Happy(?) Anniversary

Today I’ve been at my job for a year. I remember the sinking feeling I had last year when I got into this relationship with my job, the feeling like, “Is this the only job I’ll ever have for the rest of my life?” Although I knew it wouldn’t be the rest of my life, I couldn’t imagine being there every day, and a year seemed like it would drag on until I felt like I was 87 and my husband of 60 years had never gone down on me. You know what I mean?

Even if you don’t, here I am, a year later, not married or 87, and determined to marry a man that will perform cunnilingus frequently. Eww although not when we’re old because extra wrinkles are too much work. Anyway.

So what do I get after a year? A cluttered desk, no real raise or review, 12 issues of one magazine and six of another, a million Diet Dr. Peppers, dirty Tupperware, and the feeling that I’ll be here for at least another year. Meanwhile the creative part of my brain is trickling away into the dust and disappearing while I watch everyone else around me grow and blossom and gain professional credit. I still can't pay my loans.

Awesome. Thanks for that year of my life.

Poor Ernst

As per The Daily Telegraph:

Little sun bear Ernst is miserable now in his enclosure at the Zoologischer Garten zoo in Berlin, because he has lost his visitors to popular bear cub Knut.

So, you know, you want to feel bad for this little guy, right?


Look at that little mug! So sad! So blue! Whatever shall he do, without the hordes of screaming children chucking things at him and the hundreds of flashbulbs blinding him and the neverending noise keeping him from his sweet bear dreams?

Oh, nevermind. I think he'll be just fine.

On a side note, I think he kind of looks like Jeremy Irons.

Bookit to me

I’ve discovered the best distraction ever, well I didn’t discover it but now I love it so much that I’ll attempt to claim I discovered it when really I don’t know where I found it: www.dailylit.com. You pick a book you want to read and they email it to your lazy cheap ass just like that, in easy little bits, whenever you want. I picked Anna Karenina and thought, Right, I will never read this, I am way too lowbrow and ADDish. But now, instead of just sticking to the MWF schedule I originally chose, I click on “Send me the next fragment immediately” link over and over again, all day, until now I’m on part 65 of 430 and cruising along quite nicely. What’s going to happen to these people? I know someone gets crushed under a train, and someone of no character/story consequence already has, but I bet that’s just some nice use of foreboding. Don’t spoil it for me, please. I’ll get to part 430 by tomorrow afternoon at this point.

Fuck you, MegaMillions

Every time I read another story/book/blog entry about New York and how it is/is not how so-and-so imagined it, I want to hit someone. There are people who live like the people do in movies and chick lit based in New York. These are rich people. And even they are deluding themselves and playing characters based only slightly in reality. Most of the people in New York are so boringly normal, that life here becomes one unending cycle of workweek followed by boozy weekend followed by workweek followed by yeah, another boozy weekend where I sit on my couch thinking of what I’d be doing if I had money. If I’ve just gotten paid, and it’s not time to pay rent yet, I’ll go to brunch. One week later, when my bank account is overdrawn (oops, bills, student loans) I’ll regret the brunch choice and instead opt for Maxwell House and a half-ass omelette that I like to call “Scramble Surprise” because I can never get it to retain its ideal omelette form. Then my friends call to "go out for drinks!" and I try to decide if I can smuggle the seven leftover beers from New Year's in my purse because come on, paying $3 per drink is highway robbery.

Where was I. Yes. Boring. Normal. Work sucks for everyone unless you are getting paid a cajillion dollars to appear at parties or “design” a fashion label or do something else incredibly stupid that makes people like me jealous and angry that they weren’t born braindead so they wouldn’t have to witness it. People envy me my job until I tell them how much I make, where I’m going with it (nowhere) and exactly how many words of pornographic filth I have to wade through daily to try to make something that doesn’t completely suck your soul out.

I want to write a book where a girl has no huge expectations, beyond an unrealistic relationship ideal, moves to New York, sinks lower in debt, hates her job, does the same things every weekend with the same people, and can’t afford brunch three out of four weekends in the month. Unfortunately, not everyone is me, and most of those people that aren’t me are rich, comparatively, so they’ll be fine, and I will still hate them, especially when they publish that saucy piece of trashy literature where their character has “problems” but still manages to wear designer shit every day, even if their mean old boss does yell at them sometimes. Boo hoo. Buy me brunch.

If you can’t tell, I’m bitter that I didn’t win $390 million the other day.

This week in disturbing events

These two events have nowhere else to go but here, at the end of the week. They stand out in my mind because they disturbed/upset/ickyfeelinged me, in their own separate ways. If I were an annoying Seinfeld character (yes, I am the third person you know in the entire world who despises Seinfeld) I would premise these stories with, "What is up with (blankety blank)?" But I'm not, so I won't.

Monday, 7PM, at Dolphin Gym on Avenue B and 3rd street. I am merrily ellipticaling, minding my own cardiac business, when I see two stationary cyclists chatting. One is a girl, one is a guy. "Oh how nice, they must know each other!" I think, not jealous at all, because honestly it's really hard to casually shoot the shit while racing towards a healthy heart rate. At least for me. Anyway, they chat, then cycle, then chat, then all of a sudden, their necks are stretching and their mouths are veering dangerously close to each other. In a horrible flash I see it all: These two are dating. Sick. These two exercise together. Awwwkward. These two are about to make out, WHILE exercising. Holy shit, no God, please don't do this to me--and there they go, smooching away while riding their bikes to nowhere. There is no kissing in the gym while riding. That is my rule and I think it's a good one. If I wanted to be nauseated by public displays of affection I'd go hang out in the park and watch people on their carriage rides. Not like I've ever done that.

Yesterday, 6PM, Manhattan Mall, on my way to buy two shirts totaling $13.50 (thank you Charlotte Russe clearance rack). A lost-looking woman in a coat and hat says, "Excuse me, can I ask you something?" and touches my arm. She has a herpes-like cold sore on her lip, and there is a big black hair growing right through it, I swear to God. Which is fine, I don't discriminate when I give directions, which is what I thought was about to happen. But it was much, much worse.

"Is this your natural hair color?" she asks, grabbing a hunk of my hair in her creepy claws. "Um, yes." "Veeerry nice! And are these your real nails?" she coos, grabbing my hand, barely glancing at my chewed-down, splitting, decidedly non-fake nails, nails no one would ever shell out money for. "Yeah..." I reply, just as she whips out a crappy old used nail buffer AND STARTS TO BUFF MY NAILS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MALL. I snatched my hand away and ran to the safe welcoming arms of Charlotte Russe. To be fair, as I looked back quickly as I ran, she was standing near the Dead Sea Minerals stand and probably just wanted to help. But look, do not pull my hair and then try to buff my nails, when you're not wearing a beauty person uniform/apron.

People. Stop disgusting me. You are making me lose my faith in humanity. On that note, I am going to Vermont this weekend to restore said faith by ogling hippie boys and their patchwork pants at Magic Hat Mardi Gras. Boo-yah.

VD is for everyone

I'm getting this one out of the way now, early on, so you don't have to spend your day worrying about my feelings on VD. Instead, you can enjoy yourself with a loved one, or you can spend it being bitter and lashing out at all the commercial signs of a love you wish you had. Whatever.

I am not diametrically opposed to VD, unless it really is an actual VD and is incurable and bumpy and nasty. I think it's great that people are reminded at least once a year (although let's face it, you shouldn't need a reminder) that they love someone. I like this day because I get to spend it acting bitter and saying charming things like, "Fuck flowers, stupid Hallmark, you have a sick case of VD, don't touch me," etc, and no one can say anything about it. They just chuckle, thinking, "Oh, that MB. Being single must suck!"

I disagree. All you couples on VD have to think of something that's not contrived, that really means something to your loved one. You have to work hard, be creative, and come up with a gift that isn't silly and is actually sincere—all while pretending, for the sake of your single friends, that this day is not a big deal.
It is a big deal, to everyone. This is the day I can complain about dying alone and shake my fist at marketing tactics. It's a holiday for me as much as you, just a slightly different kind. And people still give me chocolate so I'm not missing out anyway.

By the way, it is hailing tiny ice balls outside—tickly!
Also, if I ever were to be in love and want a mushy poem taped to my bathroom mirror, this one would be it. So, you know, uh, Happy Valentine's Day.

By ee cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

Happy MLK Day

Oh, hey Blog. How have you been? Oh, cool. Me too. What? What is it? Don't look at me like that. I know I promised I'd take better care of you and actually try to put some real work into this relationship, but I lied. I'm a liar, okay? A big fat lazy liar.

I've had a lot to deal with lately. I mean, sometimes I do things at work. My boss started coming in on time which meant I had to come in on time and not just five minutes before him so he'd think I'd been there since nine. And it's really hard to get the balance going, the switching between Firefox (so many open tabs!) and Word and In Design and work email, while making it appear that I am actually accomplishing something. When in truth, I like to get things done when my boss isn't there to see, for some self-punishing reason that probably has to do with my father and his nagging me to clean my room, or you're grounded and I would be like stop yelling at me, I'll do it, I don't need to see the floor and then I'd only clean it when he finally gave up and stormed out to "go throw myself into the lake."

No one is at work today. Because it's a bank holiday, holy MLK day, when most normal people get to relax and think on the state of civil rights then and now. But not us. Nope, not this magazine. We are so committed to bringing you quality content, that we do not have the day off. Except for the people who took the day off.

That brings me to why I'm here, Blog. I wanted to say I'm sorry, one more time. I wanted to say I've missed you, and I hope we can work it out. And if not, it's okay because I'll just be back in another month and a half or so.

xoxo

Me