The Not-So-Secret Diary of a Bad Luck Girl

It started Friday night when I went with YP to his friend’s open house at Pratt, which is a pretty cool campus with modern sculptures everywhere. His friend wasn’t there so we waited for a little while – we were both STARVING – then left a note.

YP was nice enough to take me out for a belated birthday dinner at Red Bamboo. I had the sizzling tofu, which was literally sizzling when the waiter brought it out, like a fajita.

The artsy weekend continued with a couple of literary events that were part of the PEN World Voices New York literary festival, which was all this week.

Last night was the Believer Nighttime Event, which was hosted by Eric Bogosian and totally free, which rocks in a kind of unbelievable way. And Eric Bogosian is rather sexy, in an Anthony Bourdain kind of way.

The first part was a mock auction – a mock-tion, if you will – using donated objects from the audience: a half-used roll of Ricolas, a copy of an August Wilson play, an expired AARP card (donated by 50+ year old who looked about 35). It was amusing at times but went on too long.

Next Bogosian read from his new novel. Angry and funny. Hot.

There was supposed to be short film but they couldn’t show it due to “technical difficulties,” which was okay by me because the next bit was the main reason I, and I think a lot of other people, were there.

John Hodgman is perhaps best known as the PC in those Apple commercials, but before that he was already an established writer and humorist, making appearances on The Daily Show. He’s also quite funny.

By chance I recently listened to an old This American Life, Nice Work If You Can Get It, on which he talked about how his life has changed so much and so weirdly since becoming famous from the Apple commercials. If I hadn’t listened to that This American Life, I wouldn’t have recognized his name in the program I got in the mail.

Hodgman hosted a writers’ “speed dating” event, which was basically a timed exchange between pairs of writers. It was pretty fun. The writers, who didn’t know each other, either asked each other their own questions, or the ones that Hodgman had come up with, like, “What did you do this morning? Answer yes or no.”

Having a cast of international writers was pretty fucking cool. The Dutch woman was paired with an Italian man who needed an interpretor (it was also cool hearing the different languages, even if I didn’t udnerstand), while this very young Nigerian American man was paired with an older man from Algeria who spoke French.

The Nigerian American man is an already very accomplished novelist, and yet he’s still going to medical school because that’s what his parents want. Talk about filial piety.

The “prizes” were madeleines from Boule Bakery. How literary. Love it.

Today I went to What Makes a Home? I ended up arriving at the same time as one of the panelists, Alain de Botton, who looks way different from his photo in real life. He’s kinda sexy too, in a supersmart, British-y kind of way, for which I am now apparently a cheap whore.

Lee Stringer was also on the panel. I haven’t read his books yet, but this is the second time I’ve heard him speak and yet again I really liked him.

I have to admit during both panels I thought a lot about H. and that he’d have appreciated the talks and thought they were fun and interesting. I, for one, wish that I’d gone to more events. Next year.

Class was good last night though for some reason fewer and fewer people are showing, which sucked because my piece was workshopped. Oh well. Still got some good feedback.

I forgot how we got on this topic, but someone referenced a Hedwig and the Angry Inch song, the Origin of Love, which is based on Plato’s Symposium. I wasn’t familiar with either, but when my classmate started to tell the story, I couldn’t believe it: just days before I had written that into my memoir.

The speech my father made at my wedding was based on this (Plato’s thing, not the tranny thing), about how long ago men and woman used to be one creature with two heads, two arms, and two legs, that the gods split them, and that’s why men and women went around looking for each other, for their “other halves.”

I thought the story sounded familiar though my dad claimed to have made it up.

There were a few things in class that came up like that, and all from the same classmate, like he was in my brain and pulling stuff out that I’d been thinking about recently.

I guess in ESP there are senders and receivers. For a long time I’ve thought I could send out my thoughts, like I’ll be walking behind a slow person and thinking, Move, move, MOVE, and I swear they’ll turn around as though I’ve said it aloud.

In another writing class, we had to pretend to be characters and to pick names for our characters, and about three times in a wrong, someone picked the very name I was thinking at that moment.

When these things happen, I always feel a weird energy in the air, like this buzzing web, but it doesn’t feel weird at the time. It feels perfectly natural.

The put-out responder claims she was being tongue-in-cheek. See what a simple emoticon would have done to assuage the unintended sarcasm?

Plus I’m sick of my pathetic last post.

For my writing class, to give everyone enough time to read pieces scheduled to be workshopped on Thursday, the scheduled workshoppers need to send their pieces to everyone by Monday. This week three are up, and only one was sent. Today the teacher wrote everyone, checking if we’d be receiving the appointed pieces in time, if at all.

Then an eager beaver replied to all, saying that if the scheduled workshoppers “bailed” this week, she had a piece ready.

Bailing has been a common occurrence lately. I don’t get why people do it. You pay good money to have your work critiqued – why wouldn’t you take the opportunity, even to turn in something crappy? But it was definitely a poor choice of words.

One of the scheduled workshoppers replied to everyone, “Nice attitude. Some of us write for a living,” and then proceeded to make some sarcastic remarks about how “generous” everyone was.

Yikes.

Email makes communication – or miscommunication – way too easy. Reminds me of this book I heard about on Talk of the Nation. Surprisingly the authors are pro-emoticons. Me too, in the right context and with the right people.

Anyway, the teacher stepped in with some reasonable words, but I’m still nervous about how the interaction between the emailer and the respondee will be on Thursday. Nervous, or excited. >:)

Last night as part of my week-long self-imposed 35th birthday extravaganza – which began with yummy burgers and fries with SB on Wednesday, and continued with my leaving work “sick” at 11:30 on Thursday, going home to take a nap and gorge myself on a s’mores birthday cupcake – I treated myself to a massage and facial.

I love a good massage and don’t mind being touched by a stranger. As I’m lying there, I don’t really think I’m being rubbed up by Person A but by these disembodied hands. But last night was different. My masseuse – an Amazonian red head with the unlikely name of Miles – had to go and make conversation beforehand. She saw my book, Wicked, thus beginning a short and pleasant chat about Gregory Maguire’s books.

So when the massage began, I could no longer think “disembodied hands.” I thought “Miles” and felt rather weird. But soon I forgot about this. Maybe it was the dim lights, or the soothing music, or the faint smell of lavendar and eucalyptas. Or maybe it was that Miles started beating me senseless.

I could take the kneading of my shoulder muscles, and the bending back of my fingers, and even the hard rub down that nerve in my thigh, but when she started to attack the knots around my shoulder blades, I began to understand how Tom Skerritt felt in Opposing Force.

“Ow,” I said as she pressed down, thinking she’d let up. Most masseuses do. After all it’s a customer service industry. Miles didn’t.

“Take a deep breath,” she said.

Wrong answer! But I did, though my nose and out my mouth, and it actually helped.

Then she did it again – and again! “C’mon,” she said. “You can do it.”

Wait, wasn’t this supposed to be relaxing? But in a way, it did feel good, in combination with the deep breathing and the tears pouring from my eyes.

But she wasn’t done yet. Next she attacked the nerves in my ass cheeks, and bent my legs in half so hard I thought my quads would snap. (I couldn’t imagine her doing the same to one of the doughy ladies in the waiting room.) And yes, at the end I gave her a tip. A good one too.

Next up was the facial. Have you ever noticed how during these treatments you regress to an infant? You lie there unmoving, helpless, naked. Your body parts get moved around, you get swaddled up in towels and blankets.

Usually I’m into it, at least for a little while, but perhaps the facial went too far. After applying a mask, the woman covered my entire face with gauze, except for tiny air holes for my nose and mouth. I was already covered with a sheet and towel, which she pulled up to my ears. Then she left the room.

Although I had no problem breathing, I felt like I was having trouble so I quickly yanked an arm out of my mummy wrap and widened my nose air hole . I imagined Michael Jackson with his face all wrapped up except for a tiny sliver of a non-existent nose.

I lay there and lay there. I tried to relax. I listened to the relaxing music which suddenly seemed creepy, like the soundtrack of a David Lynch movie. I touched my nose again. Air hole still intact. I opened my eyes and tried to see through the gauze. Too warm suddenly, I moved my limbs around trying to escape the seemingly endless sheet.

I began to panic. Was she ever coming back? Could I take the gauze off my face? Would I get in trouble if I did? Were those footsteps? Was it her? Would I be here forever?

Finally, she returned. She seemed to have been gone for an inordinate amount of time but it was probably only about 15 minutes. As she removed the gauze and loosened the blankets, I felt utter relief, as though I were being born again, but with clear skin and (temporarily) clean blackheads. Now if only I could learn to go on the potty.

Last week a slew of people moved onto our floor. Before this, more than half our offices were empty, which is bad because that meant people have been abandoning ship, but which is also good because it meant peace and quiet.

These new people are incredibly disruptive. I don’t know what it is. Maybe because there are 2 to an office, or because they seem to be constantly walking around rather than sitting in front of their computers or in meetings all day like the rest of us.

But mostly, they stare. What the fuck! Every single time one of them walks by my office, they have to look in. If they go to the office next to mine, first they have to look in mine, AT ME. Yes? What? Can I help you off a cliff? A glance is understandable, but not a full-on peasant stare.

Yesterday I closed my door, leaving it a crack open for colleagues, and one of the new people actually PEEKED IN THE CRACK! I mean, he didn’t put his face right up to it, but I could see him from half a foot away, looking in.

WHAT THE FUCK.

I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them.

Okay, now I’m sounding a bit insane.

And THEN, the other day I ended up in the elevator with one of them, a woman, who frigging looked me UP AND DOWN. Like we’re in goddamned junior high or something. I stared straight ahead, clearly annoyed, and when I got off the elevator, she said, “Have a nice day!”

Okay, so you’re trying to be friendly in your no-social-skills sort of way. You don’t frigging give someone the up-and-downs if you’re trying to be friendly. You smile, you say hello, you make some random comment about the weather (“How ’bout all that rain?”).

Even when our floor was at capacity, it wasn’t this annoying. Supposedly we’ll be moving to another building next month. God willing.

For some reason I thought I shared a birthday with Hitler, but his isn’t till the 20th. Whew!

What famous people do share this auspicious day?

“Forget the details,” said the Witch tartly. “I just mean, Glinda, is it possible we could be living our entire adult lives under somoene’s spell. . . .?”

“. . . .Good gracious, dear,” [said Glinda], “all of life is a spell. You know that. But you do have some choice.”

An opening quote for my memoir?

This book rocks, by the way. Where Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister was narrow and interior, Wicked is so expansive, epic. Reminds me of LOTR.

So say your favorite cafe is closed, said favorite cafe where you go five mornings a week, where they know you so well they have your small vanilla coffee ready before you even open your mouth.

Say, in your coffee-deprived haze, you don’t realize the cafe is closed because 1) you’re not usually in this early and are ignorant of the hours, 2) the lights are on, 3) people are moving around inside, and 4) perhaps most importantly, the door is open.

So what do you do? You go up to the counter. And what happens?

“We’re not open yet,” they tell you. “We’re closed.”

You feel confused, though that may be the sleepiness.

“We’re closed,” they tell you again.

More confusion. Lights on, people around, DOOR OPEN. Your confusion quickly turns into irritation. “So should I leave?” you ask.

But to give them credit, they do realize it will take two seconds to give you your coffee and you’re a regular who goes in sometimes three times in one day.

“Thank you,” you say, trying not to be annoyed as they hand you your cup. “Sorry, but the door was open.”

“Oh, it’s always open.”

Well, who’s problem is that? Not yours.

The annoying person in my writing class has dropped out! Woohoo! Peace and harmony for the last three weeks.

She was supposed to workshop a piece this week. Like a vulture I swept in and asked if I could take her place, although we’re all only supposed to go twice, and this would be my third time. But another girl went three times, I think.

And besides, if no one else volunteers, there will be a big chunk of unoccupied time, like there was last week, though some people, including me, liked getting out a little early.