Home, where my thoughts are racing...

Do other people get as tense about going home as I do? They must, or half the crappy comedies in this world would never get made. There's no specific reason, I just get what I call the pre-Wisconsin crazies. This time had a potential to be worse because there's a wedding involved (luckily a pretty low stress wedding) that has the potential for my entire graduating class to attend and/or crash. It's been easier because Joe keeps me calm. I think it's just that it's so calm at my parents' house. There's no rent to pay, no meals to cook, no unrealistically God-awful baking hot subways to have to sit in. Just trees and air and more cars than I can drive.

Huuuuaaaawwww

I spent all day yesterday throwing up. Today it was 91 degrees out. That's all I have the energy to write.

One Weird Picture

We're pretty darn cute sometimes.

Flesh Eating Diseases

There can be something quite wonderful about vacationing in the city you live in. You know the language and how to get around. Your own bed is waiting for you at home each night. If you miss something, there's always next weekend.
But when Christy came to visit me over the fourth of July weekend, she destroyed me. I was exhausted and sunburned and completely and totally out of money. And all this by Sunday.
Friday was the best. We rented a rowboat on the pond in Central Park, which is only ten bucks and hour. We saw turtles and ducks and a couple get engaged. For dinner that night, we met Joe at Devi, a fancy Indian food restaurant that was excellent, though I accidently ate a red pepper and declared I was going to die. No, that I was already dead. Then I decided it would be a good idea to go to the Russian Vodka Room and order their specialty, a "rack" of six kinds of iced vodka. The Peach wasn't so bad, but the Blueberry tasted like rotten fruit laced with lighter fluid. Everything else fell somewhere in between. They came in giant test tube-like shot glasses. By the time the three of us were halfway through, we weren't even that drunk; just sick. Around us Russian men leaned on the piano player, shouting songs that sounded rather passionate and angry--though I suspect everything sounds passionate and angry in Russian. Eventually Jen showed up, took one sip of Citrus Bitters Vodka and asked us why we hated her. We left without finishing.
This was the theme of the weekend. I get sunburned and dehydrated. I spend money on alcohol I can't drink. I get too little sleep.
We went to Coney Island the next day. The Cyclone, the famous wooden roller coaster, was a lot of fun. We had Nathan's famous hot dogs and ice cream. And then Christy talked me into going onto a ride that made me scream just looking at it. I dubbed it the Puke-o-Matic. I decided was just being a baby and I couldn't go on just one ride on Coney Island. But after we bought our tickets, I watched the people being flipped upside down over and overandoverandoverandover. I got tears in my eyes, but it was too late now. Once I spend money on something, that's it. It's a done deal. The beginning wasn't so bad. It was kind of fun when they hung us upside down forty feet above the ground (the harnesses were actually comfortable). But then they began to spin us. Even Joe and Christy thought it was for too long. When we got off, I staggered into some shade and someone got me a ginger ale. But I could see the shadow of the spinning ride and my stomach started to heave. They brought me into a gazebo by the beach, where I sat for about twenty minutes before the color actually returned to my face. Cold ice cream helped. From now on, I declare, I will not go on any ride that spins me around or flips me upside down. Period. I'm not scared. I have nothing to prove. I just don't want to puke. This also leads to thoughts of, what happens if you puke on the ride, forty feet in the air and upside down? Would it run into my hair before splattering to the ground? And would they stop the ride immediately? I hope so.
Sunday we saw "Sweet Charity" on Broadway with Christina Applegate. Cute enough. Then we went to Harlem to Dinosaur BBQ and ate some really superb meat. There were fried green tomatoes, grilled shrimp, potatoes, collard greens, brisket, and of course, the star, pulled pork. Definitely worth the trip up there.
The next day we rode the tram to Roosevelt Island and wandered around not really knowing where to go. It was used to quarantine smallpox patients in 1854 and had a lunatic asylum starting in 1829 because it was an island. The ruins are hard to see, but have a fun history. There is still more than one hospital on the island, and one out of every ten people you see is in a wheelchair. There's one bus that loops the island, and apparently the whole town turns out to go fishing on the Fourth of July. Yet it's technically part of Manhattan. Absolutely surreal.
Of course, it had to be upwards of ninety degrees that day. My equilibrium had not entirely returned and of course, I sprouted a nasty case of flesh eating disease, a painful heat rash I get all over my arms, chest, and anywhere else exposed to the sun (except, interestingly enough, my face). But I couldn't go home. We had to stake out a spot for fireworks on the FDR highway. It was shut down and thousands of people hurried up the exit ramps to get the best spot. There was plenty of room and everywhere on the highway had the most beautiful view of three sets of Macy's fireworks being shot from barges in the river. It's a half hour long and the finale makes the sky look like a solid sheet of sparkles.
And still we weren't done. I didn't have to work until 4 pm the next day, but I was actually looking forward to it. That morning we went to Governor's Island and Christy is pretty sure, and I don't doubt her, that the newest Amazing Race was there while we were, probably resting between challenges. She was having spasms of joy. I was having flesh eating disease.
It's hard to have someone with you all the time for days. And I didn't have that "WOW! I'm in New York City!" feeling because "Hey! I'm in New York City every day." So I kept wanting to go home, thinking I could do these things in the fall, when my face wasn't melting off. But I have such limited time with Christy that it's worth it all just to hang out with her. I hope she had fun.

Monsters in my Closet

Joe stayed at my house last night, despite the fact that we still have mice, and it nearly killed him. And me. We were up until almost four in the morning. For some reason, his fear of mice triggers every fear he's ever had and it comes crashing down on him. I understand being scared of things, or creeped out, but he puts such weight, such anxiety, into one little creature. I think we must all have a creature, it just isn't so obvious or so unavoidable. No one forces you to sleep with yours (possibly) under the bed. My own fears are pushed into my nightmares, dreams so vivid they color the way I look at the world for days. For years I dreamt I was being sent back to high school whenever I was anxious about anything. Sometimes I wasn't even aware I was anxious until the dreams showed up and I had to look for what was wrong. I'm very good at pushing things down and away, or at least I used to be. I try not to do it so much now, but old habits are hard to break. Joe has to pry things out of me half the time. The only physical fear I have that I can think of is of crowds. They don't always bother me, but that's probably because I often just simply avoid being anywhere they are. The sidewalks of New York are enough to make me twitch. Concerts I can only do on a good day, and only if I'm really determined. And just what would happen if I stayed?

Don't Touch My Frog

Last weekend Joe and I went to Jersey, where he grew up, and stayed at his mom's house. His mom now lives in an over 55 retirement community, with rows and rows of one story white houses and perfect tiny lawns where you expect little boys to come out and bounce a ball in unison (or old men to come out and mow their lawn in synchronized patterns). We had a cookout on the patio and I grilled the meat (Yeah! Huah!). And there's nothing like drinking beer with Joe's 94 year old grandpa.
We went to the driving lane later. I had never hit a golfball in my life. I tend to try and hit it like a softball, which means I miss it by about 3 feet. So Joe played the golf instructor and showed me how and I actually managed to hit it pretty good by the end. There were beavers roaming across the range, but I never hit it far enough to even get close. I saw his childhood home, and we pretended we were in high school and made out by the lake.
The next day we went to the Jersey shore. It was COLD. I had to wear a sweatshirt, but it was actually very nice. We walked along the beach and on the boardwalk and, yes, made out under the boardwalk. We ate pizza, funnel cakes, and orange and vanilla twisted ice cream (which is apparently pretty old school). Check out Joe's post on the ice cream. And, of course, we played ski ball. I kicked Joe's butt 2 out of 3, but somehow he got more tickets than me. I think he played another game than I did. With our precious points we scored a bouncing ball, a plastic bracelet, and a frog on a keychain who sticks out his tongue when you squeeze him. Yeah, I know. Totally worth $6.
So I bring my frog to work to sit on my desk. My desk I have to share with another person. My desk I don't get to have until I've been at work for 2 hours trying to look busy. The next day, my frog is turned backwards, facing the wall. Poor blue froggy. I turn him back. Then next day he's turned again. So I figure maybe his googley eyes freak her out, so I left him. The next day he was GONE. Death and destruction. Anger. Yanking of cords and moving of TV sets. Eventually I found him on another girl's desk. WHY ARE YOU PEOPLE TOUCHING MY FROG? So now I have to take him home. That was the point of my story, basically. How I am mistreated at work.

The Rodent Saga

Let me begin by telling you the tale of our mice. I live in a 3 bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. Jen and Oriana are my roommates. In addition, Oriana's roommate Zad (short for Farzad. He has no front teeth) basically lives with us as well. We've just started charging him utilities. Anyways, a few months ago, we saw a mouse. We set out glue traps, with no luck. Jen decided that the mouse was sick and dying anyways, since it sort of gimped when it ran and seemed a little desperate. A few weeks later, we found out she wasn't sick. Nope. She was pregnant. Soon, we had hordes of tiny mice running everywhere. Even I was grossed out, and I have a high tolerance for grossness. My boyfriend, Joe, who's greatest fear is mice, has not been to my house in five weeks.
Eventually one of these mice did get caught in one of our glue traps. It began to squeak it's little heart out in fear. Fortunately (for the mouse) Zad was home. And fortunately (for both Zad and the mouse) I was not. Because he then proceeded to take the creature outside, still stuck in the glue trap, and rub it's feet with Goo-gone for hours, painstakingly freeing it from the trap.
When I told my mom this story, she laughed so hard she dropped the phone. Mice are lower than mosquitoes to my parents. True, they don't bite you, but they do poop everywhere and the aversion to cleaning is nearly a disease in my family. Why on earth would you free a mouse? "Put a paper towel over it's head and smack it with a hammer," she told me. Ah, the life lessons to be learned. So Zad and Oriana insisted that glue traps were barbaric and they bought a bunch of live traps.
That weekend I was alone in the apartment. Two mice (on separate occasions) got into the bathtub and couldn't get out again when I yanked out the shower curtain away. I drowned them. I found one mouse mired in a glue trap, already dead. And I found one in a live trap. I opened the trap, dumped him in the tub, and drowned him too.
The mother hasn't appeared in some time and there only seems to be one baby left. He's laying low these days. He must have heard what happened.
Jasmine Smith: Mouse Killer Extraordinare.

In the Beginning, Boredom Ruled

I have decided to create a blog out of sheer desparate boredom at work. This is, I suspect, the motivation behind most blogs. Either that, or some people are under the impression that they actually have something to tell the world. OK, maybe I do too. Mostly it will be a chronicle of life in New York, and a tiny peek into my head. If anyone writes to me about it, I will certainly post it. Even if it's mean. Heck, maybe I won't even tell anyone the address...