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Saturday, March 01, 2003
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?
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?
Friday, February 28, 2003
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.
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.
Thursday, February 27, 2003
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 26, 2003
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.
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.