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"The true New Yorker secretly believes that anyone living anywhere else has got to be, in some sense, kidding."
-John Updike

"But it's the truth even if it didn't happen."
-Ken Kesey

"I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no brief candle to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations."
-George Bernard Shaw

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Friday, July 11, 2003
 
uh oh

Just ordered a 16x20 print of one of my favorite digital pictures (that I've shot) from ofoto. If they do a nice job, I'm gonna be in big trouble. As in, turning-my-entire-paycheck-over-to-ofoto-every-month kinda trouble. I want me some really nice prints of my digital pictures to hang in the Brand-New Apartment of Fabulousness (BNaF).

They also will take your photographs and make greeting cards out of them.

Yeeeeeeeeeah, I'm so fucked.




Wednesday, July 09, 2003
 
blogshares?

It has recently come to my attention that my blog is registered over at Blogshares. Can someone explain to me how this works? How is my price? Is it good? Bad? What is accomplished by buying and/or selling blogshares? Do you, like, win stuff? And what kinds of things make your stock go up?

I dun ged it. Please 'splain.



 
pump up the wellbutrin

God lord amighty in heaven above, I feel like shit today. Depression. It hasn't been here in months and months, but it showed up today. There are two or three little irritants that are snapping at my toes today, but nothing so big that I should be feeling this bad.

As a result, I am eating everything in sight. Just try and stop me. I dare you.

I just want to be home laying on my couch with a cold compress on my eyes listening to Enya, aka Music for Women About to Lose Their Shit (tm The Onion).

Speaking of The Onion, it's pretty hard not to laugh at this, even with the hormonal revolution going on inside my body right now.




Tuesday, July 08, 2003
 
hello. i love you. won't you tell me your name

Well, hello there, BJ. Helloooooooooooo there.

Oh yes. Don't mind if I do.

You, sir, are my new best friend. Call me every five minutes.




Monday, July 07, 2003
 
i'm thinking of changing the name of my blog

Thoughts? I kinda love it.

My other option is keeping the Coney Island name and changing the "welcome to the big city" thing to the "you can dance if you want to" thing.

If I change the main name, I think I'll change my colors from blue to red.

Please vote. I need your, like, input.



 
i'm not gonna make it til friday...

I agreed to do the 9-5 thing for a month. A Big Imporant Boss (BIB) is visiting from overseas for the next few weeks and wanted me to work for him. I thought it might be nice to leave at 5pm for a while (instead of my usual 9pm, and instead of working three 12-hour days a week in order to get two 4-hour days, days I usually spend writing or taking pictures or walking around the city or running errands or sleeping or doing whatever assorted activities that directly feed into my having an actual, like, *life*).

It's Monday of the first full week I'm doing this, and I hate it already. I can't believe I don't have a day to myself again until Saturday. I can't believe I have to wake up at 7am every day this week. I can't believe this place owns me until August.

I don't know how people do this every day of their lives and don't kill themselves.

Any questions I had about whether I'd be happier working a 9-5 schedule? Have been answered.

Feh.


 
leap and the net will appear

There is something to be said for just putting yourself in a position where you absolutely must accomplish something. I am inherently lazy and know that lots of times I won't do the very things I truly want to do, so I find a way to force myself to do them - to take away the choice to be lazy. I did that today. On a small scale, but I did do it.

I wanted the four bookcases from Ikea. I wanted them today. I'm tired of my hundreds of books sitting around my new place in brown cardboard boxes with "HANOVER" printed in blue ink on the side, piled 10 or 12 high in my bedroom (which I haven't used in weeks, since the heatwave began, and the air conditioner is in the living room). I want to be fully unpacked. Fully nested. I want to see all my dog-eared books, my small soft paperbacks, my big, fat, heavy hardcovers, the photography books, the art books, my old notebooks - I want them all around me, telling me this place is my home, that we all belong here. That no one will try to pry us out.

So I want the four bookcases. The big ones will be delivered tomorrow - three of them - but they won't begin to hold everything. I need more . I want the short white ones, too - the 42 inch high ones. I'll put two between the windows in my bedroom, one by the closet, one by the door in my office. I can unpack some pictures and put them out, some of my little ceramic skulls, my jewelry boxes and all the crap that one accumulates by the time one is 32.

It's 90 degrees by the time I leave home at 10am. There is a free shuttle bus from the Port Authority that takes New Yorkers over to the Ikea in Elizabeth, NJ. I bring along my little red cart, the one I use to go to the laundromat and food shopping. I know the bookcases (un-assembled in flat boxes) won't fit inside the cart, but I figure I can lay them on top and that will at least get me from the bus to the curb, where I can hail a taxi. I also figure that if that doesn't work, I'll already be back at the Port Authority with my four unassembled bookcases and I'll have no choice but to figure something out. I have no clue what that will be, but see, this is where my plan comes in. If I sit here and try to plan what I'll do in that situation, those bookcases will never get here. I just have to get myself to the Port Authority with those boxes and I'll be forced to figure something out.

I get to Ikea. It's still quiet there, the masses still sleeping on Sunday morning, planning to come later. I want to get in and out before it's crazy. I make the mistake of walking through the marketplace on my way to the furniture self-serve. The marketplace is where they have all the little crap - candles and wine glasses, coffee cups and wall sconces. Little purple salad bowls for $2.50, a set of kitchen knives for $5. By the time I get to the furniture section, my cart is nearly full of little crap. Fabulous, beautiful, adorable, useful, super-cheap little crap. I find my bookcases. White, 24 inches wide, 42 inches high. $19.95 each. Can't beat that with a stick. I pull the first one off the stack. Rather, I try to pull one off. I discover that each unassembled case must weigh 40 pounds. See, this is going to be more difficult than I had planned. I'm not even sure I can navigate four of these to the checkout counter, let alone somehow get them off the shuttle bus and to the corner of 42nd and 8th to get a taxi home.

But, see, I pulled myself out of bed at 8:30am on a scorching Sunday, hauled my ass all the way to New Jersey for them. They're right here, right in my hand, exactly what I came for. How I can I not get them? How could I have come all this way just to go home with less than what I wanted? I think of the huge unassembled entertainment center I once got home to NYC from Ikea. It had seven foot tall side brackets. There were 5 shelves to a packet, solid wood. I had two packets of five shelves each and 3 six-foot-tall brackets. I lived in a sixth floor walk up. And I got them home. Somehow. All by my fucking self. I remind myself of this and think that these little bookcases are nothing compared to that. I even live in an elevator building now! The hardest part of this will be just getting to a taxi. Fuck it, I think. There is no way am I going home with less than what I came for. I'll just buy them, get them on the bus and figure it out when I get there.

Ten minutes later, I'm out in the Ikea parking lot, sweat pouring down my face, tying all the boxes together with string. What a genius I am. I figure I can nudge them to the curb, one step at a time, once I get back to the city. It might take a while, but I'll get there. So I'm tying these 4 forty-pound boxes together and thinking like an insane woman. Oh, yes, Christy. You'll manage to carry 160 pounds of wood, your handbag, and your little red shopping cart from the gate five of the Port Authority Bus Terminal all the way out to the curb - no problem! Can't just carry one of the items at a time, of course. This is New York. By the time you get back to get item number two, it (along with times 3, 4 and 5) will be gone. When you hurry back to the curb in horror to collect the one box you did manage to transport, that one will be gone as well. You have to have everything on your person at once. All two-fucking-hundred pounds of it. Oh yes, Christy. You'll figure it out. You always do. Just get yourself on the bus. Don't think, just go.

The Ikea guy sees me struggling to pull my bundle of four boxes off the cart. It's is unimaginably heavy. He comes over, takes one end, and helps me onto the bus. It is a back-breaking task for both of us. "You can't carry this," this tells me. I just laugh, thank him, tell him I'll figure something out. Really what I'm thinking is that when we get back to NY, the helpful Ikea guy will still be in Elizabeth. I'll be alone. Oh fuck. What have I gotten myself into?

On the bus ride back to NY, I don't worry. Why should I worry? What can I accomplish by worrying? I have a two hundred pound load of Stuff on this bus. I am alone. There is no one on the other side to help me. I'll have to figure something out. What choice do I have? The stuff has been bought. It's mine. Everything I came all the way out there to buy is mine. Somehow, it will make it's way to my apartment in the next hour or so. How? No idea. I can't wait to find out.

On the bus, I hear a 25ish man making cell phone calls, looking for someone with a car to help him and his Calvin Klein jeans model girlfriend get their boxes home. No one bites. He tells her they'll just have to get a taxi. They're bummed. They don't want to have to carry their stuff, not even for a block. I don't know what they've got, but I'm absolutely sure they ain't in anywhere near the predicament I am. Besides, there are two of them. Fuck them.

We get to gate five of the Port Authority. The driver opens up the belly of the bus and everyone grabs their stuff. Cell phone dude and his girlfriend pick up their two boxes - one box each with not a moment of visible struggle - jog out to the curb, and are zipping away in a taxi before I've even touched my stuff. Mother fuckers.

I let everyone else get their things. Mine is gonna take a few. Besides, it also occurs to me that if I'm holding up the bus driver by not being able to get my stuff off, he might be inclined to help me. Hee.

It works. He bends over and tries to help me pull my bundle out. It doesn't budge. "Damn. What you got in here? How you gonna carry this?"

"I have no idea. I don't know what I was thinking!" I can't even really take one end of the bundle as I'm also dealing with my handbag and the cart full of marketplace stuff I'm also hauling. Suddenly, an angel of the lord appears. A Port Authority worker. He takes one end of the load and he and the driver are carrying it out to the curb! Oh, joyous day! I thank them profusely. Inside, I'm also thanking God, the universe, whoever it is that looks down upon me and helps me in these situations cause its damn straight that ain't no one down here helping me. Not anyone I know, anyway. Just these two very nice strangers who are carrying my incredibly heavy boxes 30 feet to the curb. I thank them 100 more times. They say good luck and disappear back into the terminal.

At this point, I notice where they've left me. I'm on the sidewalk, yes, but I'm on a sidewalk that is separated from the street by a long line of police barricades. Oh, and a police van. Is parked. Right next to me. Yeeeeah, LOTS of taxi drivers are gonna want to stop here, get out of their cabs, help me carry my boxes and lift them into the trunk, all under the watchful eye of the cop in the van, who is dying to give them a ticket.

From behind the van and the barricades, I wave at taxis going by. I can practically hear them laughing at me as they zoom by. One, two, ten of them...no one is going to stop for me. I know this. This is quite possibly the worst spot in the entire city from which to hail a cab. I know I have to move. I look at the shopping cart to my right. So easy for someone to grab and run. I know I can't take my eyes off it. I move it over closer to the boxes, let it go for a minute and attempt to budge the bookcases. You know, just to see if I can. Like the cab drivers, the bookcases laugh at me. Even if I could budge the bookcases, I'd need both hands to carry them, and I can't leave the cart behind because it'll be gone in 30 seconds.I am stuck. I'm looking around for a couple of guys who I can offer 5 bucks to carry the boxes to the corner for me (as it'll be virtually impossible for them to run away with 200 pounds of wood - and if they do, fuck, they deserve to keep it) and am still waving at every taxi that goes by.

And that's when I met him. The Nicest Cab Driver in the City of New York. He sees me with my huge bundle of boxes, my shopping cart, my handbag and he takes pity on me. He double parks next to the police van, gets out of his taxi, comes around to the sidewalk and helps me figure out how the two of us can get these boxes into his trunk. His cab is running and the driver-side door is wide open. All I'm thinking is that anyone could just jump right in there and speed away, but the driver doesn't seem to care. He's just intent on helping me.

It takes us a full ten minutes to move the boxes out to the street and fit them into his trunk, but we do eventually succeed. I thank him more times than I have ever thanked anyone in my life and collapse into the air conditioned back seat. It's done. There are a few outside steps and a long hallway to negotiate when I get home, but the worst is over. I'm in the cab. I'm on my way home. Everything I wanted is with me. I put myself in an impossible position and forced myself to figure a way out. And the universe helped me, sending me some incredibly nice strangers to lend a hand. The cab driver even offers me some Doritos. When we get to my building, I tip him five bucks on a ten dollar fare.

The final laugh? Once my boxes, my shopping cart and I are all inside my apartment and I'm showered and collapsed on the sofa, I pull out the receipt. 68 bucks? But the four bookcases were 20 bucks each, plus all that assorted crap I bought - how's that possible?

She didn't charge me for any of the bookcases. Not one.

Leap and the net will appear. Ever heard that saying? I think I might just believe it. Remind me of this when I say I don't.



 

 
   
   

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