my building is full of kindergartners

meeses

I lived in Washington Heights for a while. Two summers between college semesters were spent in a sunny two-bedroom on Haven Avenue; north of Harlem, south of the Bronx. That first washington heights summer, I lived with Enid; my dear, dear Spanish Harlem Mona Lisa. We talked through the nights and into the mornings; shared recipes (her chicken a la king for my pasta e fagioli) and adopted a teenaged cat together (Heifer). When it came to raising Heifer, Enid was the disciplinarian whereas I was the indulger; when Heifer climbed up the curtains and sent the whole unit tumbling to the ground around her, it was Enid who shook her finger angrily - "mira! mira!" - while I was the one who scooped up the offending, startled heifer in a clumsy attempt to soothe her.

One afternoon, I was beginning the trek up the 4 flights of stairs to our apartment when I heard a familiar shriek. Enid! I sprinted up the remaining stairs and threw the door to our apartment open, burst inside and found ... Enid, atop a chair in the living room, with her hands pressed to her cheeks.

"A mouse! A mouse!" she cried.

"That's it - a mouse?" I asked. No rapist. No jerk ex-boyfriend. No jehovah's witness - a mouse; teeny, cute and gray. That's silly, I thought, to hide from a creature 3 inches long. What can a mouse really do - spit on your toes?

"There!" Enid shouted. I looked. A blur of grey, fur and sweat streaked from one side of the room to the other. Suddenly, there wasn't enough room on the chair for the both of us.

So we had mice.

Immediately, we went into denial. The little buggers made it easy - after their initial appearance, they were mercifully silent for a couple of days. It was a fluke, we agreed. Just one wayward mouse who had gotten lost on his way from one filthy apartment to another filthy apartment. Our apartment was clean and nice. He (we were sure it was a "he") didn't belong here. He must have sensed he was in a clean house and gone on his way. Yes.

We decided to have a mural-painting party. We laid plastic garbage bags down on the floor and pushed all of the furniture into the center of the living room. Sea life on one wall, we decided, free form on the others. Enid's friend declared that he would paint a portrait of himself as a Spanish parrot on the north wall. We thought that was a fine idea. We splattered paint on the plastic bags gleefully as we slopped our brushes on the formerly bland walls, working quietly, except for the random haunting bursts of song from Enid.

Underneath us, the plastic rippled. We paused, our brushes dripping, hovering in mid-air.

"Don't move," we told each other.

We were still. The ripples continued. We jumped onto the furniture in the middle of the room. The mice were back, and taking control of the place under the cover of the plastic bags so we could only guess where the ripples would next hit. It was the perfect plan, and we were beached on the couch at their mercy.

Then: a lithe lump of gray and white fur - muscles twitching underneath the black stripes - hurtled with white paws and sharp claws splayed onto the plastic. She darted, she leapt, she recoiled, she pounced. Heck yes! How could we have doubted our safety when we had a she cat on the premises? The mice? Toast!

In the minutes, hours and days that followed, it was discovered that stripey little Heifer was a really great mouser. Finally able to relax, we congratulated ourselves on being so brilliant as to welcome a cat into our home. Leave mouse poo on our dishes, yeah? Sneak around our house, would they? Scare us onto rickety chairs, eh? Heifer pounced on them before they even moved and for a little while, we were pretty pleased with ourselves and with our she cat.

Pleased ... until to our great dismay, we began to notice the grisly collection of mouse parts strewn throughout the apartment; a deathly trail leading to the sometimes still-shuddering carcass itself.

It was abominable. how quickly things changed. Whereas we had begun our relationship with the mice in our hice as sworn enemies, our hearts melted at their cruel fate and we began to feel compassionate towards them. Whispering so that Heifer wouldn't hear, we devised a system of allowing her to chase them towards us where we would be waiting with open plastic bags. Often, it worked; we captured quite a few quivering mice this way and were able to free them from Heifer's bloodthirsty maw by releasing them onto the fire escape.

But it wasn't enough. We couldn't be there at all times. At some point, Heifer was going to be alone with the mice. And after she chased and chased and chased them and sent them into coronary arrest, she was going to eat their little ears, their little arms, their little scaly tales and generously leave the rest for us. We'd read, of course, that cats and dogs often leave dead things for their humans as a "gift." Knowing Heifer as we had come to know Heifer, I couldn't help but wonder if the cat was, in fact, letting us know exactly what she was capable of. It was a terrifying, creeping realization - beneath the rattling purr and the soft nuzzling cheeks lay a twisted, cruel soul. What kind of beast had we let into our home?

Eventually, Heifer exterminated all of the mice in a five-mile radius, the cleaning products we sprayed around the house on the advice of my friend, Shiskabob, worked and/or the mice were scared away from our apartment for good because the trail of mouse grew fainter and fainter until it no longer existed. Enid and I exulted - not just for us, but for the poor little meeses as well. The reign of terror, it appeared, had ended at last. Heifer sulked. We placated her with more toys and food and she became quite fat and content to pounce at us when we entered or left a room. She lay in wait at all times and if we moved, she was there - claws and teeth poised to strike but, thankfully, inflicting no more harm than the odd scratch.

After college, I moved to the East Village. It seemed safe enough to bring Heifer with me. We moved into a three bedroom railroad apartment on 6th Street and Avenue A. There was a mouse; my blood curdled. In seconds, Heifer slashed its throat; the predatory princess was back. Thankfully, we only ever had two mice in my stay at 6 and A; the second, I managed to save from her jaws and set out on our fire escape where the poor thing - frightened beyond repair and possibly injured - breathed its last just as it received its freedom. Was my act a kindness or did I somehow make the death crueler by the twist of irony? Whereas I had once helped the mice, I had now unwittingly become an accomplice.

We moved to an 8 x 8 studio on the first floor of a building on Avenue A, and against my better judgment I brought her with me again. The place was quite cramped and after she took to running in circles around its perimeters, I sometimes considered allowing her to play in the small courtyard outside but my dreams were haunted by the thought that she would slay the squirrels that ran past and bring their remains inside. Just a friendly reminder. No thank you, said my night sweats. Heifer would have to deal with the close quarters just like me.

We moved to our current digs. Since she was on good behavior, I brought her with me again. Truth be told, in her sweeter, purrier moments, she is good company. At times in our current apartment, there are cockroaches (which she kills and does not eat). They remain in one piece and therefore, so do I. She skulks. She gnaws on my hands and shreds the burnt orange velour sectional couch that does not belong to me.

But aside from the times when we bicker, things are peaceful. Blood does not stain my home.

I've been away for a few days, living in my brother's apartment so O can take care of his dog while he is away. Before work tonight, I went back home to feed Heifer and clean the kitchen - I went to a friend's home this weekend (their clean, lovely home) and was inspired to make mine look clean and nice, too. I picked up a Tupperware container that was on the drying rack and froze. There, clinging to the bottom, were what looked like dozens of kiwi seeds. The Tupperware shook in my hands. My widening eyes took in the countertop - dozens of kiwi seeds were also scattered all over the metal surface. The sweltering room swayed, I put a hand out to steady myself. Mechanically, I began to mop up the kiwi seeds from the countertop. Kiwi seeds. Kiwi seeds. Nothing but kiwi seeds. I berated myself: must stop buying kiwis, coring them, and dumping their seeds around the kitchen....

The countertops dried. Heifer sat across the room - one lithe white paw crossed over the other, her eyes half-open. Did she look satisfied? Perhaps she looked satisfied. I had seen that look before. It sometimes happened after I shared chicken with her, or after she destroyed something I prized. Sometimes it appeared after she awoke from a nap. or after she sampled mouse liver pate.

If there was a "kiwi" running around in the kitchen, it is certainly no longer living.

It is to be a sweltering summer. I never run the air conditioning because I'm cheap.

I will come home. I will open a cupboard. I will slip my feet into my covers. I will move the bookcase from the wall. There will be a smell. It will smell like death.

I will find more kiwi seeds. I will find spots of red.

I wait.

Because I know it's only a matter of time.

two

schlepping home from the office at two in the morning - settling in for the epic wait for the 6 train, warily eyeing the construction workers in their bright yellow helmets heft hammers and crawl over the tracks - i tucked my feet underneath myself on the bench like a chicken so that when the sweat-striped rats scurried by they left me be ...

... riding up in the elevator, I saw that the cheeky pen-scrawled graffiti on the sign the management posted ("spoiled bourgeois!") that i wanted to post a picture of has already been x'd out.

a little something ...

... for P.J. and Peaches, who are so faithful in their checking of this "blog" ...

first: an explanation as to why there have been so few ... er ... no posts in the past month and a half - I felt as though I had very little ... er ... nothing to say. 'twas one of those silent times ... 'tis still one of those silent times but if I've got the account I might as well use it. And there are a few things to report, simply for the sake of keeping this blog up to date ...

Next: some bullet points

• it is only a matter of time before the song "Barbie Girl" comes back in vogue. and when it does, i will be waiting. also, angry.
• going to see the new Neil LaBute play tonight; Some Girl(s), starring Maura Tierney, Eric McCormick, Fran Drescher, Brooke Smith ... and Judy Reyes - Carla, from Scrubs. as i adore Scrubs, this is very exciting to me ...
• heifer has just jumped on the bed. say hello, heifer.
• I believe that "i giardini di marzo" and "vorrei ... non vorrei ... ma se vuoi" might have replaced "o mare nero" and "acqua azzura, acqua chiara" as my favorite lucio battisti songs, the latter by just a hair.

and other such nonsense.

In bed all day; no appointments this morning (though, looking back, brunch would have been nice ... i would dearly love to go back to Kitchenette), perhaps catching up on sleep. there are things to be cleaned, things to be straightened up. I read Buttercry's blog in thrall as she describes her homemaking in a charming rowhome in Baltimore. Perhaps one day, I, too, will have corn starch and flour for granted in my pantry.

Things I Have Learned About the Human Body in the Past Seven Months

1. The chest has joints - located in the sternum, connecting it to the clavicle, and connecting the sternum's manubrium, body, and xyphoid process. these joints can be strained, through trauma or strenuous physical activity, such as coughing or, say, intense vomiting resulting from too much damn vodka.

2. The spleen filters the blood and while useful in combatting infections, it is not essential in adults.

3. Trauma to teeth - impact, the force of braces - can result in the death of the tooth, even 20 years later. Or, more specifically, 13-16 years later when a front incisor suddenly turns grayish at the top. the solution? a root canal.

siiiiiggggghhh. my company's dental insurance update couldn't have come at a better time.

Overheard in Bodies ... The Exhibition

I Like Polymer Butts And I Can Not Lie

Teenage Girl [to her mother]: Stop staring at his saggy butt!

reported by OI ______________________________________________________________________________________

Man [to himself]: They always got to put that butt on, don't they?

reported by OI ______________________________________________________________________________________

... Or You'll Go Blind.

Teenage Girl [to another teenage girl]: Ew, don't touch it!

reported by OI ______________________________________________________________________________________

It's What's for Dinner

Woman [staring at pectoral muscles]: Jesus. It looks like beef.

Vegan Woman: It's all the same thing.

reported by OI ______________________________________________________________________________________

No, your Honor - there were never any signs

Little boy [rushing to specimen]: I really really really really want to see this one.

reported by OI ______________________________________________________________________________________

Everything has to be a competition

Woman: This one's better hung than that one.

reported by LB ______________________________________________________________________________________

....among other disturbing, disrespectful things overheard.

Bodies ... The Exhibition at the South Street Seaport was a fascinating and sobering experience.

The Fascinating: 10 rooms - 3 far less air-conditioned than others - dedicated to the evolutionary symphony that is the human body. Adults, giggling teens, wide-eyed children - none weepy, all curious and asking questions their parents couldn't answer - crowded around the exhibits in wonder.

The Sobering: thoughts of "Who," "How," "When," "Where," and "Why". Particularly of "Who." Questions, I suppose, that plague any medical student.

The Fascinating: Especially interesting were the exhibits of the circulatory system - red and blue networks of veins, capillaries and nerves suspended in glass cases filled with plasma, corresponding to the shape of the body part from which they came. incredible. incredible, too, was the sight all of the people reaching out to touch the dissected bodies on display. there was even a booth at the end of the exhibit where people were allowed to handle preserved organs and body parts. Apparently, I am in the minority when it comes to feeling disgusted that anybody would want to touch these things. By the time we left the exhibit, my muscles were humming - though nearly two years separate me from the experience by now, i was a little affected by the various displays of vertebrae - attached still to bodies with red muscles flayed apart, resting silent in a glass case, cross sectioned so the spinal cord was visible, reminding me keenly of the delicate balance that so easily could have been tipped.

We left the building and stepped into the warm Sunday sunshine. I slung my trench over my arm - we discussed lunch. Throngs scurried around us - the smell of fish still lingering faintly across the street - and I suggested sitting by the lapping gray water for a bit. Muscles, capillaries, nerves, and veins still humming, I sat.

The Sobering/Appalling/Depressing/Guilt-causing: fascinating educational experience for onlookers or no ... what a way to end up.

you, you, you

One day - must have been at least a month ago - while cruising myspace as i was supposed to be doing something important, I noticed that somebody had managed to paste a new kind of internet video - large, slightly grainy - on someone's comment space. "you tube", read the play button. then, I noticed these same kinds of videos cropping up on the profiles of nearly everybody I knew, including my friend Jiggy's website, tgontv. Soon enough, somebody posted one on mine. i was at first under the impression that these videos were merely of TV clips, but now, after checking out clips of movies like Teen Witch and David Hasselhoff music vids, I see that they've got pretty much everything. A leisurely search using my office's cable internet yielded such gems as all things O-Zone, Dragostea din tei video parodies, Duran Duran spots, and 80s cartoons. Musing, I thought I'd try my luck to see just how extensive this YouTube really was. Ladies and gentlemen, the answer: lo and behold, my prince of 70s italian pop himself: Lucio Battisti!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cqeuE6hW6UM

singing one of my favorite songs. my excitement is non-paralleled. waste not your chance to see and hear it all for yourself instead of just listening to me going on and on about it. there's no rino gaetano on youtube (...yet), but there is my lucio: his voice! his fro! his ascot! acqua azzura, acqua chiara! god, i love the internet.

someone's shoving at the door

2 a.m., home from work, strolling through the lobby, noting that the heel on my right shoe was worn down to the nail (again) as it scraped against the floor with each step, collecting the mail - crap, more crap, the phone bill, and the loveliest Thank You note from mein Buttercry on cream colored stationery - up the elevator and down the flourescent bright hall to my door. preparing for the usual fight with the unusually difficult lock, i inserted my key and commenced the customary series of jiggles required to open the damn thing. the lock has been harder to open as of late, causing me and my guests to tap our toes impatiently as i wrestle with it, so i wasn't surprised when, tonight, it took an exceptionally long time for the welcoming "click" to sound. In general, once that "click" sounds, I am able to open the door and so enter to shush Heifer, who will be nosing her way into the hallway, yowling. tonight, however, the door only opened an inch and stuck in its track with a thud. I groaned, seriously not in the freaking mood for this sort of thing now, past 2 in the morning, when all I wanted to do was wash my face, get into bed and curl up with some more of Dorothy Parker: Complete Stories to wind down from my night at the office. I jostled the door. It still didn't budge.

"Crap!" I said eloquently and continued to shove, thinking it was, perhaps, merely stuck with age. Nothing. I rocked back on my heels in despair and imagined the super downstairs having to break the whole thing down, waking my neighbors and leaving me with a dangerously drafty entrance to my apartment and a whole lot of splainin to do. I shoved again - this time, the door swung open from the inside. I gasped in shock (what the -!), only to find a bleary eyed, nightgowned Auntie Jean in the foyer with a hand on the knob. like a total scatterbrained spaz, I had completely forgotten they were coming to town today.

She was very sweet about it; laughed, told me to stop my racing heart, and gave me a hug before plodding back off to bed. For my part, I was relieved to be inside, happy to see her, still experiencing palpitations from the shock of having that stuck door open by itself, and, lastly, much shamed; not only did I wake her and the uncle up at a terrible hour, but in my utter forgetfulness, I had done nothing to prepare for their arrival. there were dishes and heaps of forks still in the sink; the ironing board was stretched out in the living room; there were piles of tourist brochures for Guatemala on the dining table. the litter hadn't been changed, either, nor had the air fresheners. Honestly, the apartment is decent enough - presentable, if a little cluttered in spots - but so much more could have been done. Shame! I quietly opened the refrigerator to deposit the remaining half of my Quizno's sub; the formerly skeletal icebox was now heaped with juice, yogurt, bread, and all sorts of good things. shame, too, that they find the refrigerator practically bare (today, they were met by eggs and Trader Joe's soy milk). Can't a person my age get their business together?

Tomorrow, I'll straighten up, bake some cupcakes and Febreze this place. That is, if i can wake up.

sigh.

Skin So Soft

In preparation for Lindsey's rapidly approaching trip to New York (holla), I cruised the Bodies ... The Exhibition Web site for ticket information. Finding nothing helpful, I glanced at the FAQs and found:

What do the preserved polymer bodies feel like?

This, among expected questions like "Who organized and designed Bodies ... The Exhibition" and "How long do the bodies last after polymer preservation?". This! This is a frequently asked question? For serious? What do they feel like? I can't believe one person got up the nerve to ask this, let alone a whole bunch. Nor can I believe this question was even entertained by the group. And yet, it was:

The specimens, claims the Web site, feel dry to the touch and can be either rigid or flexible depending on the mix of chemicals used [ugh!]. While guests will be able to get very close to the specimens, as a rule, guests are not allowed to touch them.

...but if you really must touch a stripped, dissected body - if the prospect consumes your thoughts, your sleep, your dreams - we do sell Bodies ... The Exhibition brand dried apricots and Bodies ... The Exhibition brand beef jerky in the gift store for $10.99 per pack.

What do the preserved polymer bodies taste like?

For crying out loud, you sick, sick, sickos.

....

... flower buds are everywhere, dotting the branches in whites and pinks and reds. Friday: 60ish degrees. Saturday: 30ish. Sunday: 40ish. This week: rumored to be beautiful.

Far too much nail nibbling going on lately. Makes me wonder if I'm regressing to 1990 or preparing for something, like a heifercat getting antsy before a hurricane.

From the Glamour Accounts Payable hotline:

The check will be mailed out to you tomorrow morning.

Thanks,
Michelle

We like it.

Last night, out of work at a decent hour - 1 a.m. - and as it was an "off Sunday" - no theater review due the next day - I walked downtown from the office part of the way with Evan and Georgis, parting company with them at 14th and Park, the best-smelling corner of Manhattan, as an Au Bon Pain is situated there and, for some reason, only past midnight, that corner smells like all the good cinnamony-burnt-bakey-frostingy-buttery-sweet things in the world combined in one soothing, powerful whiff. further down in my walk home, I stopped at Cozy - the appallingly overpriced diner a couple of blocks from my apartment - for my usual egg sandwich on a buttered toasted bagel; perhaps the only thing there that is somewhat reasonably priced (something like $3). Add a couple of crunchy pickle spears and it's happiness on a plate. It's even nice when the pickle spears are a sickly neon green and somewhat mushy. A chocolate egg cream, the thick volume in your purse - Dorothy Parker: Complete Stories - and (lost in a world of barbed women, dull, shadowy men and fluttering maids) it's a respectable end to a night of work. Or morning.

go to the window

6:29 PM. Outside:

tick tock tick tock

things i am doing instead of working to meet my deadline (today, preferably before 4):

• testing out the reggaeton/lucio battisti/rino gaetano/old school latino/pino daniele/musica andina-infused mix CDs I am burning for my parents; giggling over the fact that I'm including "My Humps" and "Dragostea din tei" on the playlist.
• Switching off the Snooze button on my cell phone alarm every ten minutes
• wondering who "Noodle" is
• dozing
• looking at Heifer's little white feet
• IMing
• congratulating myself on thinking up the one clever line to be used in the review I am supposed to be writing
• reminiscing about the lovely cold glass of vanilla soy milk I had this morning. Ah, those were the five minutes.

get to work, slacker ...

deadline

...there's nothing .... there's nothing ... there's nothing ... nothing ... blank. blank. blank.

and then ... suddenly ... there's something.

and then it's done.

sneaky

after about two months of wear, my formerly beautiful and brand new boots look like this:



also, like this:


that is why they, along with a few of other my other winter pairs - including that death trap right boot that nearly claimed my foot the other day - are having a restorative vacation at the Shoe Repair Spa down the street. And since the nice man told me that he won't have them ready for me until "Wednesday, Thursday", I will be clomping around in my sneakers for a few days. And now, the world will discover that I am actually quite, quite short. Ah, well - it had to happen one of these days.

Warm

... how Heifer is dealing with the recent frigid snap:

... as soon as the lights go out for the night, she leaps onto the bed and pokes her nose under the edge of the covers. she meowps. she is admitted underneath the covers, where she turns around in a few circles and finally curls up against my side. she then purrs herself to sleep.

also

lounging across the heater, she naps. When I go to pet her, her fur is warm.

Silk

(...not to be confused with Sylkk. but then, who's confused anything with Sylkk in the past 13 years?)

...and there's more news. News from today, February 19, 2006, at about 5 p.m. Said news: I..? like soy milk. Who knew? Well, certainly not me. Prior to today, the only things I knew about soymilk were Erma drinks it and says that vanilla is the best flavor, it's more expensive than cow milk, only soy plants were mistreated in the making of this product, it's good for you and somehow, people put this plant matter on their cereal and like it. Years of indirect exposure to it never triggered my desire to check it out, but it appears that it is officially Soy Milk Time for Liv because out of nowhere it has suddenly begun to appeal to me. Enter JNS with yet another pompous lecture about healthy eating habits. Usually such lectures only make me hate him more but today ... somehow... soy milk is more caloric than cow milk (a good thing in my far too skinny book)? soy milk has no cholesterol? soy milk's taste is easy to get used to? Sold. thanks for once, JNS.

So I bought an 11 oz bottle of Silk vanilla soy milk at the grocery store - little, in case I wasn't into it after all. happily, the first hesitant sip yielded a pleasant eureka! moment. thinner and far more thirst quenching than gluey cow milk, it was satisfying, tasty, and i believe that it will make quite a nice companion to my Cinnamon Toasters after all.

And that, gentle reader, was the moment that i learned that I like soy milk.

Soy, you are in my body butter, you are in my acne cream, you are in my vitamins, you are in my shoyu, you are green and fat and rippled and served prior to my sushi, you are in my crispy white cheddary snacks and now you are in my cereal. is there anything they can't do with you?

Romantic

A conversation at the piano bar that made my brother giggle like a ten year-old:

Me: [hovering at the piano, hoping to get some The King & I or Mame played but noting that the pianist was not only playing the catalog of West Side Story but was swamped with requests from all sides] Ah, well.

Man at the edge of the piano: [silent]

Me: [sitting back down but as soon as one song was over, darting back up to the piano, only to see that the waiter was preparing to sing a slow, somewhat stirring solo] Oh, shoot. [sitting back down]

Man at the edge of the piano: What's the song?

Me: I don't know, but it's romantic.

Diego: WHAT?! Dude. You're so stupid!

Ten seconds later

Diego: "I don't know, but it's romantic". Jesus Christ!

Ten seconds later still

Diego: Dude, that's so stupid. And you were so serious, too!

Two minutes later

Diego: Oh my God. "I don't know, but it's romantic". Ha ha!!!

Ten minutes later

Diego: Oh, Jesus...!

It really wasn't that funny, but soon enough I, too, was in near-hysterics.

Ah, to laugh at ourselves. sometimes it is so rich....

stuck

O: i'm caught in my boot!!!
M: Say what?
O: my boot won't come off
M: That's just silly
O: it won't!! the zipper is stuck!
M: Oh dear
M: Is some thread or something stuck in the zipper?
O: the tooth is off the track
O: this has happened before, with the same boot
M: Oh great
M: The tooth is bent - or broken off?
O: bent
O: i'm trying to bend it back into place, but it won't go
O: i'm going to spend my life in this boot!!!! It can't end like this!!!!
M: How did you solve the problem last time?
O: i don't even know.
O: grrrr!!!
M: Grrr indeed
M: Do you think you could force the zipper down if you had to?
O: no
O: i've got my tweezers out now, trying to bend it back into place
O: this is bad, dude. this is very bad
O: oh, great. now my other foot is falling asleep
M: I meant could you totally break the zipper if it was the only way to get out of the boot
O: i love these boots...

O: it's this one tooth of the zipper that's crooked.
M: Well, zippers can be replaced
O: i'm trying to make it not crooked and i succeed, but then when i pull the zipper down it bends again
M: How about this: Put your other boot on and go to the nearest shoe repair. He would probably be able to help you out in a way that would seem ridiculously easy - and probably fairly cheap
O: the whole thing is stupid!
O: i guess so, huh?
O: i'll go after i finish eating
M: I think it's the best plan
O: it's ridiculous, man. i'm sitting here on my bed, one shoe off, the other half on, eating my lunch
M: That does sound like a funny picture
O: my lunch is good
O: Heifer is fat. she's sitting across from me on the bed, like a chicken
O: i'm tired. maybe i'll take a nap.
M: Well, make sure you leave yourself time to go to the shoe repair place
O: yes
M: Better bring an extra pair of shoes in case hee needs to keep the boot
O: sigh

Yesterday, Tomorrow, Today

Round One for La Bocca Della Verita

Yesterday: Woke past noon, despite having gone to bed "early"ish - around 2 a.m. Berated myself (bad, lazy Liv!), then as penance did 30 push-ups in a row (if anyone asks me again if they were "the real kind" I will begin to be a little insulted). Looked up some things on Wikipedia.com - trying to brush up on things I used to know and things I'd like to know. Shuddered at the news - Alito's Confirmation Seems All But Assured - and tried to assuage my panic by focusing on the grammatical flaw of that sentence. Wrote - catalogued old reviews I wrote for Orange Box Magazine and Beauty Beat's Lipstick Report; rifled through my bad fiction (added a couple of punctuation marks to the "Veronica" story, wondered again if "Rufus" wasn't so very awful, shuddered to look at "Couches" but admitted that there were some good lines in there and studiously ignored "Mime") and did some more pecking at the as-of-yet untitled Hopefully Great Italian/Guatemalan-American Novel. Began to write about the character's job and was satisfied with at least the first line of that exposition.

Went on to have a great evening with Erma and company - attending a free event at Pianos. Said free event: a free Rhett Miller concert bolstered by free Sauza cocktails, which was wonderful since I've been, as noted in my January 5th entry, trying to take it easy on the spending - with little success despite my initial burst of oomph, i might add. I wasn't familiar with Rhett Miller aside from hearing the delightful Erma extol his virtues but always enjoy learning a new musician, as I've often felt as though my scope of musical knowledge is very poor indeed. I've come to trust Erma's musical taste without question - Peaches's as well; those two ladies kept it cooking in our dorm room without fail - and Mr. Miller's music was no exception to the "Erma has great musical taste" rule. Great tunes - I particularly liked a number called "Help Me, Suzanne" - great people, good drinks (they were strong and free; hard to find something amiss there), and a goody bag at the door. Couldn't be beat with a stick. In said goody bag: a Sauza shot glass, an X-Large Sauza T-shirt (fit only to be a pajama for me), the current issue of GQ, a compilation CD, and a Sauza pen. Good times make even frigid weather okay. The fact remains, though, that I need a sturdy winter hat that covers my ears. Or I just need earmuffs. Or detachable ears.

Tomorrow: Will spend time with my brother and try to get to work early so as to ensure that I have a place to sit in the office. As there are more editors these days, there are fewer places for us to sit at the Editors' Island and near the Coordinators' area. Often, if we arrive too late, we are made to sit in the furthest reaches of the office, which I'm not too fond of. It reminds me again that in recent years, I've become increasingly social. Not bad for a girl who used to wear black-on-black and hide in her room all day.

Today: Hopefully, the streak of novel-writing will continue. Have already done some arm exercises and told Little Miss Tigerstripes to shut up. Shuddered again at the headlines declaring Alito's eventual confirmation to the Supreme Court. Regretting not having volunteered for the STOP Alito! phone banks but already had plans for the hours the phone banks would have been operating. Grocery shopping is required - tomatoes, milk - and will be done down the block, stonily ignoring the unmistakable heavenly smells of Dallas BBQ next door. No. Must not think of yam and Idaho mashed potatoes. Hearty tangy succulent fall-off-the-bone ribs - what hearty tangy succulent fall-off-the-bone ribs? I've never heard of a beer goblet in my life. That's just crazy talk.

The less money I spend, the hungrier I get. A few days ago, I was craving ceviche. "Ceviche! Ceviche! Ceviche!" I typed to friends in IM boxes. A cupcake from Crumbs, too, was preying on my mind. Yesterday, I was craving pizza from Lombardi's, after having been there for lunch the day prior and spending far too much money. Was proud of myself last night after resisting post-concert pizza in the LES and enjoying some fettuccine in olive oil when I returned home, as well as handfuls of Basic 4. Will make some pasta tonight and bring it to work for dinner, as much as I love participating in the nightly food orders with the gang. We'll get this train back on track yet.

It's boring, it's commonplace, it's self-absorbed ... it's Liv's Yesterday, Tomorrow and Today.

Mal Alito

Walking home yesterday evening in the dusk, my purse began to vibrate, signaling a call from Squirrel. The cars careened by, the NYU kids howled, the trucks clattered; I caught only a few words: "A talk" "NYU Law School" "Wine" "Meet me" "Back". It sounded good to me. It was only at the front desk of the heretofore unvisited ivied Law School, stammering to the guard as he leafed through an older copy of Orange Box Magazine, that I realized I didn't exactly know where I was going. The guard informed me that the only lecture that was open to the public at that time was the one in room 206 - a presentation by People For The American Way about the implications of Judge Samuel Alito's nomination to the Supreme Court. An exclamation point zoomed off my head - great idea, Squirrel! - and I hiked up the stately spiral staircase two steps at a time. Unfortunately, I had arrived after the actual presentation itself, during the Q&A segment with the two panelists, but that was still enough to teach me scary things I didn't know and to further confirm my belief that Sam Alito is Bad. The panelists focused mainly on the abortion issue - like B, I wouldn't have minded hearing more about the threat to religious freedom and privacy - and, aside from bottles of Yellowtail wine, stickers, and pens, the group offered several solid pamphlets on the material covered that I missed. If you'd like to know more, click here for their website - Save the Court - as well as ideas on what we can do to help; namely, calling our senators and even volunteering at the STOP ALITO! Phone Banks (PFAW NY Office, Tony Simone, 212-420-0440 x 13 tsimone@pfaw.org). Hmn...

Doors

Across the hall, drama I never dreamed of:



A week later, it's still up there.

bah 2

...and perhaps just as bad as all of those things is realizing you're still such a spaz that you actually didn't lose the camera in the cab but you merely - somehow, for some reason - dropped it into your hamper as you walked into your room and, after immediately forgetting that you - again, for some unknown reason - put it there, combed the apartment in the usual places - bag, dresser, bed, table - and upon finding nothing after several laps around the house, decided your camera was lost. you then filed a report with the TLC. then you proclaimed your clumsiness on the World Wide Web. And then, after digging through your hamper (again; what??) to sort for laundry day came upon the prized object had to retract that earlier statement with a sheepish "false alarm; just me being a spaz. again."

bah.

but at least i have my camera.

bah

...even more annoying than having left your beloved digital camera with lots of great new pics in a cab is having done so while (relatively) sober and (perhaps) mere seconds after stopping the cab because you realized that you were forgetting your bright yellow umbrella.

bah.

You Can Take it on the Chin, Call a Cab, and Begin to Recover on Your 14 Karat Yacht

It's occurred to me lately, as 2005 waned and I found myself scraping my money together at the end of the month - again - that I could really stand to save a little more dough. My entire life, I've been a saver, scrimper, money making schemer (there was even an EBay selling phase); I don't go to the spa, the salon, fancy clubs, fancy restaurants, do drugs or buy fancy things so to find myself scratching my head and wondering where my money has gone felt a little ... weird. I mean, I get my hair cut in Chinatown for $14 a pop. I practically live in dollar stores. My favorite jacket cost me $20. I play harmonica in the subways - because I'm exceptionally gifted, one session alone pays for my one meal a day (the $2.95 Recession Special at Gray's Papaya). Frostbite has made me immune to the cold that blasts through my threadbare coat, thus eliminating the need for one that is new and warm. I feed Heifer once a week. The recent lack of funds really shouldn't have surprised me, though - after all, I did take three vacations and participate in one wedding in the past 6 months. Three plane tickets, a Maid of Honor dress, a wedding gift, accomodations at the wedding site, bus tickets to Maryland to help with wedding preparation, accessories for the Maid of Honor dress ... it all added up pretty handily. Add to that the fact that I spend half of my monthly paycheck on rent.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not complaining, nor am I asking for pity. I (stubbornly and stupidly) choose to live in this (amazing) apartment, I chose to go on my (great) recent trips and I was thrilled when Buttercry asked me to be her Maid of Honor. I'm not embarrassed to mention this on the ol' Web, either, because it is my firm resolution to get back on track - and soon. I look at it as just another "challenge" to fill my days. It could even be fun - looking back, I've noticed that the times in my life that I was most proud of myself was when I was scrimping because I was creative and resourceful. Necessity is, after all, the mother of invention. Or at least the muse. Oh, heck, let's go with "muse" - it's juicier. So far, things are going swimmingly - I have always been good at Spartan living, except when I get it into my head that I have to visit my family in Guatemala or take myself on a far away getaway. So I just won't think about tamales or volcanos or my grandmother's huge annual family birthday party planned for next month. No tamales por Olivia. I am rediscovering the joy of cooking for myself, as well as the odd pleasure in window shopping. For years, I bragged to my friends "If I read the menu, I don't really need to eat". It was almost always true. But what started this odd change when I began to actually buy the candy-colored cupcakes in the store window? My best guess is that I was promoted and got a pay raise - a buddy warned me that it only seemed like a lot more money and that I shouldn't let myself go nuts thinking that I suddenly had a lot more to spend. What do you know - he was right.

So we're getting back on track. Inspired by another buddy, I sat down for the coin rolling session I've been meaning to have for years. He described the activity as "tedious", but I actually found it kinda therapeutic, watching the coins pile up, even as I berated myself for being such a pig as to let things accumulate in my apartment. The first coin rolling session yielded $49. The second, once I finish, will yield $34. That's $83 lying around my place in change - amazing. Today, I lugged my first batch of coins to the bank and deposited them. On my living room floor, I've sectioned off the books I'm going to sell at The Strand tomorrow. This evening, as I rooted around in my refrigerator for something to drink and found nothing beyond a few bottles of soda long gone flat (PIG), my eyes spied a bottle of Margarita mix I bought at Odd Job for $2.99 perhaps a year ago, maybe even more. Eight o'clock margaritas - what fun! If only I had tequila. And ice that wasn't from cloudy tap water. Thirsty, I turned an idea over in my mind - could I drink possibly stale Margarita mix on its own? Did Margarita mix go bad? What was even in it? I picked up the chilled bottle and scanned the list - it looked like your basic soda or sugar-packed fruit juice, aside from the "1% Alcohol Content". What harm could it do?, I figured. I opened up the bottle and dribbled a thimble's worth into a glass. It tasted like a slightly more tart lemonade, with a sharper aftertaste. All in all, not too bad. I poured myself a full glass and satisfiedly sipped it with my linguine in olive oil. Tomorrow: try chugging it to see if I can get a cheap buzz without having to go to a bar.

Ah, it's going to be a fun year.

A Day Late