crude handwritten sign that informs me that there's "no hot water for 2, 3 hours, waiting for oil company".

Now, a couple of things cross my mind here. One, there's absolutely no indication in this blue marker scrawl of when this notice was posted; it could have gone up at 1pm, in which case perhaps the difficulty has passed. Two, don't we use steam heat like the rest of New York City? WTF is this 'oil company' crap?

So I come in and check the water, and sure enough, nothing hot comes out of the normally beyond scalding faucet. No dishes being doing, that's for sure, and I'm a bit reluctant to cook or bake until I know that hot water is forthcoming. Don't even get me started on that shower I was planning on.

We may have hot water any minute now. Then again, since it's already after six, we may not.

Ahh, life in a "pre-war" building. The fun just never stops.

I did it! I finally succeeded!... in killing all of my studio plants.

2008-10-19T12:35:00.005-04:00

It's true. And it's sad. I never did spend enough time here, or come here regularly enough, to keep my plants alive. And now pink and pink and the chinadoll have passed on to what we can only hope is a better place. So it goes.

But let's look at the bright side, shall we? I still have my studio. I'm sitting in it. Right now. And it's mine, I'm not even sharing it. I can still come here whenever I please, to paint or draw or create some crazy collage or make crafty things, even if that 'whenever' seems to be incredible sporadic. I spent all of my savings to do it, which may or may not have been wise, but throughout my semi-employed sabbatical I maintained this space. It seemed necessary for my soul.

I'm happy that I still have it, and while the cost does hurt I don't actually have any regrets about it. Something in me needs this; it's validating to my endeavors even when I have a little trouble validating it, if that makes any sense at all. And throughout the month of November it will give me a quiet place to write for NaNoWriMo... but more on that later.

Now, I'm off to ride the F train.

Unimaginable: Another day in the life of my family.

2008-10-12T22:12:00.005-04:00

Be warned - this post is unpleasant. The faint of heart need not apply.

I mentioned in passing recently that there was yet another tragedy in the clan last week. The story goes something like this.

My grandmother ran a foster home, into which my father was adopted. Aside from foster children and adopted children, that grandma also had two biological children. One of them managed to turn out fairly normal, despite tumultuous home life. The other shows the wholly unnatural stresses that adolescence wrought upon him, the details of which I'll not go into here. We'll call him D.

D was a brother to my father, and for all intents and purposes they are blood. Together they witnessed the death of their father. Together they slept in a cramped bed for ten years.

D cracked young and cracked hard, but it didn't stop him from wanting to do things right: from wanting to get married and have a family of his own, and so to finally have the home life that was absent to him in childhood. As a partner he found someone equally damaged and unfit for parenthood; to them were born three children.

The eldest, a girl, shares my name but little else. The details of her life are fuzzy to me, but I believe she managed to have a bastard child in her teen years. Nevertheless, her life is relatively stable. The youngest of the three, whose namesake quite directly is my father, watched the mistakes of the other two and chose to bow out. Led a quiet life, and is doing alright now.

But the middle child, oh, the woe he has brought to his parents and to the world. He is my age. By his teens he had managed to get involved in gang activity (Bloods or Crips? This was never clear in the family), become addicted to heroin, and oh yes, have a child. And he's been plodding along, and somehow has had the same partner all these years - apparently she's a junkie too. They've had a second child, fifteen months ago now, a younger sibling for the fourteen year old son. Apparently the couple fights, though, enough so that recently she was moved to phone the police and tell a fib that he was "drunk and disorderly".

Well, the police looked up the name, and whether he was drunk or not, he sure did have a warrant out for his arrest - seems that there was some community service he'd been assigned to somewhere along the way that had never gotten served. A warrant is a warrant, and away to Orleans Parish Prison he went. Having been prescribed Methadone for the past 11 years, he was placed in the hospital wing.

This is where the story gets fuzzy.

The ending is always the same though. My cousin is dead.

The report that was given to his parents (by the coroner when he went to their house) was this: that my cousin had hung himself. With a towel. Now, immediately many questions spring to mind. One: is it even possible to hang one's self with a towel? He wasn't a huge guy, but he wasn't slight; a towel is not exactly built to hold weight. Two: if it even is possible, wouldn't it take a minute to set up? Or like, many many minutes? So, like, was there any kind of supervision whatsoever that would have noticed something like, say, a guy trying to rig a towel-noose from the pipes on the ceiling?

One way or another he was in Methadone withdrawal; whether this is because he was trying to kick it himself or because they wouldn't give it to him in the hospital is unclear. Either way, it is well established that Methadone withdrawal is wildly unpleasant - much worse, in fact, than withdrawal from heroin, the addiction that it is meant to cure.

Which brings me to my angriest point. There is some doctor, doctor!, in Louisiana, who took this at most 19 year old kid who was on junk. And instead of just throwing him in a room for a week and making him sweat it out and then placing him in a program where he'd be carefully watched, he assigned to that kid a lifelong, detrimental, extremely expensive (and therefore extremely profitable) addiction to supplement the one he already had. Why do I say supplement? Find me a Methadone addict who doesn't still also push heroin, and I'll give you twenty dollars. I have it on good authority - indubitable authority, in fact - that my cousin was no exception.

Methadone is not a cure; they've known that since the 70's if not for longer. So why, in the name of god, was my cousin put on this shit in 1997? And kept on it for more than a decade? Yes, I'm angry. This isn't medicine. This is doctors, doctors!, putting money directly into the pockets of pharmaceutical companies, and risking lives in the process.

My learning of this incident, or what we know of it anyway, began in the form of a voicemail. It was from my father; he sounded shattered. Said little. "Hey babe. You should give us a call. We have something to tell you." That was it. And my heart fell into my stomach, because my father never sounds like that. And my first thought, the one that persisted for the six minute walk before me and threw me into a fairly violent panic attack that made it difficult to function, was that my sister was dead.

I got to a place where I could be inside and sit down and I made the call, and of course quickly found out that the matter wasn't related to my sister. Immediately I was relieved, and shortly thereafter realized that there are, at this moment, both an older sister and a younger brother living the reality that I was so terrified to potentially face. What I thought might be for six minutes, they will live with that absolute truth heavily leaning upon their hearts for the rest of their lives.

They've long known that their brother was on the wrong path, but did they ever stop hoping that he would find his way? Of course they didn't. Did they fear getting this phone call each and every day? Of course they did. For the things he's done, it's impossible not to. And can any of that dull the pain of losing a sibling at 30 years old? Not one bit.

We have not been close; I haven't seen any of them in years. That family has always been difficult - makes mine look like a cake walk behind a white picket fence, with cherries. But they are my family, and I remember Christmases and Thanksgivings and Easters and St. Patrick's days with them. I remember basketball games in front of the old shed out back, and climbing the fence to get a peek into the neighbor's yard - that neighbor being David Duke, believe it or not. I remember him before innocence was lost.

I am not the praying kind, but if you are, my cousin's is as lost a soul as any there ever was, and he can use all of the prayers that mouths and hearts can say.

I'm officially an anthology whore.

2008-10-08T18:08:00.003-04:00

And I quote:

Dear Ms. Bastian,

We would like to include "The Starling" in our anthology. Compensation is your choice of a contributor copy or $10. Please let us know if you accept, and if so, whether you want the contributor copy or the payment. We will also need a brief bio and a snail mail address. Thank you for sharing your talent.

So I'll officially be a published author! That is, outside of my zines, my blogs, and my high school and college literary journals. Which of course all "count", but are a distinctly different thing. As soon as I know how the anthology can be purchased fear not, I'll be bothering you about it incessantly.

And as far as my enormous payment, I think I'll be taking the contributor copy, thanks.

Just a few points.

2008-10-07T22:03:00.003-04:00

*Almost finished with the detective novel. Not as good as I'd like it to be.

*New job/old job is going well I think.

*Jon is sick; hopefully not too sick. And hopefully he doesn't re-infect me, because then we'll really be in trouble.

*A cousin of mine met with a drastic end on Friday; not one that I've been close to since childhood, but still. It's weird. Now we have a suicide on each side of the family...

*I think that's all I've got. I'm going to get in bed. Details on everything when I'm not so exhausted.

Jittery.

2008-10-04T22:19:00.004-04:00

Getting a bit... something. I dunno. I start work on Monday. Or I start back to work. It's a new job and it isn't. The one thing that's sure is that it's a paycheck. I'm a different person than I was when I left there. That's something, I guess.

Perhaps I'm frustrated that I spent my last unemployed week miserable in bed, or that the end of my "freedom" came with so little notice. Perhaps the suddenness of the shortening days and the cold cold air is more of a stun than I can take. A new phase is beginning, that is certain, and it seems that all factors have conspired to make sure that I don't forget it even for a moment.

For some reason, it all makes me want to bake.

There are worse reactions, I'm sure. And as long as I don't eat all of the baked goods myself, the worst result will be a messy kitchen and a big bill for whole wheat pastry flour. At the moment, though, I'm highly distressed because I want to make Celine's chocolate breakfast cake, but I just don't have the ingredients. It makes me want to go pout in bed.

Pouting in bed is possibly not the most productive reaction.

I don't know quite what's going on. I feel like everything has changed without really changing; I have at times described this feeling as 'having everything shift a foot to the left' or something of that sort. And while that makes sense in my head, I don't know if it quite imparts the sensation.

It's more like, I've been looking at this room, right? For months and months, I've been looking at this room. And I'm still looking at the same room, and nothing has changed in it. Except that now I'm looking at it from a different wall, one adjacent to the one I was standing against before - a 90 degree rotation. So I know exactly where I'm at, and everything looks familiar. But somehow I'm still disoriented and when I try to move through the room I bump into all the furniture.

Right now I'm thinking that if I bump around for long enough, I'll make my way to the bed sooner or later. And once I'm under the covers I won't care which way the room is facing.

BIG BIG BIG NEWS!!!!!

2008-10-02T16:07:00.004-04:00

Hi! Like I said, big big big news! In a minute.

Last night I really started to panic about this whole job situation. I mean, it's already October for chrissake and there was nothing on the horizon but more craigslist/agency black hole soul-eating misery. Right? Right.

OK, so I just got a phone call. And it was from the office manager at my old job. And it seems that the partners finally got around to having their "staffing meeting"... and they want to bring me back! Next Monday morning! At my old salary! She didn't even know what position it's for really; just that I'll be working for the two partners I used to work for (who loved me). I'd say it's too good to be true, except that it isn't; I know all too well the failings and pitfalls of this job and this workplace. But whatever! A job! A salary! FULLY PAID HEALTH INSURANCE!

The relief that this brings cannot be described. Poor Jonathan has been reading up on the state of the economy and hyperventilating trying to think of supporting us both. (Which of course I have never/would never as him to do, but how could he not think of it?) But no more! Ah, thank you thank you thank you stupid old job, thank you work ethic and good sense of mine that didn't burn any bridges there, thank you employment gods, thank you friends who sent me good wishes and listened to me whine about my search for these months. I'd promise never to complain about the job again, but I know that would just make me a big fat liar so I won't. I will say though that I'll never again underestimate the joy of job stability, not in these crazy times in this crazy city.

Office doldrums, here I come!

Azithromycin: My savior, My scourge.

2008-10-02T12:24:00.003-04:00

As you may have gathered by this point, I've been sick this past week. And it became evident to me within my first two days of illness that what I had was a sinus infection. The women in my family all have messed up sinuses - we're like those dogs who were bred to have smooshed in noses and therefore eternally have respiratory problems, except that we don't look nearly as bizarre and our hair's not as perfectly coiffed and nobody makes us strut in trade shows.

Anyway.

My point is that when I get a sinus infection, I know what the hell is going on. I also know that, without swift action, it will likely at least move into my chest to cause a lovely bronchitis, whose taste has haunted me since childhood, and also possibly migrate over to one or both ears, the pain of which I remember all too well from continual infection between the ages of 5 and 9. See, what with having my chronic illness and all, my immune system is basically raging full blast fighting invisible enemies. So if a lil' bug gets through that initial force, well, it's already withstood all I've got and survived. Which means that I'm screwed - I'm not gonna be able to fight it off with all the vitamin C in the world. All of this spells one course of action: antibiotics.

Now let me make this quite clear: I HATE ANTIBIOTICS. I don't take them unless I absolutely have to. I'm not one of these idiots who wants to take them for a cold or the flu, or for allergies - yeah - that's one of my absolute favorites. Who would choose to destroy all intestinal flora? Their overuse is absolutely rampant in our society, and the results of that are being seen daily in extremely frightening ways - such as the superstrains of staph infections that now plague young healthy people instead of only the very young, the very old, and the sick, and the uber-scary UTIs that are around these days, the details of which are too gruesome to discuss here. So many people are allergic to them too - my sister and my fiance among them. Despite this knowledge and these feelings, the fact is that antibiotics are a lifesaving measurement when used correctly. I am a somewhat enfeebled person, and when it comes to a genuine bacterial infection that's really got hold of me, it's what I have to do so I do it.

There was a time in... 2004? 2005? When I had some kind of something happening, but as is my habit I ignored it. It's not convenient to go to the doctor; I was busy with school and work, and it's expensive, and anyway I always felt like crap so it was probably just that I was sleeping poorly, or having allergies or something, right? I ignored it for too long, and ended up in the emergency room because "it" in fact was an infection that had made its way into my chest, and actually infected my lungs rather than merely causing bronchitis. (At least two of my readers may remember this; I know one definitely will...)

I couldn't breathe. I mean, I could technically, but it was an extremely slow and arduous process, like the worst asthma attack ever for days on end. I was getting so little oxygen that my vision was darkened and spotty. After the night at the hospital, receiving a breathing treatment that helped the breathing but made me violently ill (ever inhaled the entire contents of two albuterol inhalers in the span of two hours? That's essentially what I did), I laid in bed for days and days. I thought I was going to die. I ended up missing two weeks of work, and even after that respite when I returned I was much slower than usual from sheer weakness. I remember clearly that the first time I tried to climb our double-decker staircase at my normal pace I blacked out.

(The genetic history here actually comes from both sides. My father, from whom I got my asthma, was discharged from basic training after his lung capacity was reduced to 30% one day during exercises. Of course, before they could send him home they had to keep him in the hospital for three weeks.)

Ever since that little incident, I've been more careful. I do ignore a lot of things that go on in my body; it's the only way that I can get through a day. But certain symptoms, and particularly anything related to breathing, get my attention and keep it until properly resolved. So when the horrible stabbing pain of neuralgia in my face began on Monday, and was ever so concentrated on the righthand(head) side stretching from my eyesocket clear through into my ear canal, I knew I was in trouble.

Of course, the trouble wasn't only in illness. If you've been keeping up, you'll recall that a few months back I dropped my COBRA coverage and picked up a plan through Healthy NY/Atlantis. Well, I've since discovered that this new plan basically covers nothing - certainly not my doctor.

See, I don't bother with General Practitioners. They just don't get me. They tell me that stuff doesn't hurt when it does, they don't understand why I eat the way I do, they want to test me for things that I already know I don't have (is it your thyroid? it seems like your thyroid. why don't we check your thyroid... for the thousandth time?)... and then when they can't find an answer that they're happy with they tell me I need therapy. Well well. Alright jerkoff, I've been in therapy for twelve years. What else ya got? Well, they got pills. Sleeping pills, pain pills, muscle relaxants, anti-depressants, appetite stimulants, appetite suppressants, uppers, downers, you name it. You name it and I don't want it.

In summary, the GP does me no good whatsoever. Instead my regular doctor is a rheumatologist, and moreover one that specializes in my disease. We skip right over multiple hours/visits worth of bullshit because he looks at my chart, and then examines me, and then says, "right, so you have fibromyalgia. What do you find works best for you?" He approves heartily of my chiropracty and yoga, and even of my veganism "if that's what makes you feel better." He tells me about new drugs that might be good for me and asks if I want to try them; I tell him I'll let him know if my pain levels get beyond the point of endurance and he says "OK, fine, no problem, just want you to know what's out there."

I love my doctor. He's one of the best things about living in New York. But to the new insurance company, he is that dreaded devil: the specialist. They won't cover him, no way no how. I mean, who ever needed that kind of doctor. And so to see him would cost me $250. And, um, I don't got it. So when I know that all I need is a Z-pack, it seems crazy to, say, borrow that from my parents or Jonathan, just so that he can tell me what I already know and hand me a prescription that could have just been called in to the pharmacy.

On Tuesday, this is what I had to convince him of. He, though, was not the trouble. As awesome as he is, his staff are somehow the most evil bitches on the face of the planet. What's that about anyway? Why are all people who work in the fronts of doctor's offices insufferably mean? Last year I needed them to do a very simple thing - call in a prescription for a migraine medication. The doc had told me to ask them to do it. And yet, somehow, I had to get hung up on three times and get into an almost-screaming argument with these banshees to get it accomplished. Now, I know how to talk to people. I'm nice, and I'm patient, and I say please and thank you, and I don't pull out the bitch until I absolutely have to. I have no idea why they made it so difficult, when all I was doing was asking them to do their freakin' job so that I could get a medication that I desperately needed and that my doc wanted me to have.

Needless to say, after that trauma I was not eager to call them up. So I sort of told a fib about why I wanted to talk to the doc, thinking that if I told them the truth they'd stonewall me. Well that backfired bigtime. I got a call back (from one of the banshees, of course) telling me that if I needed to talk to him "about my medications" (the fib I'd told) that I should just make an appointment. So then of course I had no choice but to break down and tell the whole story. That I had a sinus infection, which I knew because my face felt like someone had poured acid into it, that I made up the first story because I have had problems with the front desk before, that I couldn't come in because my insurance won't cover a visit and I can't afford it out of pocket because I've been out of work for six months, that I don't have another doctor.

Man, was that a fun conversation.

Well, being a good doctor, my doc did call me back personally that afternoon - while I was attempting to pick up cupcakes, as a matter of fact. It was a complicated day. And he knows me, and knows that I understand my body and hate pills, and knows that "everyone is going through hard times right now", so called in the scrip for me - but will not do so again until I come and see him. Fair enough. Luckily the insurance does cover prescriptions... now that I've paid the deductible that is, and as long as they're not "mental health related".

So now I'm on the evil stuff, and hopefully it does the trick because if it doesn't I'm totally screwed. It should; I'm still convinced of my diagnosis, and since I only take antibiotics when I have to (and don't have a constant low dose of them in my food) they tend to be pretty effective. So I'll implore you once again, dear readers, to keep your fingers crossed for me.

The economy done sploded.

2008-09-29T15:21:00.003-04:00

OK. I'll be the first to admit that I know nothing about economics. Or at least about "economic theory". Stock market? No clue. Interest rate accrual? Um... it gets bigger over time? High ones on credit cards and loans are bad, but on savings accounts are good. That's all I got. Bonds? Some kind of bank thing. Bull market vs. Bear market? There's this weird bronze bull statue down in the financial district. And when you're feeling fancy, the Bull and Bear at the Waldorf is a nice place to have a Dewars and soda.

But I know a few things about money, that evil stuff that seems to govern our lives. (By the by, it's the want of money that's the root of all evil; remember that.) I can remember worrying about money for as long as I can remember being alive. I've seen my parents make every mistake in the book: get into unbelievable credit card debt, buy cars they couldn't really afford, take out a second mortgage, go bankrupt. I also watched what happened to them financially over the healthcare costs of my mother's cancer. I've gotten myself into debt, and back out of it.

And I do know this: at the end of the day our country's economics are, at least in part, made up by the money issues and habits of individuals. So, despite all of the things I definitely do not understand (dow jones who?), here are some things I know for sure:

1. In a given household, there has to be more money coming in than going out. You'd think that this would be a basic tenement known since near birth, but somehow it evades many people.

2. Point number one can be extremely difficult given the ratio of cost of living vs. pay. Jobs are hard to find, and many of them (most of them?) don't pay nearly enough to live on. At this point it seems that few adult couples can get by on a single income, even without children; it's been as such for quite some time. If you're making, say, $8.00 an hour at 40 hours a week (which is far above the national minimum wage), you're making $1280 a month - minus taxes. Let's call that a take home pay of maybe a thousand dollars a month? So maybe you won't actually die in the street, but you'll most certainly be living paycheck to paycheck even in the cheapest of living situations, even only supporting yourself. Forget healthcare benefits, or being able to call out sick without losing a day's pay or sometimes even risking your job. So much for opening a new Wal*Mart to "create jobs". Jobs for teenagers who need pocket money maybe. Certainly not jobs for people trying to support themselves.

This is the biggest problem with unemployment statistics, by the way: they don't account for people who are technically employed but still can't afford basic necessities, now sometimes known as the "underemployed".

3. A townhouse should not cost half a million dollars anywhere ever, unless we're talking eight bedrooms and a walk-in sauna. But we're not; we're talking two to three bedrooms with nine foot ceilings and walls so thin that an errant foot will go right through them without a second thought. We're talking ugly pieces of crap with bedrooms measuring 8' x 10', and a living/dining combo with a kitchenette tacked on. We're talking a parking lot instead of a front lawn and a six lane highway out back. In the suburban areas of many cities, this is what these places now cost, or close to it. And compared to throwing $1000 and then $1200 and then $1500 and then $1800 a month in rent down a hole for a two or three bedroom apartment for years and years (and in just as awful a complex), this place seems like the American Dream come alive to many families.

Housing costs are out of control; this is not news. I live in a rent stabilized apartment, and as such it is still relatively affordable. Yes, I do live in New York - in Queens though, in a neighborhood that was built up over a hundred years ago in a building that's never been renovated. It's a fairly small one bedroom; there's a living room, a tiny bathroom, a small separate kitchen, and a hallway, the end. There are holes in the ceiling in the living room and in the bathroom due to plumbing and radiator issues that are so intrinsic to the old systems that they can't be fixed short of full on replacement. Jonathan and I live a cozy life here, but no way could I share this place with a roommate, and god forbid if we had a child. We'd have to move, no doubt. I've just received my renewal lease, and on it is listed the amount that they "should" be charging at market price. And according to my lease, at market value, next year I should be paying $1925 per month for all this luxury.

Perhaps you think that my idea of cost of living is skewed because I live in New York City, a place that everyone thinks is oh so expensive. But you're forgetting two things about New York. 1) When you can actually get a job here, it pays proportionally to the more expensive rent. 2) Instead of paying to lease, gas, insure, and park a car, I merely pay $81 a month to ride the subway, which takes me within blocks of absolutely everywhere I need to go. None of that, however, overrides the fact that charging $1900 for a one bedroom is ludicrous.

Also, let's not overlook the fact that for nine years before I lived here I lived in New Orleans, a city with a notoriously low cost of living. Trouble is, though, that most of the jobs are woefully low paying as well. And so you end up in the same conundrum. Pre-Katrina, I could rent a three bedroom house for $1100 a month. However, the best job I could get with a college degree paid $8.00 an hour, and that's after I was promoted to "supervisor".

4. People should not be taking out mortgages that they can't reasonably afford. But isn't there some shared responsibility here? Banks should not have allowed these people to take the mortgages in the first place. Before a bank gives you a loan, they pretty much find out everything there is to know about you. They know more about your financial standing than you do, and they sure as hell understand their rating structure better than we ever will. They no doubt have an idea of what your payments will be like once the "adjustable rate" increases. So, if that payment is going to be, say, more than 60% of a household's income, perhaps a mortgage should *not* be granted. Of course, this will lead to far fewer people being able to buy houses. But that's mainly because the houses are far too expensive in the first place.

Banks shouldn't be luring would-be homeowners with low initial rates that will then skyrocket to unmanageable levels - a tactic that is obviously meant to draw in lower income households who dream of not fighting with the landlord over the broken refrigerator anymore. There's a word for lending money and then charging outrageous interest rates on it: usury. People get all Regan-ish when you start talking about having laws to control the way that banks can operate; deregulation, keep government out of private affairs, bla bla bla. But trusting banks not to take advantage of people and their money? That's like saying, "Oh, I trust this fiendish bloodsucking vampire who hasn't fed in four days to behave himself at the junior prom." And hello: we're seeing what happens when we let them act as they will. It ain't pretty.

5. Speaking of usury, let's talk about credit cards. Yes, people do extraordinarily stupid things with credit cards. But some people are just using them to help buy enough food for three kids, or to pay the electric bill in winter, and they get punished by 22% interest rates all the same. Granted, the rate is somewhat based on your credit rating, and your credit rating is somewhat based on your personal actions. But there is a whole host of things far beyond personal control that can happen that will eff up your credit rating beyond belief. And anyway it's somewhat beyond my point. My point is that I don't think rates that high should really be legal. Sure, they're a business, and that's how they make money, et cetera. But even if they lower the max rate to, say, 15%, they'll still make plenty of money off of idiots who "really needed" that new flatscreen TV, and it'll be a little easier on people who use them to get through that week or two of unpaid leave they had to take when they had the flu.

6. Capitalist enterprises depend on perpetual growth. Every year, and beyond that even every quarter, a business must see an increase in sales and/or in profits. Stagnant profits are unacceptable, and any decrease is seen as catastrophe. This system... defies everything we know about people and nature and systems. (And sorry, but nothing happens with money that isn't a direct result of a choice of a person. It doesn't have a life of its own.) Nothing, but nothing, works this way. Nothing functions in perpetual growth. Could it work based on another model? I don't know. It depends on what is meant by "work". But I do know that it can't go on as it is forever... and they know it too.

* * *

Overall I guess my point is this: cost of living seems to have gone up beyond what current payrates can actually handle, even for the so-called middle class. The people who feel this the most are of course the people who can least afford to. Owning a home (at least, one anywhere near any actual city {read: near any quantifiable number of salaried jobs}) is quickly becoming a dream beyond the scope of what the middle class can hope for, even with two incomes and a willingness to take on an enormous debt that will last for most of their adult lives. There is something very wrong with this picture.

So what do I think should happen? Basically, I think the huge ridiculous multi-billion-dollar multinational corporations should make less money. And not fire people, or cut the benefits or pay of their employees. (Except maybe for the pay of employees making over a million or so a year.) The should just have less profit. Yep. You heard me. I said it. I think that enormous businesses should make less money, and individual people should get to keep more of their money. I know, I'm some kind of crazy hippie commie weirdo anarchist. I should probably be jailed.

Really, when it comes to basic necessities like food, shelter, and medical care, I become remarkably socialist. That flat screen TV that no one could possibly ever need for a healthy life? Charge whatever the hell you want for it. You'll never hear me complain about the price of caviar. But a safe place to live that's a reasonable distance from gainful employment and other life-sustaining amenities such as grocery stores? That's a different story.

I'll conclude my rant with someone else's: Jello Biafra's, to be precise. It's from his spoken word bits with the "no to the WTO combo" shindig during the protests in Seattle. He says a lot of great stuff between fairly mediocre musical interludes, and this segment seems particularly apt at the moment.

"This isn't barons and lords in the high castles with little peasants, terrified peasants on the other side of the moat tilling the land anymore; New Feudalism means that we know who the barons in the high castles are, and every time we buy anything from {insert major corporate name here: Jello rattles off a whole list}, we are their serfs... The wealth addicts have gotten carried away, and in the end, we're gonna win."

Well Jello, I certainly hope so.

Man, is that some timing.

2008-09-25T15:41:00.003-04:00

Apparently my uncanny ability to do everything at exactly the wrong time hasn't dulled a bit during my stint of unemployment. Am I surprised by this? No, not really.

I went to the ol' prison today. You know, to ask to be re-imprisoned. I went to them with my hat in my hand, as it were. Begging, essentially. And you know what they told me? That in the past two weeks they've hired like three people. Including one for the position (and the desk/window/view) that I was sort of dying to have there. Ummmyeah. Do I want to vomit? Why yes I do. And cry? Yes that also. I had to stop myself from crying in the elevator down because some dumb dolt got on one floor below me, and now I just can't work it up again. So it's sitting there, just beneath the surface.

I suppose it's not completely hopeless; they loved me there. Apparently tomorrow the partners are having a meeting about staffing - so in that my timing was dead on. At least two of the partners in my department still think I'm the best thing ever, so maybe... maybe... maybe what? They'll invent a job for me? I don't know. It seems like every single desk or space that could possibly hold a human being is occupied - that place is bursting at the seams. So yeah. I really don't know.

All I know is that I want to cry, and then vomit, and then cry some more, and then never get out of bed again. I just took a chance on the last bit of hope that I've been clinging to, and... well... now I'm sort of rifling through the shattered remains of that hope, trying to see if there are any shards big enough to make them worth keeping.

Stupid.

2008-09-25T04:22:00.004-04:00

It's 4:30 in the morning. Am I in bed? No. Despite the fact that my eyeballs feel like they're about to fall out of my skull, I'm still sitting here in front of my computer. Why?

Why.

Well.

Probably, it's because I don't want to face tomorrow.

See, tomorrow, I'm going to swing by my former place of employment. To see, if, you know, they might want to, you know, employ me again.

I am scared of doing this. I have gone through many debates with myself as to whether or not it is the right choice, or even an acceptable choice. And I must remind myself that "choice" is really a conceit, seeing as in six months I've turned up no other viable offers.

So I'm doing it, despite the risk that they may simply say no.

I'll be doing it assuming, of course, that I ever make it to bed. Because if I don't go to bed, I can't go to sleep, and I can't wake up in the morning, and I can't go anywhere at all. See?

Jesus I'm an asshole. I need to go to bed like four hours ago. Anybody got a flux capacitor?

Fishy on Friday.

2008-09-19T18:43:00.002-04:00

Me: Hello. I guess we're still waiting?

Her: Yep but chad and park wants to meet with you. Can you meet on Monday. We should have an answer on Monday but its always good to cover bases..

Me: Any idea why their decision keeps getting delayed? It was supposed to be last Friday, then last Monday, then yesterday... (So are you dicking me around or are they?) It's been three weeks now that I've been dealing with Dech. I'd really like to get an answer one way or the other before I do any more interviewing. (Little does she know that I'm not doing any more interviewing with her EVER.)

Her: They are looking for three great candidates to meet with the corporate partner…They only found you….I’m telling them you close to something else and see if we can get you back in to meet with the partner. (She probably meant "you're", but then she probably would have written "your".)

You haven’t met with him yet have you. (There was likely supposed to be a question mark here; she's not huge on punctuation.)

Me: I thought I met with both partners - Ned D. and Nicole J. (Which I told you via voice mail and email immediately after it happened - LAST THURSDAY.)

Her: Oh…ok let me tell them your close to something. (Ah, there it is.) They both liked you. (So, you didn't think I met with both of them, but now you know that both of them liked me?) Let see what we can do to close this. (Oh! So you've finally figured out that that's what your job is?)

* * *

Seriously people. This is ludicrous. I've seen better organized high school students. I don't understand what she could possibly gain from operating like this; if she didn't have time for me, why respond to my inquiries in the first place? If, upon meeting with me, she didn't think she could get me anything, then why not cut it off at that? And if she does really think she can get me something, then why god why is she so disinterested in doing it?

Everything I needed to know about her I knew when I went in there for our first meeting. Before I even met her, even. She was 45 minutes late, despite the fact that she had chosen the time for the meeting which had only been arranged the day before. And what earthshattering thing had kept her away? Lunch. Yes, she's a true professional.

So, another weekend in employment purgatory. Nothing to be done about it. It's Friday, and it's past 6:30 now. There's nothing to do but sit back and pretend that this is just a weekend, and not simply an extension of what I've been doing for the past... fuck. I don't know. Really long time.

Reading.

2008-09-18T20:56:00.004-04:00

When I was younger, or maybe more specifically when I was alone, it was always the darkness that got to me. Now, it's the sun.

During the day, I'm supposed to do something. Something productive. I'm meant to be out of bed at a "reasonable hour", to eat, to wash, to use time wisely and proactively with recognizable results. Says who? Says... the world, I guess. Says my head. Who knows. But it's out there.

But nighttime, oh glorious nighttime. All expectations are relinquished. I don't have to do anything that I don't want to do. And what I want to do is read. After all, who can be productive at midnight, 1am, 2am? No one. Or almost no one, at least. So why shouldn't I get in bed and read? After all, it's just a prelude to sleep.

Except that it isn't. Actually, it lets me avoid sleep altogether. I read, and I read, and I read some more. It keeps me up until 2, 3, 4 in the morning. This has the added benefit of making me feel like I should sleep later, lest I become sleep-deprived. We wouldn't want that, now, would we? Certainly no.

So I read late into the night and early into the morning. And when finally my eyes will simply no longer do the work, I surrender my day. The next day will come, with hours and hours of daylight stretching out ahead, but at least I haven't woken up until noon.

What do I read? A lot. About two books a week lately - I read quite slowly, actually, due to some mild dyslexic-type problems, so this is fairly extraordinary. The most recent titles include "Bait and Switch" by Barbara Ehrenreich, "The Swing Voter of Staten Island" by a male author whose last name starts with N, and "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" by Betty Smith, which is of course a nom de plume. This last - oh, what a book. It's one of those books that makes you a little bit angry that you've gone so long without it; that, when you finish it, you feel like a dear friend has just moved away. I read it last night until four in the morning, when I finally relinquished it with its final sentences.

Before that, I read the Nanny Diaries. Yup, I really did.

Now, I'm back on to Great Expectations, a title through which I have been attempting to trudge for at least a decade. This time, though, I'm finding it rather good. Apparently it's just a matter of getting past the language, which I always found quite annoying.

* * *

The longest hours are those approaching and shortly following Jonathan's appointed time of departure from work. 4pm is anxious, 5pm is unbearable. If 6pm comes without having brought some word from him, I feel that I'll simply die. I'm the picture of a 50's do-wop song. He is my bright spot in a universe of unending, uncertain gray.

Unfortunately, my bright spot is real freakin busy. Saturday, he did work all day long. Last Saturday too. Sunday he was worried sick about how things would go on Monday. And things went fine on Monday, but didn't allow him to come home until 9pm or so. Tonight is the same story; last night he was having panic attackes, and today all's well but he'll be on site until 10pm at least. He says we'll have time this weekend... but we'll see. He has some enormous gig starting Monday for which he will be on site over night. I can't say I'm pleased. It's also not the first time. You'd think I was married to a surgeon, the way he stresses so much about the minutae of each event and is gone for these long hours.

I feel a bit selfish, complaining about it. But then, lately when I'm asking for his attention, I'm not waving - I'm drowning. Sometimes it's hard for him to know the difference. I wave a lot.

The moral of this ramble is that I'm now officially, severely depressed. Free time is no longer exultant; it is merely indicative of my unemployed state. If there was an end, a light in the distance, this would be like vacation. As it is, it's merely unending freefall. I had myself so completely convinced that an agency was my big "out". That really, the second I plunked myself down into one, I'd have a job. Ok, maybe not the second, but at the very longest the fortnight. Well, it's been two solid months, and still only one possiblility. And what a long, drawn out, overly complicated possibility it is. At this point I'd rather just have a "no" right now than do any more waiting. Sad but true.

I feel like I must not be doing anything, because no results are yielded. But really, what more could I be doing? My employed friends all have my resume in Word format. I send said document, along with carefully crafted cover letters, to Craigslist and Idealist listings; I go where the agency tells me and dance like a good little monkey. It is beyond draining, beyond exhausting, to exist this way. I feel like I don't know how much longer I'll last. But what's the alternative? Stop breathing? Become a drunk? Sell my body down at Queensboro Plaza? I'll keep doing it for as long as it lasts, because there is nothing else to do.

Now would be a good time to write, really write. If only I could find it in myself.

Cab Stealin' Bitches OR Now where'd that truck go?

2008-09-14T12:59:00.005-04:00

It's a rough morning. That being a slightly ludicrous statement, of course, because it's actually one in the afternoon. But nevermind. To me, it's a rough morning.

Coffee shop again last night. Third night in a row. Working with my dear E, who was definitely not going to stay away for another day, despite the fact that she was really in no shape to be on her feet doing manual labor all night. Between her slightly enfeebled state and the dreaded 10pm rush (we close at 11 at the smaller location), it ended up taking us two hours to close the store. In essence, it sucked ass.

We finally got out of the store around 1am, and I needed to get E home. At that point, despite her brave face and her "nothing can hurt me" attitude, she was having a really hard time walking. We decided to find her a cab, not realizing what kind of task this would be in the Bowery / NoHo area at 1am on a Saturday night / Sunday morning. Oh, there were cabs. Cabs as far as the eye could see. Practically nothing else on the road. Only they were all already full of stupid drunken sorority girls and their frat boy wooers, heading to Chelsea or wherever the hell these people consider "hot" at the moment.

After 20 minutes or so we decided to just get to the subway; I'd ride with her to make sure she made it home and then figure out myself for myself. She went into a bodega to get the all-necessary cigarettes, and I stayed out on the street, just in case.

Well, lo and behold, the case in just in case came to pass. As I'm standing there on Broadway, a cab pulls up right the hell next to me to let some girl out. Yes! Yes yes yes! The cab gods have finally smiled upon us! I lean down into the passenger window and tell the cabbie that my friend is in the store, will be out in just a sec, to go ahead and start the meter.

Cabbie does not like this plan. Not at all. He can't wait, he says, it's a busy night, he says, he'll get a ticket if he stays there, he says. Please. I'm begging you. Please please please, I swear just 30 seconds. He points to the red light ahead: If she's out before it changes. Otherwise... of course all this time the back door is still wide open from where girlie got out, so it's not as if he can actually drive away. Well, most likely he wouldn't, anyway.

And then it happens. This dumb NYU kinda girl, fairly inebriated, goes to get into my cab. I look at her and say, this is my cab. She continues to make for the door, and I repeat rather more forcefully, NO, THIS IS MY CAB. Just then E finally comes out of the store and I yell to her to get over here and get her ass in our cab. And at that moment, NYU twat number 2, significantly more drunk than her friend, tries just barging into our cab.

Well, it's a bit fuzzy because it all happened pretty fast, but I think I was between the cab and stupid drunk bitch. So as she tried to push her way into our cab, I pushed back... with my shoulder. Actually, it was later referred to by E as a "body check". She stumbled back, and probably would have fallen flat on her ass had she not been caught by her friend. (I'll admit it: I was angry. If she'd come back, I mighta clocked that bitch. You don't go stealing my cab a. at all, and b. when I'm trying to get my friend, who's in ever increasing amounts of pain, home safely.) With her out of the way, I finally got E and then me into the cab.

As I went to close the door, superdrunkie stopped it from shutting, saying (and I swear this is a direct quote), "Hey, where are you faggots going?", giggling all the while. The giggling on her part did not cease throughout this entire altercation, as far as I can tell. My response to her was simply "Not with you!" and the slam of the cab door in her face. Despite the time that it takes to describe in words, the whole thing was over in less than a minute.

Now, by this point the cabbie really, really hated us. And when we told him we were going to Brooklyn, he hated us a little more. We knew we'd make it up to him in tip, but he didn't, so we let him fume. What else was there to do?

For the first five minutes of our ride all E could say was, "I'm so in love with you right now." She must have said it ten times. I was laughing, and exhausted, and fairly stunned at what had just happened on the street. She threatened to find a pawn shop and buy me a ring. She's like that.

Shortly before we arrived at E's dropoff point, I told the cabbie that I'd be needing to stay with him to go up to Astoria. I told him it was fine if he wanted to restart the meter since we hadn't told him it would be two stops. By that point I think he still hated us, but I guess he'd figured out that we were getting off of work (not coming home from partying) and that at least one of us was in intense pain. After we dropped E off, he opted not to restart the meter.

On the way up to my place I tried to apologize for making him wait for us, to explain our situation. He just nodded a little bit; he wasn't going to talk to me about it. (Funny enough, last Saturday it was me taking a cab home from work because my back hurt so bad that I wasn't going to make it to the subway; my cabbie then wanted to hear all about it. For some reason, that night empty cabs were everywhere and it took me about four seconds to get one... if only we'd been so lucky yesterday.)

When we finally got to my place, I tipped him $10 on a $24 fare; at that point I think all wrongs were righted as far as he was concerned. He thanked me rather emphatically, and I told him to have a good night.

* * *

Upon arriving home, I was completely exhausted. It was 2am, and my feet hurt so badly that it felt like they were bruised on the bottom, to say nothing of my back. I tried to sleep but couldn't get comfortable, and I'd also somewhat OD'd on caffeine; to get through the night I'd taken one of my special pain killing pills that contains a mild barbiturate, aspirin, and caffeine; I also had a latte. (See, my back's still not right from last weekend, and I guess because of the constant discomfort I've been sleeping like shit.) Unsurprisingly, laying there in the dark, I started having a conscience attack about the stupid drunk girls.

I know that maybe I was wrong for pushing that girl, but what was I supposed to do? She was way beyond any sort of reasoning capability. And anyway, she had the sort of spoiled entitled air about her that made it seem like even totally sober she would have felt justified in taking the cab from us. I wasn't going to just let them steal my cab; I needed to get E home. For that matter, I needed to sit down, something I hadn't done in seven hours. E was fading more and more by the second, kept going only by caffeine and muscle relaxants. Luckily I didn't actually hurt that silly drunk girl. I also don't think they were trying to go home; I think they were headed to another bar. Hopefully it will just turn into a hysterical anecdote for the two of them about their big times out in New York City.

Anyway, I didn't really get into any kind of sleep until almost 5am. Then I slept solid for maybe 4 hours, and then there was more tossing and turning until I finally dragged myself out of bed at about noon.

* * *

So then, there's today.

Today, I'm having one of my "truck" kind of days. As in, I feel like I got hit by one. This happens sometimes. Everything hurts and is ridiculously stiff. My hands and feet are swollen and painful; there are enormous black circles under my eyes. The injuries I sustained from a vicious ice machine attack at work on Saturday are throbbing. Typing right now is a remarkably stupid idea, even, because it's killing my shoulder and my wrists. But laying in bed hurts too and if I do it any more my headache will get worse.

Today calls for a cleanse. My body feels toxic; I've been sleeping terribly, which means I haven't been cleaning my cells out the way that I should. (Not that that's, like, a conscious action or anything. But you know what I mean.) When I finally got up Jon offered to make me coffee, and the idea actually repulsed me. So instead he took me to the store, and we loaded up on purified water, fresh fruit, and raw nuts. I can't stand the idea of putting anything else into my system, except maybe for some peppermint tea.

I hate these days. They're intensely frustrating and make me feel like some kind of cripple. Walking to the store, which is only about five blocks away, I kept having to tell Jon to slow down. Try as I might, I just couldn't get one foot in front of the other any faster. I kept feeling like I would fall over or just collapse under my own weight. I'm dropping things and running into walls, which I always do but this is ridiculous.

Part of why I've gotten so bad is that I can't afford the chiropractor; I haven't been in months. It frustrates me to tears that I'm spending $750 a month on healthcare right now and I'm still having these days. I'm taking way more pills than usual, which of course isn't any kind of solution. It just gets me through when I have no choice but to try to function.

My life is a perfect illustration of the concept that healthcare is for the rich. Melissa as a paralegal? Fully paid health insurance, low co-pays on prescriptions, see any doctor I want again with a low co-pay, and even some chiropractic and psychotherapy sessions covered. Melissa as a part time coffee shop worker? Paying more than I can afford even though the plan is state-assisted, and then it doesn't cover my drugs hardly at all, and won't let me see any of my doctors (because they're "specialists"). So I'm spending way more money, even though I'm making way less, and not seeing the docs I need to see, and so I'm still a wreck. Yes, it's a brilliant system. Privatization is the best! Hopefully I'll have a "real" job again soon, and I can re-enter the bourgeois world of those who can take proper care of themselves.

Oh, the job? The one I've interviewed for three times now? No word yet. I mean, it's only been two weeks, and it's not as if my life hangs in the balance or anything. Why would they rush? They'll just take their sweet time about it.

Supposedly, I'll hear tomorrow. As far as I can tell, my chances are still 50/50.

* * *

It is now 10:30 at night, and I am finally beginning to feel somewhat alright. Exhausted, but mostly functional. We went and had some Japanese food: miso, seaweed salad, edamame, green tea. These things are always restorative. We came back home and I slept for probably two hours, or maybe more. And then I took a warm bath. Finally, after this long day, I feel steady when I walk.

Maybe, if I'm lucky, tomorrow I'll feel that way when I wake up.

Chaos Coffee.

2008-09-12T12:19:00.005-04:00

Last night I ended up at my coffee shop. Because the girl who was to be supervising ended up in the ER. Fun times abound.

I arrived at the shop to discover that the girl who was supposed to be on register, a new girl, simply didn't show. Nor was she answering her telephone. So the whole place was being run by two people. That place, my friends, is not a two person place.

They were of course relieved at my arrival. But one of the two was scheduled to leave at 10pm; we don't close till midnight. She was on the bartender shift, and taking a full load during your last year of graduate school just doesn't allow much give as far as staying late is concerned.

So at 10pm, we were back to two. Luckily we had our hardworking porter on our side, who abandoned cleaning out grease traps under sinks to help us do dishes all night long. If it wasn't for him, I'm sure we would have been there until 2am. As it was, with his help and with stopping food service two hours earlier than usual, we actually got out on time.

The subway came relatively quickly; I was grateful for this, as the tunnel was very hot and because just before my arrival two lovely young men had been gracious enough to each take a piss in the alcove where I usually stand. They then of course retreated back to sit on the storage box, forcing me to walk past them and step over their fresh urine streams to reach a slightly less filthy waiting place. Mmm, subway. Mmm, people.

Upon falling asleep last night, I had strange dreams. They basically involved getting reprimanded by the shop's owner about the job we'd done running and closing the shop, engaging in a screaming fight with him, and ultimately quitting. Several things are odd about this: one is that I almost never see the owner, and if he's even aware of the daily goings on it would be a surprise to me. Two is, while he wouldn't be happy with the reduced service, he's not the type to be an ass about an obviously difficult situation. Three is that we were all dressed like hippies.

The fact is that I've been having messed up dreams pretty much every night. It's probably a function of not sleeping very well and having more pain than usual. I can remember three others from this week: one of my crazy escape-the-house dreams, in which I'm many stories up in a house teeming with malicious forces but I manage to find a back stairwell, usually hidden, through which to escape; one where I had somehow moved in and was having an affair with a man who was married (and maybe had a kid), and then his wife moved back in but I was still living there, and he and she both were acting all resentful of me and I was all, but you told me to come here; and one that morphed so often that I can't put a storyline to it at all.

Last weekend I had a terrible dream about Jonathan. I guess I sort of caught him going to visit another woman; when I found him he was sitting in a waiting room and wouldn't respond to my questions. Just blew me off and made snide remarks. Usually dreamJonathans don't act anything like him; this one was scary because the Jonathan in the dream acted just like real-life Jonathan when he's really pissed off. That one took quite a while to shake off after I woke up; for hours I felt like he was mad at me.

I hate it when my dream life does this to me. It feels so intrusive. If I'm gonna remember dreams I want them to be some kind of awesome happy fantasy life, not this grotesque contortion of worst case scenarios and demonically possessed houses. I wonder if I'll start having the school dreams - where I can't find my locker or my class, and I haven't been to the class for weeks anyway and I definitely don't have the homework, and when I finally find the right room the period is almost over and there's been a test.

I've become more of a problem solver in these dreams than I was when I was younger; no longer stumbling along totally frantic and helpless, I'm often able now to figure out the bizarre logic of a given dreamworld and make my way through somewhat. But at the root they're still all anxiety dreams, and they're no fun to be in. Or, for that matter, to wake up from.

Anyway.

I'm working again tonight; darling E needs to rest, and I really wouldn't hear of her working tonight after spending last night in the ER. Anyway, I need the money, meager as it is. I can pray for a slow night, but now that NYU's back in session I think it'll be much more realistic to pray for a competent crew... or one that at least shows up.

The moment(s) of truth.

2008-09-11T15:43:00.003-04:00

OK. I've done it. I've danced my final monkey dance, tutu and all. It was quite the dance, really it was. Now, I wait.

After yesterday's fiasco, I STILL haven't heard from the chick at the agency. No phone call, no email, no nothing. Today she's not picking up her phone. Does that strike anyone else as wildly unprofessional? It concerns me, because she is the only connection I have to this potential job. They're not going to call me up with an offer; they're going to call her. She even did her best to keep any of my contact information from them - removed it all from the copy of my resume that she sent them. Fortunately it's on the real resume that I gave them, if it comes to that...

I briefly entertained a notion that she was abandoning me, that if they called her with an offer for me she'd tell them I took another offer or something. But then I realized that she'd only be shooting herself in the foot. She doesn't make a penny for the time she's spent on me until she lands me. Of course, maybe she's sent them another candidate for the same position. Yes, conspiracy theories abound.

But rationally, it remains a mystery as to why she isn't picking up her phone... or responding to my emails. If she was out sick or for a death in the family or something, she would have (or at least should have) set up an auto response for emails saying as much. Yeah, definitely not totally over the feeling that she's avoiding me. At this point I find her behavior simply baffling, and more than a little frustrating.

Anyway, the job. Today I met the attorneys that I'd be working for. First the guy, Ned. Middle aged, mild mannered white guy; make a lot of subtle jokes. I liked him, and we had a good rapport. I felt I made a good impression. Nothing spectacular, but good. I could see working for him.

Then the gal, Nicole. Can I just say that I love her? She's awesome. She's maybe 10 years older than me, but I'm only guessing that because she revealed she has a son in middle school. Otherwise I would have judged her to be much closer to my age. She's extremely personable, and is the first person to seem to have really read my resume and noticed the truly wide range of responsibilities that I've mastered. I could so be her right hand girl. I now officially actually want this job - in the realm of wanting any office job at least.

So, kiddies, cross everything you've got. By the end of tomorrow, for better or worse, I should have an answer.

Dear Agency Twat,

2008-09-10T17:30:00.003-04:00

YOU SUCK ASS!

At this point you may be thinking to yourself, why in the world does Michelle think I suck ass? Well dear, let's review.

1. Today, you sent me into an interview without any preparation whatsoever. You told me the wrong position, and also claimed that the testing would be "a little bit easier" than what I'd done in your office. Imagine my surprise when I encountered an in depth practical test for MS Word involving the most advanced of formatting techniques. As you should be aware, because I've told you, I don't have advanced skills in Word; I've never used it in a professional setting. At my last job we used WordPerfect, a distinctly different program. Of course, I'd hardly be surprised if this is news to you, as you don't seem to hear anything I say.

2. Again at above mentioned interview, the interviewer was very surprised that you had not forwarded me the employment application which they require to be completed. What was I to do but shrug like a moron and complete one awkwardly on the spot? Of course, this wasn't nearly as surprising to her as the fact that you'd sent her a candidate (me) with inadequate Word skills, and in fact hadn't even told me that advanced word skills were required. Now, I'm assuming these things happened because you didn't bother finding out what they'd want from me at the interview; just a guess.

3. My name is Melissa. NOT Michelle. MELISSA. Me-lis-sa. In Greek, little honey bee. Not difficult. Fairly common in fact. It says it right there on my resume, and all of my emails, and the arduous application that I filled out at your stupid agency. So... you know. Learn it. Use it. Love it. And then stop effing calling me Michelle.

4. Y O U R = your (possessive). Y O U ' R E = contraction of 'you are'.

5. Commas, periods, and question marks do not have interchangeable meanings.

6. For the eighth time, NO, I am not interested in opportunities in Long Island. I don't have a car, and I don't intend to incur the extra travel time and expense of the LIRR. How many different ways can I say "on the subway"?

In summation, I don't like you and you're ugly and stupid. But none of that would matter in the least if you could do your job. Unfortunately, you seem to think that your job is to throw me at every "legal" opening you can get your grubby little hands on, whether or not I'm qualified for it, without preparing me for the interview in any way or even finding out what the company is looking for in a candidate. You don't listen when I speak, or read what I write in emails. I think you really may have missed your calling by not going into real estate. If and when I ever secure employment, which I sincerely doubt will occur due to your "assistance", rest assured that I will share your name, company, and exact skill level with everyone I possibly can.

Sincerely,
MELISSA Bastian

Developments... sort of.

2008-09-10T10:02:00.003-04:00

OK. So today, I am to interview at mega-corporate Law Firm number three. Boy am I excited! At least this one doesn't have a wikipedia entry like the last one did - now you know that's serious. I still haven't heard a final word from them of course; when I was there on Monday they said they wanted to bring me back a third time, to meet with the partners they're considering placing me under. But, as of yet, I don't even have an appointment for that. It's possible that it's not actually going to happen. It's also possible that the lawyers are controlling enough not to let a hiring happen without their express approval, but don't actually care enough to carve out a scheduled ten minute block to meet with me. I've met lawyers. This is entirely within the realm of possibility.

So today, Firm Three. I had to go out yesterday and buy more interview clothes, since I've exhausted every shirt I could possibly wear with the one "suit" that I own. (It gets rough when you have to go back to the same place three times. That is of course assuming that I am actually going back the third time.) My suit isn't really a suit - the pieces weren't made to go together, and I didn't buy them at the same time. They're both just black. I have tons of 'corporate casual' stuff since I lived in it for two and a half years, but despite the fact that that's what I'd wear every day if I land one of these jobs, I certainly can't show up to an interview like that. Now if it were me, and I was interviewing people, and I cared about how they looked in the place of work, I'd want them to show up to the interview dressed like they would to come to work. If I did that though, if I showed up in anything less than a "suit", it would be no from the get-go. A bit of a conundrum, no doubt, but I don't make up these stupid rules.

I've decided that if there are no firm job offers from the megas, or interviews with jobs that I actually want, by the end of next week, I'm throwing in the towel. Biting the bullet. Giving up. In other words? Calling up my old job and seeing if they want me back. This just has to end. As I was saying yesterday, when I can't make next month's rent without calling up mommy for a loan, that's when it's gone too far. The big trouble, when I'll be officially beyond screwed, is if they don't have a place for me. Then... well then, I see if their biggest competitor has anything to offer.

* * * One Hour Later.

10:41 am, and still nothing in my inbox. No email from the agency twat telling me when I get to go back for the third interview at Firm Two; no replies to all the cover letter/resume combos I've been sending out as prompted by listings on Craigslist and Idealist. A whole lotta nothin', and I'm becoming one of those people - the people that, well, obsessively check their inboxes. (And then blog about it.) I even spend time carefully scanning my junk mail, just in case. Sure, it's probably just spam for penis enlargement and mortgages - those people seriously want me to have a bigger penis - but what if it's one of the food-related non-profits telling me to call them for an interview immediately? I mean, it could happen right? Hey, if it weren't for this baseless optimism, I would have given up entirely long, long ago.

Somehow in all this interview mess, my own work has gotten lost in the shuffle. Over a week ago I rode the E train - have we seen a blog about it? Noooo. I must remember myself. I get so caught up and so dragged down in trying to make myself fit into this bizarro societal mold. I am not the mold, I say; it's all just an act. But if I forget the things that make me me, and I am also not the mold, then where am I? Lost.

The interview's not till three. I believe I'll spend some time being myself before the show starts.

Resolutuon? Nah.

2008-09-08T12:16:00.003-04:00

OK. I got all dolled up in my monkey suit. I rolled on out to 42nd street and 6th ave, which might I add is simply charming at the moment thanks to Fashion Week. Just before I'm about to enter the building, I notice a huge gray smudge on my nice, freshly ironed, light blue shirt. On my boob. OK then, so we're buttoning the jacket. Fan freakin tastic.

This is the place with the overly complicated elevators. I get to the 23rd floor no problem, but there's a bit of confusion as to where I'm supposed to go next. I mistakenly think it's the 30th floor, mixing it up with the second office I went to for the first interview last Tuesday. Somehow the guard, though, thinks I say the 33rd floor which is where she sends me. And which is still under construction. And which doesn't have any buttons outside of the elevator. The inside of the elevator of course has no buttons either, except for door open, door close, and emergency call. Well now isn't this fun. Fortunately the elevator seemed to decide of its own accord to descend back to 23, where wrongs are righted.

I finally arrive at the proper lobby, still a few minutes early thanks to my compulsively timed advances, and wait. I stare out of enormous plate glass windows at the Chrysler building, and then down at the New York Public Library. And I'm thinking, I write, I paint, I have tattoos, I've supported partners on two winning trials, and I type 65 goddamn words per minute. Shouldn't someone want to hire me for something?

Finally my host, as it were, arrives to guide me to interviewer number four (4) for this particular establishment. For her I smile nicely, folding my hands in my lap just so. She asks me a few extremely run of the mill questions, all of which I've already answered for three of her staff. And in under five minutes, she's done with me, having her secretary escort me back to the lavish lobby to do some more sitting on bold orange upholstery.

I wait. For about twenty minutes. Wondering if, despite the fact that I felt I spoke well, I said something terribly amiss that cut the interview short. Finally my original contact reappears to tell me that - you're gonna love this part - I have to meet with two more people but they're not available. (It's not as if, you know, I had an appointment or anything.) So I'll need to come back again. Naturally I smile and say of course, no problem. But internally I'm thinking, how does anything ever get done here? This place may be even less effective than government. In the scale of the goings on at this office, part of a firm that employs over 1000 attorneys worldwide, the hiring of a legal secretary is pretty small beans. And yet it takes a committee of six and two weeks of deliberation to vote yay or nay? Good god, the company picnic must take six months and every resource they've got. Cole slaw or potato salad? Cole slaw or potato salad!? I CAN'T THINK! Jesus, I just don't know - you'd better bring Jerry and Sue in on this one...

So, basically, I left there forty minutes after I arrived, none the wiser to the status of my employment but significantly more frustrated. I mean, I knew it would be hard to find a good job, one I actually want to be doing. But there's no part of me that would have guessed that even after deciding to sell out once again and go legal and corporate, I'd still be having this much trouble. Call it naivety if you wish. I'm just sort of stunned. Part of me doesn't even want this job anymore - part of the part that ever wanted it in the first place, that is; the part that worries about paying rent.

And so, the saga continues with no inkling of relief or resolution. Right about now, it's getting to be time to call up mom and ask for some money - something I haven't actually done since around 2003. Self esteem? Meh, who needs it.

Tired.

2008-09-07T22:09:00.003-04:00

Interview tomorrow, again.

Coffee shop last night, bad. Back. Not good. No walk. Cab home. Much crying.

Today, pain. Finally released on its own at about 1pm... well, on its own plus drugs.

Yes, tomorrow, interview with fourth person. If I don't leave there with a job, I swear I'm going to vomit. Of course, if I leave there with a job I may vomit. As far as I can tell it's a lose/lose situation. But at least with one of the outcomes, I'll start getting paid.

News from the frontlines.

2008-09-04T15:59:00.005-04:00

So the verdict is in... sort of.

Company number one, the one which resides at 666 Third, is a nay. The story is that they LOVED me and wanted to offer me a job, but someone from within the company wanted the position. That they 'struggled over it', but loyalties always lie with current employees. I'm not sure that I buy this. Maybe it's what they fed my headhunter, and maybe it's just what she's feeding me so that I don't get discouraged. It could be the truth; that sort of thing happens. But it seems like they would have known earlier and not put me through the 3 hours of hellish interviewing... whatev.

Company number two, the one I preferred, is singing a different tune. They haven't done anything so crazy as to offer me a job, no. They want to bring me in again on Monday, so that I can interview with a FOURTH person. Apparently the THREE people I spoke with on Tuesday don't have the kind of decision making power it takes to seal the deal? Or something? Anyway at least they liked me enough to bring me in a second time. And it would be seriously dick of them to do that and then not offer me any of the three (3) positions that they're hiring for. Not that such a qualification has ever stopped a corporation from doing anything.

So basically I'm still in limbo, but at least I know that I didn't completely blow it out there on Tuesday. I can make 'em believe my song and dance. And that's fine, because I've actually been damn good at pretty much every job I've ever had.

I'm not just leaving it up to the agency any more; I've started hitting craigslist again and today applied for an exec assist position with a nonprofit 'women's organization'. Who knows? Maybe they'll read my email. Anything's possible.

The only thing I know for sure is that if I'm not gainfully employed by the end of this month, my portion of the rent is coming out of the wedding fund... and let's just say that's something I'd like to avoid.