Posted March 7th, 2003 by Michelle

I keep wondering who is going to take the initative to shovel our steps and sidewalk. Since this is about the three hudredth snow storm this winter, and our stretch is the only one on the block that stays white until it melts, I guess the answer is no one. I guess maybe it should be our landlord, or maybe there should be someone designated. I wouldn’t mind if it was me, but I don’t yet have a shovel. And it reminds me that I am living in a very young building, lots of early twenty-somethings who still enjoy singing along to Bon Jovi (and meaning it, or so it sounded like at the most recent house party above my head. I quite literally put in ear plugs and chanted in Sanskrit and could not fall asleep for the literal shaking of my walls.) Reminds me also that, as much as I dread it, I will move again come next fall. I just don’t belong in a building like this. Unless… of course… I can afford the lovely garden apartment in the basement… mmm…

Here’s the thing. We have ANOTHER snow storm coming. Yep, this Tuesday we will yet again be lathered in cold whiteness. All I want in life, right now, is to be able to ride my bike in warm sunshine. That’s all I want. Umm. Okay, I want a few more things, but that would sure as heck be a start.

Posted March 6th, 2003 by Michelle

After yoga class tonight I had a slice of pizza. Classic New York slice, big, long, drippy with oil and cheese. One balances the other, right?

I woke to another snowstorm this morning, the streets AGAIN covered in white. Not just a flurry, but a big, fat storm. I sloshed through it to my first eye exam in about a year and a half, and was greeted with terrible news: all of us who wear disposable contacts, but don’t toss them nearly as often as we should, or sleep in them for weeks at time, and who say we’ve never had a problem? Well guess what. There is bad news, and it will reach you eventually. I have GPC, or GIANT PULMONARY CONJUNCTIVITS. It’s on the inside lids of my eyes. I also have a swollen cornea. What does this all mean? Well, first of all, I can only wear my contacts for a few hours each day until I heal. If I don’t do this, soon I will never be able to wear contacts again. Secondly, a newer, more expensive kind of contact. Third, a new cleansing system that wipes out the idea of 3-in-1 solution, which is laden with heavy chemicals, which irritate the eye. I had to buy an expensive three step cleaning system which involves storing them in this little capsule that, in miniature, reminds me of the contraption that Jodi Foster met the aliens in at the end of the movie “Contact”. Anyway, I have to put them in there EVERY NIGHT, and clean them every morning, and throw them away after just a week for three months until my eyes heal. Major yawn. So I had to get an eye exam, order contacts, and buy this new solution. That put me back about $150, and I only ordered 2 boxes of contacts. But it wasn’t over. I then had to buy glasses- my first pair in years- and after searching Park Slope for some frames I could afford, I was still out another $250. This was a $400 afternoon. And THEN, off to my first analysis appointment.

It was actually rather nice. She practices in a beautiful old building that faces Prospect Park, indeed a fifteen minute walk from my door. There was actually a couch on which I was apparently supposed to drape myself but instead I settled in a chair opposite of my analyst. She asked me why I was there, and after telling her that my life was a little complicated, and that I wanted to learn more about myself and through this knowledge make better choices, I just started talking. Forty minutes later I had told her about my brothers, about my parent’s divore, about my alchoholic ex and our brakeup, about my jobs, about my passions, my wants, my confusions, and even about my current lover, who she (ahem) knows. (He is in training to be a psychoanalysist.) She asked a few questions, and mostly said, “Uhn. Hm. Uhn. Ugh!” (This was in response to my ex and I’s brakeup.) At the end of it, she asked me what I thought about our “talk”, and I said I thought it was just fine, and then we talked money for a few minutes, which made me terribly uncomfortable. But then she said that she’d charge me $60 a session, as long as I came every week. Not bad. I have no idea in the world how I am going to afford it but I really want to commit to this.

To be honest, I’m almost regretting my most recent large purchase. As much joy as my bike is bringing me, I would not be in any financial dire straights if I had not bought it. In fact, I’d be just fine. But then it would have been sold by the time I was able to pay for it, and really, it’s as if it was waiting for me all this time. It is what is making me most happy right now. I will find a way to make all of this possible… slowly, maybe, but also surely.

I think my only issue with my new analysist was that she seemed awfully impressed with me, with my life the last two years, and with what I want to do. Conversely, I feel that my lover is not nearly impressed enough. Doesn’t it seem like your therapist should be objective and your lover should be taken?

Posted March 5th, 2003 by Michelle

My windows are wide open to the 43 degree breeze here in Brooklyn. It is supposed to hit 49 today, the warmest we’ve seen since around October. Tomorrow? Huge snowstorm again.

I just shopped at the Park Slope Food Co-op, where I had a very emotional moment in the bread aisle. I was picking up vegetables, extremely aware that I was shopping for one (one arichoke, three bananas, one apple, one small bag of spinach) and I was lamenting the fact that bread comes in such large loaves. It’s very hard for a single person, who doesn’t eat much bread, to go through a whole loaf before it goes bad. So I wandered to the bread aisle, and found several half-loaves, whole-grain wheat, waiting for me on the shelves. Packaged not by us, but by some granola farm in upstate New York. Which led me to think about the market of single granola folks like me, needing bread, but only need a half loaf. Jeeze. I should put up a sign on the bread aisle that says, “Are you buying this bread? Why don’t all of us buying this bread start a book or hiking club. We can eat organic granola. We can wear organic unbleached wool fuzzy sweaters and drink organic coffee made with unbleached filters. And then hit a yoga class. C’mon!”

I’m “trailing” (which basically means auditioning) on the bar tonight at my restaurant. I’m not entirely sure that I want to be a bartender, but I do want more money. And I want change. The whole restaurant had to take a five-page short answer and essay test on wine… the trailers and bartenders and servers alike… and guess who got the high score? Yep. Me. Which is cool and really pathetic at the same time.

Posted March 3rd, 2003 by Michelle

I live my life in little pockets of hope. It may be an audition, an idea of a new job, a bit of writing, but whatever it is, it colors every minute of my day. Until, that is, the audition goes badly, the job doesn’t work out, the pitch is never answered. And yet I somehow do not lose hope. I guess that’s the amazing, or ridiculous thing. I’m sad for a few days afterwards but then I stumble upon something that re-awakens the hope. For all of two days I was thinking that I might be able to leave the floor of my restaurant, to work in the newly-forming HR department, but my meeting with the GM today left me with little hope. It’s possible, but it’s way in the future. Same thing happens with each big audition. I keep thinking “ah-HA! This is IT! THIS is what is going to change my LIFE!” And yet my life rolls on, not too much different than the day before.

I’m trying to believe my yoga teacher. Trying to believe that I need to work towards acceptance and contentment. But I just don’t think it’s in my blood.

Posted March 1st, 2003 by Michelle

After three lovely days off, I was returned to work today, and I have to say, I didn’t miss it much. Mostly because I got some good writing done, one pitch to Family Circle magazine (hey, they pay well!) and also my fundraising letter for the AIDSRide. It’s a much better letter than last year, as I have a better idea of what this ride will be like, but I’m also more committed to the cause, and far more informed in general. I had dinner at the Veg City Diner on 14th, where I enjoyed a cobb salad topped with “chickn” nuggets, soy bacon, avocado, and real blue cheese. My kind of meal. I ate with my friends Allen, Carol and Heather, three fellow Saturday and Sunday lunch workers. Heather is a singer/songwriter, Carol an actor, and Allen is a writer/directorer/producer type. I read them my letter, and we decided to put together a benefit show for the AIDSRide.

Tomorrow I work a double. I’ve decided that I rather like this, six shifts in four days, which allows for the three days off and a healthy paycheck to boot. I don’t know how happy I will be Monday morning when I drag myself to work after the double, but right now, after the time away, it feels good.

I wish I didn’t have to work, like this, at all. I wish right now I could be up at the farmhouse in Hillsdale with my brother and sister-in-law. It is a terrific writing environment, lots of good chairs and good cheese and coffee and Chopin the dog to scritch when it all gets to be too much. And it is beautiful. When I wrote for Slate.com last year, I started my week of writing work at the farm. I remember it was warm enough to write outside, which I did, in a tank top, with Chopin for company. And this was some time in March… and we are so very, very far away from tank top weather.

How does one pursue a career as a writer? Sometimes I feel like these blind submissions are going to be as useless as attending an Equity call for a show. No one is really paying attention. But the writing itself is satisfying, and I suppose I am developing a body of work that eventually could be useful. I very much need a foot in a door, but which door, and which foot?

Posted February 28th, 2003 by Michelle

I am about to make my first actual foray into “therapy”. I am nervous about it, nervous mostly because I don’t like the idea of anyone asking me why I am doing it. In the same way that I don’t like being asked why I am a vegetarian. You never have one vegetarian asking it of another. You always have an omnivore placing the question, always with a hint of disdain, or at the very least, with the need to have something proved to them. Regardless of the answer I give, the person always says “yeah, I don’t eat much red meat” or “I tried it and got really fat and unhealthy” or “blah blah blah blah blah” which is what it really sounds like to me. Because really, I care not in the least about what other people eat. I never say to an omnivore, “Why do you eat meat? What made you decide to eat meat? Yeah, I ate meat once, when I was thirteen, but blah blah blah.” Yes, I would love to live in a world where slaughterhouses didn’t exist, but as long as they do, I will have my quiet rebellion and give the finger to the next person who asks me why.

I don’t know why I feel as defensive about seeing an analyst. I don’t want my search for knowledge to be judged in a similar fashion. I just… I don’t mind talking about any of it, I just find it wasteful when people ask me why. And annoying. So don’t ask me why. All twelve of you who have ever read this blog.

I made a grand return to my yoga practice today, after falling out of shoulder stand and ripping something terrible inside my wrist two weeks ago. It was not easy. I am weak, and my wrist will not let me do all of the poses. But it was terrific to be back. I saw both of the owners of the studio, a lovely couple of ladies, and just seeing them made my day notably better. Also, I am on the tail end of three days off, so I am rested, and, believe it or no, contented.

A note to my upstairs neighbor: I don’t like you much. You play bad music loudly, you sing along loudly, you *actually* played “Stairway” on your loud electric guitar the other night, and I don’t think you were kidding. You had band practice, such as it was, until 2 AM Monday morning, and you played bad music. Maybe I would like you if I met you, but first you must play something other than Soundgarden.

A note to the world: I need to fall madly in love in the next few months, madly enough that I think I could actually share an apartment with the person, because in August, the garden apartment in my building is going to be available. It’s a one bedroom, so really only big enough for me, but the garden is lovely. Zooey (my fat cat) needs some outside space in his last years, and god knows I do too.

Posted February 27th, 2003 by Michelle

This is the letter I received in the mail today:

Woman’s Day

Dear Writer,

Thank you for sending Woman’ s Day your recent article or idea submission.

After careful consideration, we have decided that your material is not suited to our current needs. This decision is not necessarily a reflection of blah blah blah… we received hundreds of blah blah blah, so we cannot blah blah blah… we appreciate blah blah blah and wish you success in placing your material elsewhere.

Very truly yours,

The Editors

I have to say of all the rejection letters I’ve gotten, this was, although form, one of the nicest. A) they called me a writer and b) wished me luck. Those are two things I’ve not yet seen. However, rejection is rejection, and rejection does not pay my rent. What it does mean is that I rewrite it, make it X number of words long, depending what other magazines want, and resubmit it. It is a terrific article, I know it is, and, well, eventually, someone will buy it. Darnit.

I spent the day in my ‘hood again, wishing that my fellow hooders Ian and Tessa were in town, but having a good day nonetheless. I spent almost three hours at a spa on 7th Ave, getting a pedicure and a leg wax. If anyone ever tells you that waxing doesn’t hurt, they are telling you a bald-faced lie. I got my eyebrows done too, and cried so much during it that the Russian woman waxing me started stroking my head, saying, “Don’t cry, don’t cry”. These things, these “beauty” things are appealing to me only on the most surface of levels… I have no need for them, but when I’m in civilization I figure I might as well do them. I have a hard time with the upkeep, though, and forget to shave for weeks at a time. There’s just so many other more important things to do. And I hate shaving. This summer, on my trek (americanfrontiers.net), I liberated myself from makeup, shaving, and beauty products. Now, well, it feels strange not to do them. But it still find them boring.

I’m trying to decide what I’m going to do this summer, where I might go. I don’t know why Africa is so much on my mind… or, hey, maybe Greece. Somewhere far. That’s all I know right now.

Posted February 26th, 2003 by Michelle

It is noon on Wednesday, and I’ve just finally finished my morning coffee. I worked six shifts in half as many days and I’m a little worn out. Thankful, though, that I have a good job and a beautiful apartment in times like these. Even the most popular restaurant in New York is slow these days, but we still make enough money to survive.

On that note, I got some sad news yesterday- the GM of my restaurant is leaving us to create a new position as the Human Resources Director. His office won’t even be in our building anymore. This is particularly vexing to me because he is the lifeblood of the restaurant, and one of my favorite people alive. He makes me want to be as good a person as he thinks I am. I don’t know if there would be a position for me in the HR department, but yesterday I left a note in his box: “Wherever you shall go, there I would like to go also”. I can’t imagine being there without working with him. Every Christmas party he writes new lyrics to some silly pop song. This year, I think it was to “I Can’t Drive 55” and the lyrics were replaced with “Let’s Take Back Number 1!” (Grammercy Tavern took our #1 status in Zagat this year.) The year before it was a song to his wife- it was their 20th anniversary. Or some important number like that.

Every day I go to weather.com and pray to see a temperature near just 40 degrees. It hasn’t happened. Just for it to not be miserable. I’ve entirely forgotten what it must be like to be warm- to walk outside in a sundress, to hope for a cool breeze. Week-old snowdrifts still guard the sidewalks from the streets. My new bike sits in my kitchen, the odometer blank, the mileage still reading “7” from last week’s ride. I sit at my window, dreaming of sunshine and guys walking their dogs in shorts. Of sitting on the front steps of my building, drinking a beer and meeting the neighbors.

Dreaming also of a world without George Dubya at the helm.

Posted February 20th, 2003 by Michelle

Back in New York, where the snow drifts are higher than the cars, than me. It’s 43 degrees, which means you need an umbrella to avoid the snow melting off of every building. Under the scaffolding, it actually looks like it’s pouring down rain

I picked up my bike from Emey’s, who insisted on giving me two more vintage jerseys while I was there. I raced to the subway, in hopes of getting home soon enough to take my bike around Prospect Park, but I missed all of the daylight. Tomorrow promises to be 45 degrees, so my new bike- I can’t tel yet if it’s a him or a her- and I have a hot date with the Park. My bike belongs to the race of dark Elves.

I was up until 3 AM last night, still on California time, and had to get up by 9 for work. I’m hoping to get some sleep tonight, but I’m going to see an friend from my EMT class (http://slate.msn.com/id/2062978/entry/2063154/) that I haven’t seen in months. I think it is necessary and good to keep company other than servers and actors.

You know what I really wish, though? That citibank and the others would quit sending me letters about transferring my balance to one of their cards. I mean, really. All they are doing is making me mad and killing trees.

Posted February 18th, 2003 by Michelle

It’s my last day in California. I’m sad because my dad is sick, and because I have to return to freezing weather. Today was stunning. Sunny, warm, filled with Spring. I don’t feel entirely ready to get home, although I am dying to get back to lay eyes on my new bike.

My new bike. The three best words of the new year. My friend Christopher, who is an avid road biker, took me shopping. We started at a store on 33rd, where there were two huge and beautiful mutt dogs lying between the jerseys and the frames. I learned rather quickly that Christopher is terrifed of dogs. I need to ask him why. We were helped by a really great guy named Patrick, who steered us toward the perfect bike- sort of an entry-level steel road bike with good components. But… with tax and shoes it would have cost $1500, and I struggled with going over my $1200 to $1300 ceiling.

Next we went to Emey’s Bike shop on 17th, just a block or two off of Union Square. Emey’s is, I think, entirely used, and Christopher had bought bikes there before. We walked in the door and were hailed by a big guy with chain grease on his shirt, who I immediately liked. He asked what we wanted, and Christopher said that we were shopping for me. Emey looked at me and said, “What do you want to spend?” and I said, “Under $1500”. He giggled and said, “It’s you lucky day. I wanted $1500, but that’s too close to your ceiling. How about $1300?” He lifted a sleek black bike from one of his racks and Christopher immediately said, “Buy this bike”. It was a black Casati, a seven-year-old handmade Italian bike. He pointed out several features that were remarkable, although not to my untrained eye, and miraculously, the bike fit me perfectly. Emey (or at least, I think it was Emey) then brought out a brand-new pair of road shoes, that came with the bike, and he said, “There are worth about $250 but if they fit you, I’ll throw them in. They fit. I was still not entirely sure, trying not to make an impulsive decision when Christopher said, “Roll up your pants and take it around the block.” It was freezing, and I was wearing a long wool coat, but I did it anyway. I carried it outside, climbed on, and started to fly. I’d never felt anything like it. I could feel the road but feel my wings all at the same time. It stopped on a dime, sailed around corners, and when I got back to the shop, I told Emey that I would go take every penny out of my bank account if only he would hold it for me.

When I got back to the store, after a chilly trip to the bank, Emey took what little money I had and then said, “Do you have a second? I have a present for you and your friend!” He went to the back of his shop and rummaged around in stacks of what looked like pressed shirts. He came over to me, bearing vintage Italian handmade jerseys, still in their plastic wrappings. “Pick one for you and your friend!” he said. He then told me that he would keep the bike, clean it up, take off the clip pedals and put on regular ones with foot baskets. He warned me that I needed to get used to a bike like this before I started riding with clips.

Needless to say, I love this man and his shop, and I cannot wait until my first flight with my new bike.

But now, it’s my last night in California, and I have to deal with idea of returning to frigid climes, to work, to stress, to the life I have yet to realize. I’m going to go see if my dad and I can pop a bottle of Brunello and chat about “lyfe in genrul”.