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

Is it Wednesday? Why, yes it is. For some reason I keep thinking (hoping) it’s Thursday.

Remember DK from last summer? Of course you do. Well, sometimes I Google him to see if he’s published anything else, and yesterday I found that he published another piece in the same newspaper as last year. And his essay isn’t that different from his first one either, more dating woes about how women are scary/crazy and he’s an innocent victim.

I can’t believe I dated that guy for six months. I don’t know what I was thinking.

Scratch that. Yes I do. I didn’t know what I wanted; thought an empty fling would be okay. A six month empty fling. It wasn’t.

I read his piece and I get the willies.

Also makes me feel competitive, in a positive, energizing way. I’m a better writer than he is. I can move beyond these amusing yet vapid pieces about dating and sex. I can be deep, poignant, and honest, and have no problem casting myself in a negative but human light, and I can be funny too.

In my own humble opinion.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to work on after finishing up my memoir. Now I know I want to work on some short pieces culled from my longer piece, and try to get those published. Then in the fall I’ll start work on my second long essay, about China and my cousin and all that crazy shit that happened.

I got my haircut finally! So you all don’t have to hear me whine about it anymore. It’s super short and such a relief to get rid of those rough ends brushing against my neck, especially in this hot weather.

Mario was away for several weeks doing hair on a movie set down south. Something about Louis Armstrong and starring Cuba Gooding Jr.’s brother. Not Cuba Gooding Jr., his brother. Not exactly star-studded.

Got home in time to watch the Gilmore Girls rerun, and then a new House. My favorite line from the episode:

Marina (having been brought back from the dead): “Is this heaven?”
House: “No, it’s New Jersey.”

Heaven, Jersey, Jersey, heaven. You say tomato.

Also, who knew Hugh Laurie is actually British? I had no idea. I’d love to hear that accent.

I couldn’t sleep till one last night. I need to get myself a new job.

Rather than bore everyone – and myself – with an exhaustive weekend update, here are some Memorial Day observations (which have nothing to do with the holiday):

Waitress was an incredibly sad movie.

An actor who looks nothing like H. can totally remind me of H., just because of his eyes and mannerisms.

After watching Waitress, I will be stupid enough to look for said actor’s MySpace profile and add him as my “friend.”

I am now apparently *not* allergic to seafood, having successfully scarfed down sushi Friday night.

Half a bourbon and water will make me hungover.

I will go into withdrawal if my internet is down for more than 24 hours.

I can think of a use for everything in the Container Store.

Even after properly hydrating, running in the sun will dry me out.

Walking in Central Park is much nicer in the late morning than in the late afternoon.

The winding stairs at the Apple store on 5th Avenue make 3 out of every 10 people trip (me included).

The customer service at the Apple store is very good.

I scarily have no problem plopping down my credit card for a MacBook.

Hooray, I have a MacBook!

Some of the best public restrooms in New York are at Takashimaya.

Wearing a hat really does a good job of protecting one’s face from the sun.

Wearing a hat on wet hair results in the worst hat hair ever.

Sitting in the sun, listening to your iPod, after a 3.5 mile run and a 1.5 mile walk, may induce drowsiness.

If you happen to take a 9 PM train from New York to New Jersey the Sunday before Memorial Day, every Indian person in New Jersey will ride in the same car as you, and they will all get off at one stop.

I apparently have the gall to say, “Is he going to keep doing that?” to the mother of a boy jumping on the seat we’re sharing.

Birds chirping in the morning isn’t nice. Birds chirping in the morning is annoying.

Coffee makes for some good writing time.

If you happen to take a 2 PM express train on Memorial Day from New Jersey to New York, it will be empty (yay!).

But the subways won’t be.

Apparently six foot two tourists’ elbows have no feeling. How else to explain jabbing said elbow into my shoulder three times?

I need a haircut.

Wah, it’s hot.

First, this.

While the article pinpoints a few possible causes of the rise of suicide rates in South Korea, like “the stresses of rapid modernization and the degradation of rural life,” the increasing pressures to succeed in work and school, and high divorce rates, it also essentially blames the Internet, the venue for online suicide pacts and where at least one actress who offed herself posted her death-loving thoughts:

For no reason at all, I am going crazy with anger. Then, as if lightening had struck, all becomes quiet. . . .Then the Lord comes to me. The Lord says I will be O.K. YES, I WILL BE O.K.

Get that girl some Paxil.

So how do they propose fixing this problem? Counseling? Therapy? Rethinking priorities that focus on how you look and how much money you make? Nope.

Number one solution: censorship. According to the article, “Web portals, acting under pressure from civic groups, have banned words like suicide and death from the names of blogs.” But, a good thing, “If a user keys in ‘suicide,’ search engines display links to counseling centers at the top of their search results.”

How else? “Since nearly 40 percent of South Koreans who kill themselves do so by drinking pesticides or jumping, the government is considering making pesticides less toxic and is installing more barriers on rooftops and bridges.”

Also, the “Seoul subway system began erecting glass walls on platforms after 95 people. . .threw themselves in front of subway trains in 2003.”

Aren’t these sort of after the fact solutions? Not that they’re not needed, but what about the WHY these poor people want to kill themselves? I know it’d be difficult to transform an entire society that doesn’t like to show and talk about its feelings, but it’s like the same idea of building more prisons in order to stop crime.

If someone wants to kill him or herself, they will find a way.

~ ~ ~

Second, this. Although I’ve made fun of Ghost Hunters, I watched it last night – and it was scary! Mostly it was the guys in the dark, going, “What was that?” and “Did you hear that?” which was still creepy. (If you didn’t think Blair Witch was scary, then you won’t find Ghost Hunters frightening either.)

For the most part, they came away from the situations with nothing except the heebie jeebies, except for one house. Even just the way the woman described her sightings gave me the willies, like that once in her bedroom, she saw this black figure that was about waist high. It hovered for a moment before – whoosh! – disappearing quickly under the bed.

I thought there weren’t supposed to be monsters under the bed. What the hell?

That night, with the family out of the house, the guys set up surveillance. Two of the guys were in the master bedroom, trying to coax out the spirit, asking what its name was. While the guys were being filmed, nothing seemed to happen. But when they played back the audio, there was definitely a little kid’s voice on the tape.

After one of the guys spoke, the voice said, “Who’s Jason?” Jason was one the hunters, lying in the bed of the little girl the ghost usually manifested itself to. Then after the other guy asked its name, it just hummed a little tune.

YIKES!

This is assuming it was all real, but I think it was. It was so fucking scary, I was a little creeped out when I went to bed.

Nothing happened with any of the other investigations, which made that one piece of evidence seem ever scarier and more real.

I think I found a new show to be addicted to.

Completely unmotivated today. Spring fever. Cramps. General malaise.

Swiped from Sitcomgirl (the meme not the malaise).

Fill this out about your SENIOR year of high school! The longer ago it was, the more fun the answers will be. (And the older you’ll feel.)

1. Who was your best friend? SG and ES, with whom I’m still friends.

2. What sports did you play? Nope. Shoulda joined the track team though.

3. What kind of car did you drive? Didn’t have one what with the phobia about driving.

4. It’s Friday night, where were you? At the movies or at home watching The Princess Bride for the bazillionth time.

5. Were you a party animal? No, but senior year there were a couple of fun ones. 1) SG’s 18th birthday party, at which we danced all over the house and Terri C. got hives from the shrimp (kinda like I have hives right now, though from what I don’t know). 2) Jay P.’s graduation party, at which we danced in the basement to Erasure (hey, it was 1990).

6. Were you considered a flirt? No way. Too shy.

7. Were you in band, orchestra, or choir? Nope, but I played the piano for like 12 years.

8. Were you a nerd? Although I was in AP English, Bio and Calc, I was too lazy to be considered a real nerd. Unless holing up in my room all summer reading is nerd-like (then I’m still a nerd).

9. Did you get suspended/expelled? Are you kidding me? I got upset if a teacher even looked at me funny.

10. Can you sing the fight song? We had a fight song?

11. Who was your favorite teacher? Tie, Mr. B. of AP English with his irreverant dry wit (too old for crush material though) and Ms. D. of Calc who made me not hate math.

12. What was your school’s full name? TMI.

13. School mascot? Pirate. Yes, a pirate.

14. Did you go to Prom? Nope, but we did have a post-prom party at the school, where Liz P. showed off her Harvard boyfriend complete with Harvard sweatshirt. Blech!

15. If you could go back and do it over, would you? No fucking way.

16. What do you remember most about graduation? Being extremely warm under my gown, and somehow ending up next to almost six foot tall Ben G., despite the fact that we were supposed to be seated by height (ES was first!).

17. Where were you on senior skip day? At Wendy’s maybe? I can’t remember.

18. Did you have a job your senior year? Yes, I tutored this kid who had cerebral palsy.

19. Where did you go most often for lunch? The caf. Tuna on a roll and french fries almost every day.

20. Have you gained weight since then? I’ve lost the same 10 to 15 pounds every year till about 2000, when I was finally able to keep it off. So I’m actually 5 to 8 pounds less than I was in high school.

21. What did you do after graduation? After the ceremony? I think I just went home. Then for the summer I worked shelving tapes at Recording for the Blind (can we say wrist-slittingly-boring?).

22. When did you graduate? 1990

23. Who was your Senior prom date? Didn’t go. Hello?

24. Are you going to your 10 year reunion? Went. Didn’t want to. (Darn you, ES!) It sucked. Hardly anyone remembered me, except for Beth T., Carol C., Vince V., and Brent M.

25. Who was your home room teacher? For the life of me, I can’t remember. But I do remember sharing a table with ES, who one day had a small mirror, with which she reflected some light into some poor unsuspecting guy’s face. His reaction CRACKED US UP. (Yes, very mature.)

26. Who will repost this after you? Anyone who wants a walk down memory lane.

At least for someone who normally doesn’t drink a lot.

One Fish, Two Fish – Maybe No Fish
Friday I had a lovely day off. There’s something about not being at work while the rest of the world is. I kept my Blackberry on but that wasn’t too bad, just half a dozen emails or so. Lots more writing and drinking of caffeinated beverages, this time at a Starbuck’s near me – hate the coffee, love the breakfast sandwiches – and then downtown at a boba tea place, mine without boba.

I also stopped in the Strand, like I’ve been meaning to for ages. Got The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami, and Everything Is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer.

Hung out with SB and Ellie. Ellie had on yet another hilarious outfit: a kitty cat shirt, no pants (diaper only), and a bright orange swimming cap halfway off her head. She kept trying to get me to read to her. I lasted one book, One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish, before getting bored. “Once upon a time,” I kept saying. “The end!” which she thought was hilarious.

Next we walked down to the Japanese grocery store. Apparently I’m now allergic to seafood. Tuesday night I broke out in hives. I didn’t know what it was from. Peanuts? The chocolate and pecan candy I had? Well, I broke out again on Friday shortly after ingesting a salmon and roe rice cake. I didn’t know how bad it was going to be, so just in case I popped a Benadryl.

Bad idea. My brother and his girlfriend, in from L.A., came into the city around 5. I was a space cadet for a good part of the night, though I had a nice time with them. First we went downtown to see an art show that my brother’s friend’s gallery was having. Then we all went out to dinner at this Meditarranean place, and afterwards went, of all things, bar hopping.

Despite the Benadryl, I did have some drinks. A few sips of champagne at the art show, a tiny bit of wine at dinner, and then two vodka tonics. By the time I hit the vodka tonics, the Benadryl was was wearing off, or else I’d have been on the floor.

“I shouldn’t have had the Seven and Seven.”
The next morning my brother was very hungover. His girlfriend, E., and I were feeling it a little, but not like D. , who had us beat with drink quantities (9 to our far-less-than-9). He puked, then slept it off while E. and I got some breakfast across the street.

We did eventually make it out of the house. What was up with the weather this weekend? The whole time we were fuh-REE-zing, when earlier in the week it was like summer.

We took the bus to the Central Park Conservatory Garden, which I didn’t even know existed. It was absolutely lovely.

E. graduated from the same college I did, so she wanted to check it out, having not seen it for some time. We walked across the Park, and first hit the Hungarian Pastry Shop, which I haven’t been to in years.

It seemed newer and nicer than when I used to hang out there. I distinctly remember the tables being marked up, and even being encouraged to write on them. But maybe I’m thinking of someplace else.

Then we stopped in St. John’s the Divine. Beautiful and peaceful. At one point I was alone, no footsteps or voices in earshot, and it was so utterly still. Is that God? The energy of the universe encapsulated? That inexplicable, intangible Something?

So I’ve been in correspondence with this one guy. He seems decent though so far there’s no wow factor. I know it’s hard to tell from a profile and a few emails, but I’m already bored.

Either a) he’s just not doing it for me, or b) I’m not as ready as I thought. Either way probably means a no go with this guy.

Work has been a challenge lately. There was restructuring and so I have a new boss who has, let’s say, a very different style than my old boss, who I really liked. Let’s just say now there are no simple answers; everything requires further investigation and at least 2 meetings. Blech.

I’m looking for other positions in the company and so far none fitting me have come up. Guess I’ll have to stick it out for a while longer.

Surprisingly though I don’t feel depressed. Maybe a bit stressed about work but that comes and goes. And also keeps me too busy to feel lonely. Or maybe I’ve started to get over my loneliness over H.

I’m in dire need of a haircut but my hairdresser got a job working a movie and won’t be back till June 5. I made an appointment with someone else for today, but am thinking about canceling. I’m very particular about my hair.

Getting Out
Saturday morning, instead of staying in and writing, I camped out with coffee and a bagel at an outdoor table at a deli nearby. Later while I ran errands, I took my notebook with me, stopping and writing whenever I took a break or grabbed another coffee.

Also hit Central Park where I wrote near the Alice in Wonderland sculpture, and the Frick museum, writing in the beautiful covered garden. A nice change from being cooped up all day.

Happy Mother’s Day – Not!
Okay, so it was Mother’s Day weekend. But Mother’s Day is not like the New Year; it’s not applicable to everyone and so you shouldn’t go around saying, “Have a happy Mother’s Day!” to every female of child-bearing age. You don’t know anything about that person.

Maybe she 1) doesn’t have kids by choice; 2) wants to have kids and has been trying for years and just can’t; 3) is barren; 4) had a miscarriage; or 5) like yours truly, is so far from possible motherhood that she might as well be a 12-year old boy. Think, people, think!

An Especially Weird Fetishy Encounter
So I was standing on the subway platform Sunday morning, minding my own business. Suddenly this white guy, maybe in his 50s or 60s, tiny with crazy gray hair and chewing on a toothpick, came up out nowhere.

“June-ko?” he said to me, making me jump 10 feet.

Assuming he was talking in some made-up Asian language, I ignored him.

“June-ko?” he said again, coming closer. “June-ko? June-ko? June-ko?”

What the fuck, motherfucker? I moved away.

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “You’re not June-ko.”

Gee, ya think? After saying it five times and my not responding? And I’m sorry but “June-ko” doesn’t sound like a real Asian name to me.

The Weather
It’s been gorgeous out! I prefer it on the cool side. Now if only it’d stay this way for the whole summer.

“We can never know what we want, because, living only one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives nor perfect it in our lives to come.”

“[Human lives] are composed like music. Guided by his sense of beauty, an individual transforms a fortuitous occurrence. . .into a motif, which then assumes a permanent place in the composition of the individual’s life.”

“The dreams were eloquent, but they were also beautiful. That aspect seems to have escaped Freud in his theory of dreams. Dreaming is not merely an act of communication (or coded communication, if you like); it is also an aesthetic activity, a game of the imagination, a game that is a value in itself. Our dreams prove that to imagine – to dream about things that have not happened – is among mankind’s deepest needs. Herein lies the danger. If dreams were not beautiful, they would quickly be forgotten.”

“Culture is perishing in overproduction, in an avalanche of words, in the madness of quantity. That’s why one banned book in your former country means infinitely more than the billions of words spewed out of our universities.”