Life Listed Chronologically
The other night, 9 to 5 was on AMC. It began around 10 pm or so and I figured I get a few kicks out of and then turn in by 11 pm. Instead, I watched the whole movie, enjoying it more than I expected that I would. Enjoying it in the way that I downloaded the Dolly Parton song with the same title and am listening to it on repeat on iTunes. Enjoying in the way that I find myself thinking about it frequently. More frequently than the new Michael Moore docu drama that I watched this weekend. Actually, I think about that a lot but mostly I think about how it freaked me out and how I thought I was over it but I am not. We were supposed to be “fixed” but it hard to just be “fixed” so fast even if a “Freedom Tower” is being built at this very moment and what had been has been erased physically but not in my mind. I used to want to write it all down so I would not forget what it was like, but I still remember it all.
Regardlessly, what surprised me most about 9 to 5 is the progressive working policies that were implemented in the movie that have yet to be adopted widely to date. In the early 1980s Dolly frigging Parton was in a silly movie that had a little moral that if you provide some pretty basic things, your workforce just might be happier. Like jobsharing and flexible hours and childcare. Ideas that are only in a select few workplaces, in only the biggest “progressive” corporations that are put on lists as “worker friendly” employers, as if being nice to your employees is a really novel idea. Looking around my life, I realize that it is a novel idea and very few people are treated very fairly or justly in the working world. It makes me question what I am doing in school, what am I striving for if the boss won let me
In other news, the government won give me money to go to school because of politics so if you see me in 5 inch heels and a trench coat, it because I am stripping to pay my way through school. In other news, I woke up laughing in the middle of the night while dreaming about the boy telling me jokes to get me to laugh. Waking up laughing is one of the best darned feeling in the whole world. I also decided that I need a nail product that will make my nails resistant to chipping/flaking as the current regimine does nothing to prevent this, which is unacceptable.
I informed my younger sister that John Kerry picked John Edwards as a running mate. Granted, she was still mostly asleep (I did not wake her up to tell her this but for another trival matter entirely) but her reaction was priceless:
You are telling me he picked John Edwards the guy who weas running in the primaries. The young southern guy.
John Edwards don you remeber him from just a few months ago He kept coming in second to Kerry you sure his name is John Edwards that his name. Why Edwards the guy who talks to dead people, John Edwards July 7, 2004
Sometimes, weekends just happen to you and you never get a chance to be in the weekend. This happens frequently when you are sick or hungover and spend the entire time hating the fact that time is flying by and sooner or later you will be back at work. Half my weekend feel under that category thanks to trees and pollen and things that didn bother me when I lived in a place that wasn full of some many allergens and what not. The other half of my weekend was perfect.
Although I told myself when I left the city that I could go back whenever I wanted to because it is so close, that I would still spend as much time as possible, as I fif when I lived there. That was a big lie I told myself. I rarely get the chance to spend time in the city, whether or not I don actively make the time or I simply am otherwise too busy. But I had to go on Sunday, I needed ribbon and trimmings and bits and pieces for a little purple baby sweater that I am making. And in the middle of SoHo, amongst the clothing and shoe stores and art galleries with paintings of women staring longingly out at the skyline is the biggest damn store for trimmings ever. Since I love options and choice and do not want to settle, I knew I had to go there instead of searching stores in New Jersey, wasting gasoline driving here and there and wasting time never finding something I felt suitable.
I walked 1/2 the length of Manhattan, purchased 2 meters of stripped ribbon, 12 faux snap buttons and managed to cut through the middle of the Gay Pride Parade. I smelled cheap grease in the 30s, rich coffee in the 20s, sweat and sex as I passed the parade, and the sweat perfume of the wealthy walking the back streets of SoHo. I forgot all of the smells you encountered the most. I miss being able to walk through different places that way and all of the scents you pick up. I forgot how much perfume rich women wear to walk their small dogs. Through Chinatown, I pushed my way by tourists wiping their foreheads with the backs of their hands and stopping suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk to discuss their recently purchaseed knock off handbags. Once I crossed Houston, I was mostly alone. There were few cars, fewer people and the mixed feelings about walking towards the WTC pit to take the Path back to NJ.
I used to want to write down everything I remembered so that I would not forget those weeks and months after the terrorist attacks until I realized I could still recall every detail and moment. I used to avoid that part of the city for about a year. I didn want a reminder or the urge to spit at smiling tourists taking pictures. I took the Path because the other alternative was to walk back north through the everything I had already passed, hoping this time I could get aroung the parade. There large open space, without the shops that used to be there is strange. Tourists walk around, not knowing what they are doing down there but finding the need to take the large set of stairs that leads directly into the pit. The best thing I found out though, as I was holding for the fare and getting reading to take .50 back in quarters, is that the Path station takes Metrocards (or at least the pay per ride cards). It was pretty neat sliding it in and throwing the back in my bag.
I spent Sunday night pinning ribbon onto the baby sweater while I pretended to watch television. I was completely engrossed with my little project as I have been for the past week, just wanting to see how it will all turn out.
There is a picture of me from when I was about 4 or so. It is my nursey school picture, or at least that is what Pre K used to be called. Now there are 5 million different names for early childhood education levels. In 1981,
it was just pre school. I am wearing my favorite burgundy overalls and a white shirt with a frilly edge. Frilly edges to shirts is also something that became extinct. When my aunt saw this picture, she thought that my hair had fallen partially out of a ponytail causing the wispy strands that fell around my face. But the truth is, that is all of the hair that I had when I was 4.
When my older married sister visited this weekend for my father birthday / dad day, she squeezed the little twisted bun at the back of my head and asked “What do you call this She then put her hair up in a similar fashion and insisted that my younger sister feel the different between her twisted bun and mine. “You can hold all of your hair up in that one little barette I probably couldn even hold a fourth of my hair in that.” It so funny to everyone in my family with thick heads of hair that cascade to their shoulders in gentle waves, who own huge clips to put up their hair that look made for inflicting torture with their long curved claws, who groan about blow drying their hair because it apparently taskes some people more than 5 minutes, who I never have to worry about using my body enhancing shampoo, that my hair is so thin and flat.
My hair isn the only thing that suffers from being thin and weak. My nails also bend under the slightest pressure and break in a stiff wind. When in school, I keep them trim to prevent me from chewing them off. However, several weeks after school ends, they have grown and are long enough to be painted and fussed over. They grow so thin that one summer I had managed to scratch a 3 inch jagged line across my cheekbone in my sleep. And the cosmetics makers know that there are hundreds of people like me looking for miracle products that tranform thin nails into something that you can drive into wood.
The names of the polishes, laquers, solidfiers and paints I put on my nails make it sound like something that the Defence Department should be purchasing in bulk to coat helmets and tanks.
Strenghting with NylonHowever, instead of being able deflect speeding bullets, my nails still break once they grow 1/23,235,560 of an inch past the tip. Like the never ending rotation of thickening and strengthing shampoos, conditioners and treatments, my nails still remain thin.
I decided to go back to school so I could eventually make more money. And the discretionary time that a school schedule gives you is very pleasing to me. If I want to go shopping on a Wednesday afternoon, I can. If I want to sleep until 11:30 on a Friday, I can. I can pick and chose more than when you have to work 5 days a week, 8 hours a day.
Now it is summer and I am back to working 5 days a week with Wednesday 1/2 day being the only respite from the monotony. That and I am working in two different places on two projects that couldn be any more different. In a way, it is better for the summer, knowing that every night and every weekend will be mine (mostly) for the chosing. Even though I could go shopping on Wednesdays, I would have to spend the weekend inside reading, writing, and so on during the school year. I guess it all for the better, but I would prefer to not have to work at all. I would like to be able to wake up and do what I wanted every day of the week, every week of the year. I would like to be able to give orders to people too. I deserve to be a dictator. I am better suited for the that lifestyle than one where I have to do my own laundry and ironing, pay bills and think about developing a career rather than an empire.
I worked in the garden a few days this weekend. Saturday I trimmed some shrubbery since my father likes to pretend that he cannot differentiate between weeds and hedges. However, I was wearing sandals and but my toe. I also had a big headache and was a whiney baby. Sunday, I felt better and spent mos thte the afternoon pulling weeds, shaping bushes and making my forearms sore playing Tara scissor hands while resisting urges to shape overgrown sticker bushes into animals and other cute things. My mother was all grateful my my assistance since I usually bitch about all of the cleaning, shopping, organizing and various other chores I do for her. However, gardening isn something that irks me. It rather fun, something that involves getting very dirty to make things look nice. Inside, when things get dirty again I get annoyed. Outside, if weeds grow again I just pick them out. I rather garden. When I am dictator, I will spend my days walking the estate, picking weeds from flowerbeds, barking orders and trimming bushes into my royal crest.