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Friday, March 07, 2003
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.
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.
Thursday, March 06, 2003
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?
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?
Wednesday, March 05, 2003
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.
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.
Monday, March 03, 2003
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.
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.