What Have You Done For Me Lately?
So, here it goes. I can't be bothered to sit and wail over everything that's happened, so here's a quick run down:
1. Friday, long long day. Tired, mopey. Came home, went to bed early. Slept well.
2. Saturday, shopping in Princeton. Unexpectedly cold. Women should wear bras more often, really. Befriended woman working in the local lingerie shop. Should a white bra really cost $130? So much for that La Perla fantasy. Get massive headache, feel like an ailing old woman, go home and weep silently (ok, not that last part, but really, I did feel very low).
3. Get up at 10. Call Clara, wander over to Abel the carpenter's shindig. Meet Ryan the architecture student. Dance. Meet former housemate Mark, very cool, likes to spin house music. Yorgo spins, Clara dances with weird barista man called Orlando from Chile. Talk to Carrie (housemate), go back to Clara's, talk, drink beer until 4:30 (what am I doing drinking beer? gross). home.
4. Up to the city, meet Ben, talk to very kind woman whose son assists the poetry editors at the New Yorker, see The Third Man (who doesn't love Joseph Cotten?!), hear David Denby lecture. Very cool.
5. Dinner/wine with Ben. Interesting conversation. We both get a little tipsy, embrace and cultivate our mutual awkwardness. So much fun! Train home.
6. Monday, then Tuesday. Row at home with housemates about fridge situation. Crapness.
7. The Corpse Bride + greasy food with Heath. General fear over work situation.
That's all, folks!
9.28.2005
9.23.2005
The Wallflower
I adore Heath. Although he leads way too exciting a life for me and makes me feel like a major dullard. We went out to lunch yesterday with another co-worker, and it was a wonderful exercise in restraint. Some favorites were the moment when Heath said, "honey, he woke me up with a welcome surprise, and I don't mean the coffee or donut," or when she said "yeah, I think that's why my ex-boyfriend was so confident you know, because he was huge. I couldn't even let him enter the first few times." What was I doing? Being silent, mostly.
Last night I went over to watch the Shakespeare tea towel with Clara and Heath (this is our code for watching the OC -- Clara covers her tv during the day with a tea towel with WS's face plastered over it). It was so much fun; we drank wine and smoked all kinds of weird things. Then Heath walked me home and we talked and talked and talked. I keep worrying about that moment when I'll become boring, you know? And then our friendship won't be fresh anymore and I'll worry about what I'm saying and our future conversations. Beginnings are so much easier to cope with.
Anyway, he told me about coming out to his parents and it just made me feel so terrible. He's 23 and cute and so comfortable in his own skin, but periodically, like when he told me about how he's estranged from his family, his expression suddenly made him seem so young. Really really young. And yet, it doesn't seem fair that only one of us gets the attention of a local dance professor. He's been here a week and is already overhauling the local blue-collar dive. Whereas I'm in bed by 9pm on the dotted swiss.
I don't have much else to say. Socially, things aren't so bad, but they could be better. Work-wise, things aren't great. I think it all comes back to the same evil: lack of self-confidence. I'm also really tired. Too much work and too much drinking with the result that I'm not currently enjoying either. Would you believe though that all these awkward and frustrating and self-destructive moments of doubt and questioning are probably good for me in the long run? I keep trying to tell myself that being in a difficult position and being forced to participate in conversations on just about EVERYTHING are exactly what I need to break down a little reserve. Then again, I feel kind of lost without a chip on my shoulder.
I adore Heath. Although he leads way too exciting a life for me and makes me feel like a major dullard. We went out to lunch yesterday with another co-worker, and it was a wonderful exercise in restraint. Some favorites were the moment when Heath said, "honey, he woke me up with a welcome surprise, and I don't mean the coffee or donut," or when she said "yeah, I think that's why my ex-boyfriend was so confident you know, because he was huge. I couldn't even let him enter the first few times." What was I doing? Being silent, mostly.
Last night I went over to watch the Shakespeare tea towel with Clara and Heath (this is our code for watching the OC -- Clara covers her tv during the day with a tea towel with WS's face plastered over it). It was so much fun; we drank wine and smoked all kinds of weird things. Then Heath walked me home and we talked and talked and talked. I keep worrying about that moment when I'll become boring, you know? And then our friendship won't be fresh anymore and I'll worry about what I'm saying and our future conversations. Beginnings are so much easier to cope with.
Anyway, he told me about coming out to his parents and it just made me feel so terrible. He's 23 and cute and so comfortable in his own skin, but periodically, like when he told me about how he's estranged from his family, his expression suddenly made him seem so young. Really really young. And yet, it doesn't seem fair that only one of us gets the attention of a local dance professor. He's been here a week and is already overhauling the local blue-collar dive. Whereas I'm in bed by 9pm on the dotted swiss.
I don't have much else to say. Socially, things aren't so bad, but they could be better. Work-wise, things aren't great. I think it all comes back to the same evil: lack of self-confidence. I'm also really tired. Too much work and too much drinking with the result that I'm not currently enjoying either. Would you believe though that all these awkward and frustrating and self-destructive moments of doubt and questioning are probably good for me in the long run? I keep trying to tell myself that being in a difficult position and being forced to participate in conversations on just about EVERYTHING are exactly what I need to break down a little reserve. Then again, I feel kind of lost without a chip on my shoulder.
9.21.2005
Babysitting is tiring stuff. Tonight I hung out with a 9-year-old girl for about 3 hours and felt like fading for almost every second of the experience. It began when one of the editors at work asked if I would be interested in babysitting his daughters: Lottie, 12, and Martine, 9. Logic was pre-empted by vanity, which responded by saying "yes, of course, Fred, I would be delighted." Have I ever babysat? Nope. Do I have the patience to hang out with energetic (albeit very sweet) little girls for hours? Nope. The main reason I went through with it was just for the hell of it.
I mean, my entire existence here in Princeton is pretty much one adventure to another, and I feel like saying no to something here would be stupid. It's all about exploring the options out there, peering into the lives that other people lead and figuring out how you respond and how your behavior reflects on you. Like this weekend when I was overcome with nostalgia for Columbia. I went to the bookstore and bought a t-shirt and shot glass emblazoned with logos. Only later when I exhibited my purchases to Vanessa did I realize that it was probably a reflex on my part to convert emotional intensity into an act of physical ownership. I don't own much Columbia merchandise, and now all of a sudden I'm wearing the shirt and squeezing the glass in amongst the Berkeley, Princeton and NYU paraphernalia around the house.
Oops, I have to go. I'll write more later.
Oops, I have to go. I'll write more later.
9.19.2005
Coming (out) Roses
The weekend was amazing. That's what I've decided. I could barely focus at work today because I kept thinking over conversations, people, faces, dancing, music, sunlight, driving....everyone at work thought I was on crack because I was so happy, really giddy with happiness. On a Monday no less. You know that feeling when you think everything really is coming up roses?
Lina was coming up to visit this weekend, and I finally determined to see her and the rest of the Paris gang: Danielle, Chris, Natalie, etc. We ended up going to some friends' house in Brooklyn, and drinking and talking the night away on their gorgeous rooftop. There was a beautiful nightscape of the city, I had drinks and engaging conversation: it was perfect, a wonderful evening. Natalie decided to introduce a bizarre element by kissing me (and some others) on the lips. But everything felt fluid, comprehensible, I was reaching some kind of insight into my current existence. I was also thinking rather intensely over an earlier occurrence during the day...
Clara (and Heath and Blaine) gave me a ride into the city that afternoon. I'm beginning to like all three of them more and more, although I almost died of shock when I discovered that Blaine is straight. Here's my defense. Blaine:
1. Is very very good-looking
2. Dresses well
3. Dances amazingly
4. Held me around the waist for a substantial portion of Friday night and, well, we generally petted one another.
5. Carried on a conversation at the club wherein we were practically making out (proximity was needed, the music was loud => I thought he was gay and harmless).
6. Was first introduced to me along with Heath, who is uber-gay. I mean, I thought they were going out until Heath told me he doesn't have a boyfriend.
7. Refreshed my drink (correctly) without asking and spoke to me like a real person
8. Seemed interested in getting to know me
9. Didn't bring up sports (really, most guys seem to talk inordinately about sports)
****I realize a huge chunk of these won't make any sense to you. But I'm not kidding, these were real signs, and I don't have wretched gaydar. Even Clara later said, "yeah, it is initially confusing. I think he's a metro."****
The whole car ride into the city, I had been merrily carrying on the most absurd dialogue with him in the backseat, telling him how I think the word "ass" should be inserted at unexpected moments in conversation (who says that?!), how I'm innately clumsy, blah blah. Basically making a fool of myself as I would only with someone I felt I could confide stupid things in. And then! Pow! Heath was telling me about how they were planning on going to all these outrageous gay bars in the city, and Blaine piped up saying "don't forget, guys, one of us isn't gay." My stomach lurched in horror. What had I been saying to this fantastic, sweet, charming, sexy, NOT-GAY man? I felt like I had been stabbed somewhere around my navel, and it sucked, because from that moment on, I felt self-conscious about my body and everything I said. I couldn't even look at him without suddenly evaluating the motion.
It still surprises me that in one stomach-jerking moment, I went from thinking of him as a really nice friend who would hopefully come back to visit, to someone I had to be wary around, someone with whom sexual energy (and there was some kind of sexual dynamic, but it seemed totally acceptable at the time) isn't necessarily safe or innocently meant. And then I felt like an idiot because in that one flash I realized why I get along so much better with women and gay men: because my reserves go up with straight men unless I'm absolutely not attracted to them. I never bumble, I never really talk to them without working my conversation into witty and polished little pockets of speech. It's weird to learn these things about yourself.
Anyway, the second miserable bomb was that he and Clara used to go out years ago. Apparently they were together for 2 months but he was stupid and went back to some crazy girl he previously dated. Now, I know Clara. She's totally invested in sexual energy and experimentation, in serious, mentally challenging relationships. Plus Clara's my friend, a confidante, a shoulder to lean on at work and outside work. Even if I were to think about Blaine in any kind of dating context, this would be a huge barrier.
This is already was too involved and embarrassing a post. Still, here’s the point. I thought about all of this throughout the weekend. I convinced myself that it was all pretty meaningless stuff, that he was a good-looking, nice guy I wouldn’t be seeing much of. But today at work both Heath and Clara told me that he was really into me, that he has a crush on me. How bizarre! A guy I thought was gay and was therefore perfectly nice to, is attracted to me. For fear of launching into an embarrassing burst of utter glee, I’m going to stop soon.
I know nothing is going to happen, and I’ll probably have a dull next weekend to make up for it. But still, I realize now that it has taken a lot of serendipity and mischance to even get to this point, that none of this would have happened if I had gone back to living in New York and to a pre-established circle of friends. I’ve met my housemates, my work colleagues, guys my own age (well, Blaine is 26) who expect me to talk to them instead of shrinking into a protective crowd of women. I feel like I’m going to fuck up constantly, and just for today, it felt amazing to be me, to fuck-up as only I can.
The weekend was amazing. That's what I've decided. I could barely focus at work today because I kept thinking over conversations, people, faces, dancing, music, sunlight, driving....everyone at work thought I was on crack because I was so happy, really giddy with happiness. On a Monday no less. You know that feeling when you think everything really is coming up roses?
Lina was coming up to visit this weekend, and I finally determined to see her and the rest of the Paris gang: Danielle, Chris, Natalie, etc. We ended up going to some friends' house in Brooklyn, and drinking and talking the night away on their gorgeous rooftop. There was a beautiful nightscape of the city, I had drinks and engaging conversation: it was perfect, a wonderful evening. Natalie decided to introduce a bizarre element by kissing me (and some others) on the lips. But everything felt fluid, comprehensible, I was reaching some kind of insight into my current existence. I was also thinking rather intensely over an earlier occurrence during the day...
Clara (and Heath and Blaine) gave me a ride into the city that afternoon. I'm beginning to like all three of them more and more, although I almost died of shock when I discovered that Blaine is straight. Here's my defense. Blaine:
1. Is very very good-looking
2. Dresses well
3. Dances amazingly
4. Held me around the waist for a substantial portion of Friday night and, well, we generally petted one another.
5. Carried on a conversation at the club wherein we were practically making out (proximity was needed, the music was loud => I thought he was gay and harmless).
6. Was first introduced to me along with Heath, who is uber-gay. I mean, I thought they were going out until Heath told me he doesn't have a boyfriend.
7. Refreshed my drink (correctly) without asking and spoke to me like a real person
8. Seemed interested in getting to know me
9. Didn't bring up sports (really, most guys seem to talk inordinately about sports)
****I realize a huge chunk of these won't make any sense to you. But I'm not kidding, these were real signs, and I don't have wretched gaydar. Even Clara later said, "yeah, it is initially confusing. I think he's a metro."****
The whole car ride into the city, I had been merrily carrying on the most absurd dialogue with him in the backseat, telling him how I think the word "ass" should be inserted at unexpected moments in conversation (who says that?!), how I'm innately clumsy, blah blah. Basically making a fool of myself as I would only with someone I felt I could confide stupid things in. And then! Pow! Heath was telling me about how they were planning on going to all these outrageous gay bars in the city, and Blaine piped up saying "don't forget, guys, one of us isn't gay." My stomach lurched in horror. What had I been saying to this fantastic, sweet, charming, sexy, NOT-GAY man? I felt like I had been stabbed somewhere around my navel, and it sucked, because from that moment on, I felt self-conscious about my body and everything I said. I couldn't even look at him without suddenly evaluating the motion.
It still surprises me that in one stomach-jerking moment, I went from thinking of him as a really nice friend who would hopefully come back to visit, to someone I had to be wary around, someone with whom sexual energy (and there was some kind of sexual dynamic, but it seemed totally acceptable at the time) isn't necessarily safe or innocently meant. And then I felt like an idiot because in that one flash I realized why I get along so much better with women and gay men: because my reserves go up with straight men unless I'm absolutely not attracted to them. I never bumble, I never really talk to them without working my conversation into witty and polished little pockets of speech. It's weird to learn these things about yourself.
Anyway, the second miserable bomb was that he and Clara used to go out years ago. Apparently they were together for 2 months but he was stupid and went back to some crazy girl he previously dated. Now, I know Clara. She's totally invested in sexual energy and experimentation, in serious, mentally challenging relationships. Plus Clara's my friend, a confidante, a shoulder to lean on at work and outside work. Even if I were to think about Blaine in any kind of dating context, this would be a huge barrier.
This is already was too involved and embarrassing a post. Still, here’s the point. I thought about all of this throughout the weekend. I convinced myself that it was all pretty meaningless stuff, that he was a good-looking, nice guy I wouldn’t be seeing much of. But today at work both Heath and Clara told me that he was really into me, that he has a crush on me. How bizarre! A guy I thought was gay and was therefore perfectly nice to, is attracted to me. For fear of launching into an embarrassing burst of utter glee, I’m going to stop soon.
I know nothing is going to happen, and I’ll probably have a dull next weekend to make up for it. But still, I realize now that it has taken a lot of serendipity and mischance to even get to this point, that none of this would have happened if I had gone back to living in New York and to a pre-established circle of friends. I’ve met my housemates, my work colleagues, guys my own age (well, Blaine is 26) who expect me to talk to them instead of shrinking into a protective crowd of women. I feel like I’m going to fuck up constantly, and just for today, it felt amazing to be me, to fuck-up as only I can.
I don’t know. Maybe it’s possible that all those changes you imagine you’ll go through in college can sometimes only happen after you graduate, when you’re really on your own, cultivating and curiously probing a new life.
9.17.2005
Dancing Queen
I got drafted into going on this tour of the PUP warehouse. Let me just say, never again, man. This mean little gay man took us on a laborious tour of the facilities, regaling us with one anecdote after another. Did I ask to be told about the multiple prisoners from Texas who call with requests for scholarly books? I don’t even know what to make of that. Do we actually live in a social utopia without knowing it? Is inmate #A8997462215 better versed in Coleridge than I am?
When I got home, Clara and her friends were over and waiting for me before heading out to the DBar. All three of them went to college in Athens, Georgia. Heath and Blaine are visiting her this weekend – although Heath begins work at the Press this upcoming week. I felt a little awkward since he later told me that he had applied for the position I’m in. What do you say to that? I always wondered about the people who got jobs I applied for (half-resentfully, half-miserably), and even in this instance, I did pause to wonder what the other candidates were like. To meet one in a personal context really is an invitation for awkwardness.
This isn’t to say that Heath and I don’t get along. In fact, we get along so well that he unbuttoned my blouse, bought me a drink, grabbed my ass, and kissed me and told me how beautiful I am as only a rockin’ gay male friend can. He’s a sweetie, although he also has a very determined personality, and I have a feeling he can alter from a chill and charming guy into a catty little cow. Let’s see. People have never as yet failed me by being totally disinteresting.
Blaine seemed like a totally nice guy too. He’s stuck in Alabama – poor thing! – working as a reporter for a local newspaper, and is desperately trying to get out. I think he ideally wants to come up here and join the Princeton commune, as led by Clara. They’re kind of a hilarious trio – very fun, very inviting, a little intimidating.
Anyway, we had a great time. I love dancing to disco music. Vanessa and I found our own spot on the dance stage and twirled our arms and hips for hours and hours. I really admire her -- she’s such a self-contained person. Even on the dance floor. I usually need to be pretty intoxicated to move as unabashedly as she does. Still, dancing, well there’s nothing quite like it, especially when a guy in an afro wig and an unbuttoned silk shirt with polka dots is doing John Travolta (from that scene in Saturday Night Fever) right next to you. It just makes me want to boogie oogie oogie until the sun comes up.
I got drafted into going on this tour of the PUP warehouse. Let me just say, never again, man. This mean little gay man took us on a laborious tour of the facilities, regaling us with one anecdote after another. Did I ask to be told about the multiple prisoners from Texas who call with requests for scholarly books? I don’t even know what to make of that. Do we actually live in a social utopia without knowing it? Is inmate #A8997462215 better versed in Coleridge than I am?
When I got home, Clara and her friends were over and waiting for me before heading out to the DBar. All three of them went to college in Athens, Georgia. Heath and Blaine are visiting her this weekend – although Heath begins work at the Press this upcoming week. I felt a little awkward since he later told me that he had applied for the position I’m in. What do you say to that? I always wondered about the people who got jobs I applied for (half-resentfully, half-miserably), and even in this instance, I did pause to wonder what the other candidates were like. To meet one in a personal context really is an invitation for awkwardness.
This isn’t to say that Heath and I don’t get along. In fact, we get along so well that he unbuttoned my blouse, bought me a drink, grabbed my ass, and kissed me and told me how beautiful I am as only a rockin’ gay male friend can. He’s a sweetie, although he also has a very determined personality, and I have a feeling he can alter from a chill and charming guy into a catty little cow. Let’s see. People have never as yet failed me by being totally disinteresting.
Blaine seemed like a totally nice guy too. He’s stuck in Alabama – poor thing! – working as a reporter for a local newspaper, and is desperately trying to get out. I think he ideally wants to come up here and join the Princeton commune, as led by Clara. They’re kind of a hilarious trio – very fun, very inviting, a little intimidating.
Anyway, we had a great time. I love dancing to disco music. Vanessa and I found our own spot on the dance stage and twirled our arms and hips for hours and hours. I really admire her -- she’s such a self-contained person. Even on the dance floor. I usually need to be pretty intoxicated to move as unabashedly as she does. Still, dancing, well there’s nothing quite like it, especially when a guy in an afro wig and an unbuttoned silk shirt with polka dots is doing John Travolta (from that scene in Saturday Night Fever) right next to you. It just makes me want to boogie oogie oogie until the sun comes up.
9.15.2005
One must Imagine Sisyphus Happy
So I know it's been a while since I updated. This is mostly due to the fact that my work is silently and ploddingly killing me. I get in early, stay late, rinse and repeat. It's exhausting. I actually felt this huge surge of resentment towards my bosses and the company yesterday, which is awful. I adore the editors I work for! They're young and friendly (and bask in the glory of their attractive assistant) and they really are human at the end of the day, which is what I need to keep reminding myself. Sometimes I feel like I'm ready to make myself the victim and to picture the two of them as the aggressors, the bullies, shoveling piles of work onto my desk and filling my inbox with miserable requests. Which they do. But they're also understanding, they care about my well-being, and they laugh at bawdy jokes, which is all I can expect of anyone. Nonetheless, I'm distinctly beginning to suffer from a Sisyphus complex. Every time I think I'm getting a handle on all the work, I take a massive landslide and find myself trudging up the same path. It's too bad, because only yesterday my boss came in and said, "you know, I just wanted to tell you, today when I came in I felt so thankful that I have such a capable assistant here who can cope when I'm away." By the end of the day I felt the need to apologize for my crabby behavior. But it was an exceptionally shit day, which she herself acknowledged. I don't know. I'm trying to stifle a huge sigh of self-pity and failing pretty badly. It's just that everyone says it takes 3-4 months to get used to this job and to feel like you're capable of managing your workload. I know I'm only about a month in, but my insecurities have kicked in and all I wonder is, am I really capable? Is the reason I'm so tired and frustrated because this job isn't right for me? This is basic work. Am I incapable of doing any job? Should I get a rich husband?" Advice is welcome; I'm a little desperate at the moment.
I'm taking a class at the university, which is rather exciting. I haven't as yet decided what it will be (Soviet literature? Children's lit? American Fiction?), but I went to my first lecture today. It was so exciting! I wondered why everyone else in the room wasn't as keyed up about being there as I was. Mostly they all seemed to be wearing jeans or miniskirts and polos or rugby shirts. It was like high school all over again. This girl next to me clutched her cellphone in her hand the whole time and yawned like it was going out of style. What's her problem? Modernism? Fiction? Narrative? Politics? It's like a goldmine. And she's yawning. Princeton has bums, I never thought I'd say it.
It's bizarre to see so many students around. I had been enjoying the loveliness of a quiet and barren campus for the past few weeks. And now! Students are flocking around in droves, each one dressed more scantily the next. I don't know what to make of such a foreign student body. At least I could recognize faces at Columbia. The problem here is that I still look like an undergrad. Everyone I meet asks me what I'm majoring in. How nauseating. Hasn't it occurred to them to sense the immense leap towards maturity and professionalism that I've made? Where is the 'sexy young professional' badge I always knew I'd trademark? I could also simplify the matter simply by wearing black clothing and thereby throwing off the wave of nantucket red shorts and navy polos frothing on campus. Still, it's nice to have a change of dynamic.
Yesterday: intense work, over to Clara's for drinks and appetizers. I took hydrangeas (blue, gorgeous, they even brought me out of the doldrums) and wine. We talked and drank Prosecco for 3 hours, whereupon I stumbled home and collapsed in a blind oblivion. I've got to say, a wine-soaked haze? -- it makes everything a little crisper, a little more golden.
Clara is a dear. She's full of eccentricites that deserve comment -- she collects insects and is something of an amateur taxidermist. She claims to have spent her college life alternately living at home with her parents and taking up residence with her lovers. She's very dainty and southern in her mannerisms but she smokes like a chimney and makes the occasional saucy comment just to catch you off guard. She fell in love with a woman for a long time but is now dating a 38-year-old man in NYC. She seems to drink in every moment of her existence and bald-facedly refuses to believe that she can't enforce her own agenda. Plus, she reads (avidly) and makes a mean cucumber sandwich with the crusts neatly rounded.
Tomorrow: work, followed by 70s-themed party at the "D-Bar," the infamous graduate student bar in Princeton. I'm having dinner with my housemates and then we head out to boogie to the bee-gees. The good news is that given the current humidity, I won't have much work to do for that afro I'll need.
Good luck on the GREs, Katy-kat! I'm thinking of you and doing silent cheers at the copy machine.
So I know it's been a while since I updated. This is mostly due to the fact that my work is silently and ploddingly killing me. I get in early, stay late, rinse and repeat. It's exhausting. I actually felt this huge surge of resentment towards my bosses and the company yesterday, which is awful. I adore the editors I work for! They're young and friendly (and bask in the glory of their attractive assistant) and they really are human at the end of the day, which is what I need to keep reminding myself. Sometimes I feel like I'm ready to make myself the victim and to picture the two of them as the aggressors, the bullies, shoveling piles of work onto my desk and filling my inbox with miserable requests. Which they do. But they're also understanding, they care about my well-being, and they laugh at bawdy jokes, which is all I can expect of anyone. Nonetheless, I'm distinctly beginning to suffer from a Sisyphus complex. Every time I think I'm getting a handle on all the work, I take a massive landslide and find myself trudging up the same path. It's too bad, because only yesterday my boss came in and said, "you know, I just wanted to tell you, today when I came in I felt so thankful that I have such a capable assistant here who can cope when I'm away." By the end of the day I felt the need to apologize for my crabby behavior. But it was an exceptionally shit day, which she herself acknowledged. I don't know. I'm trying to stifle a huge sigh of self-pity and failing pretty badly. It's just that everyone says it takes 3-4 months to get used to this job and to feel like you're capable of managing your workload. I know I'm only about a month in, but my insecurities have kicked in and all I wonder is, am I really capable? Is the reason I'm so tired and frustrated because this job isn't right for me? This is basic work. Am I incapable of doing any job? Should I get a rich husband?" Advice is welcome; I'm a little desperate at the moment.
I'm taking a class at the university, which is rather exciting. I haven't as yet decided what it will be (Soviet literature? Children's lit? American Fiction?), but I went to my first lecture today. It was so exciting! I wondered why everyone else in the room wasn't as keyed up about being there as I was. Mostly they all seemed to be wearing jeans or miniskirts and polos or rugby shirts. It was like high school all over again. This girl next to me clutched her cellphone in her hand the whole time and yawned like it was going out of style. What's her problem? Modernism? Fiction? Narrative? Politics? It's like a goldmine. And she's yawning. Princeton has bums, I never thought I'd say it.
It's bizarre to see so many students around. I had been enjoying the loveliness of a quiet and barren campus for the past few weeks. And now! Students are flocking around in droves, each one dressed more scantily the next. I don't know what to make of such a foreign student body. At least I could recognize faces at Columbia. The problem here is that I still look like an undergrad. Everyone I meet asks me what I'm majoring in. How nauseating. Hasn't it occurred to them to sense the immense leap towards maturity and professionalism that I've made? Where is the 'sexy young professional' badge I always knew I'd trademark? I could also simplify the matter simply by wearing black clothing and thereby throwing off the wave of nantucket red shorts and navy polos frothing on campus. Still, it's nice to have a change of dynamic.
Yesterday: intense work, over to Clara's for drinks and appetizers. I took hydrangeas (blue, gorgeous, they even brought me out of the doldrums) and wine. We talked and drank Prosecco for 3 hours, whereupon I stumbled home and collapsed in a blind oblivion. I've got to say, a wine-soaked haze? -- it makes everything a little crisper, a little more golden.
Clara is a dear. She's full of eccentricites that deserve comment -- she collects insects and is something of an amateur taxidermist. She claims to have spent her college life alternately living at home with her parents and taking up residence with her lovers. She's very dainty and southern in her mannerisms but she smokes like a chimney and makes the occasional saucy comment just to catch you off guard. She fell in love with a woman for a long time but is now dating a 38-year-old man in NYC. She seems to drink in every moment of her existence and bald-facedly refuses to believe that she can't enforce her own agenda. Plus, she reads (avidly) and makes a mean cucumber sandwich with the crusts neatly rounded.
Tomorrow: work, followed by 70s-themed party at the "D-Bar," the infamous graduate student bar in Princeton. I'm having dinner with my housemates and then we head out to boogie to the bee-gees. The good news is that given the current humidity, I won't have much work to do for that afro I'll need.
Good luck on the GREs, Katy-kat! I'm thinking of you and doing silent cheers at the copy machine.
9.11.2005
US OPEN Men's Final, a halfwit's commentary
I've always thought that Federer has a fantastic game because he's such an all-round player. He never falters, and although his backhand isn't as masterful as his forehand, he combines an incredible wingspan (the one-armed stroke gives you that, I don't personally favour it, but it's a distinct advantage, you're just tighter when you hit double-handed) with this coy little slice in order to make it a pretty dangerous return. He doesn't allow his serve to get so big that it dominates the game - he mixes it up with great placement, the occasional ace, and a lot of variation. I like creative players. Plus I'm feeling a little sorry for him, since he's totally shaken by Agassi's huge level of play. I haven't seen tennis played at this pitch in forever. Especially not in a final. All the cross-court shots and the speed itself...it's crazy! Roger is just choking, and it's kind of killing me, but I keep telling myself Andre deserves to win -- and not just because he's fought to stay in the game this long, but because he's playing at 300% right now. You can almost see him expanding his game, attaining that amazing pitch of play. Roger, on the other hand, is getting tighter and tighter.
I think the crowd advantage is really revealing itself here. It's awful to play when people are cheering as you double fault, or screaming continuously and vigilantly for your opponent's success. No matter how impassive you might be, no matter how much you choose to dwell inside your head, it gets to you and it gets to your game.
I think in part the crowd is so worked up because in the post-Sampras era, there isn't really an American tennis hero anymore. I grant Roddick is a solid player, but he's young and he needs to build up his presence. James Blake did well, but where was he until this tournament? And now! Agassi is having a huge comeback. Plus he's older, which means that more people have followed his career and know where he's coming from. I don't know if this is a last hurrah, but does it matter? It's amazing to witness someone resurrecting their game and outplaying the world champion. I've never seen Federer make so many faults and play a game that lacks finesse. Not that it makes me think anything lower of him. It's nice to see that even he, at 22, at the pinnacle of tennis, is liable to net balls, hit wide and long, screw up his angles.
I've always thought that Federer has a fantastic game because he's such an all-round player. He never falters, and although his backhand isn't as masterful as his forehand, he combines an incredible wingspan (the one-armed stroke gives you that, I don't personally favour it, but it's a distinct advantage, you're just tighter when you hit double-handed) with this coy little slice in order to make it a pretty dangerous return. He doesn't allow his serve to get so big that it dominates the game - he mixes it up with great placement, the occasional ace, and a lot of variation. I like creative players. Plus I'm feeling a little sorry for him, since he's totally shaken by Agassi's huge level of play. I haven't seen tennis played at this pitch in forever. Especially not in a final. All the cross-court shots and the speed itself...it's crazy! Roger is just choking, and it's kind of killing me, but I keep telling myself Andre deserves to win -- and not just because he's fought to stay in the game this long, but because he's playing at 300% right now. You can almost see him expanding his game, attaining that amazing pitch of play. Roger, on the other hand, is getting tighter and tighter.
I think the crowd advantage is really revealing itself here. It's awful to play when people are cheering as you double fault, or screaming continuously and vigilantly for your opponent's success. No matter how impassive you might be, no matter how much you choose to dwell inside your head, it gets to you and it gets to your game.
I think in part the crowd is so worked up because in the post-Sampras era, there isn't really an American tennis hero anymore. I grant Roddick is a solid player, but he's young and he needs to build up his presence. James Blake did well, but where was he until this tournament? And now! Agassi is having a huge comeback. Plus he's older, which means that more people have followed his career and know where he's coming from. I don't know if this is a last hurrah, but does it matter? It's amazing to witness someone resurrecting their game and outplaying the world champion. I've never seen Federer make so many faults and play a game that lacks finesse. Not that it makes me think anything lower of him. It's nice to see that even he, at 22, at the pinnacle of tennis, is liable to net balls, hit wide and long, screw up his angles.
Musings
I had a good weekend. I don't want to labor over it, so here are the highlights:
Friday evening: Dinner with Meredith and the girls, for Meredith's 22nd birthday at Arte Cafe. I ordered a salad, thinking it would be enough, and promptly scraped Sarita's plate clean. Annie told me my blog is depressing her. I'm stumped for words. Sorry Annie, but credit the source. This is me after all. The moon was melancholy when I was born.
Drinks at 420. Is there anything to say? I enjoyed a weak gimlet, itched to slap about four people, and screamed things like "so, what was your major?" and "mm, doesn't everyone like pine nuts?" in order to make small-talk.
Saturday: Bagel with Abby. Visit to the MET to see Matisse/Textiles exhibition.
Pottered around Lexington, told weird man who owned Moroccan pottery shop that I was married to a Frenchman (despite obvious lack of shiny ring), he congratulated me on my beauty, and said "I hope you two are enjoying each other," in a really sexual way, in French. Bizarre. I suppose I should apply that to myself as well, since it was pretty clear from the get-go (which was when he ended a conversation on the phone regarding the hiring process for bellydancers and said "hello gorgeous, who are you?") that we were both committed and consistent liars. The thing that I've discovered is, in order to really enjoy yourself, you have to appreciate other people's embroidery as much as your own.
I had a good weekend. I don't want to labor over it, so here are the highlights:
Friday evening: Dinner with Meredith and the girls, for Meredith's 22nd birthday at Arte Cafe. I ordered a salad, thinking it would be enough, and promptly scraped Sarita's plate clean. Annie told me my blog is depressing her. I'm stumped for words. Sorry Annie, but credit the source. This is me after all. The moon was melancholy when I was born.
Drinks at 420. Is there anything to say? I enjoyed a weak gimlet, itched to slap about four people, and screamed things like "so, what was your major?" and "mm, doesn't everyone like pine nuts?" in order to make small-talk.
Saturday: Bagel with Abby. Visit to the MET to see Matisse/Textiles exhibition.
Pottered around Lexington, told weird man who owned Moroccan pottery shop that I was married to a Frenchman (despite obvious lack of shiny ring), he congratulated me on my beauty, and said "I hope you two are enjoying each other," in a really sexual way, in French. Bizarre. I suppose I should apply that to myself as well, since it was pretty clear from the get-go (which was when he ended a conversation on the phone regarding the hiring process for bellydancers and said "hello gorgeous, who are you?") that we were both committed and consistent liars. The thing that I've discovered is, in order to really enjoy yourself, you have to appreciate other people's embroidery as much as your own.
9.06.2005
Invisible Listeners
I felt kind of lonely at lunch today, for some reason or the other. I took a small book I got in Paris out with me -- it's actually kind of neat, a compilation of letters written by a bunch of French and American writers to their mothers. It's hilarious to read Henry James drafting a highly punctilious note to his "very dear mother," or to imagine Baudelaire sitting down and saying "I've been thinking about the combination of your imprudence and my violent nature during my childhood and I realize that we can never reconcile such huge past differences." Then there's Proust who opens every letter with the words "to my dear little mother." Lovely!
I felt kind of lonely at lunch today, for some reason or the other. I took a small book I got in Paris out with me -- it's actually kind of neat, a compilation of letters written by a bunch of French and American writers to their mothers. It's hilarious to read Henry James drafting a highly punctilious note to his "very dear mother," or to imagine Baudelaire sitting down and saying "I've been thinking about the combination of your imprudence and my violent nature during my childhood and I realize that we can never reconcile such huge past differences." Then there's Proust who opens every letter with the words "to my dear little mother." Lovely!
Nonetheless, it just wasn't a day to read and eat on my own. I wanted company so badly that I wandered aimlessly for ten whole minutes, retracing my steps over and over until I finally went back to my desk. Pathetic.
I'm reading Hermione Lee's autobiography of Virginia Woolf. I've been meaning to do this since February when Prof. Greenberg brought it up during the Woolf seminar, but so few libraries or even bookstores carried it and I was in an anti-Amazon.com mood. But today! I ran to the public library after work (from one sterile bookish environment to another) and pinched it off the shelves. And let me just say, it is totally worth it. I had goosebumps rising all over my arms with her opening words. I miss reading and studying Woolf, I really do. And I've wanted to read this book for so long, and it's finally here in my lap. Listen to this:
"There are many times, writing this, when I have been afraid of Virginia Woolf. I think I would have been afraid of meeting her. I am afraid of not being intelligent enough for her. Reading and writing her life, I am often afraid (or, in one of the words she used most about her mental states, "apprehensive") for her...All readers of VW's diaries (even those who have decided to dislike her) will feel an extraordinary sense of intimacy with the voice that is talking there. They will want to call her Virginia, and speak proprietorially about her life. She seems extremely near, contemporary, timeless. But she is also evasive and obscure...If you listen to the only surviving recording of her, you hear a voice from another century, which to us sounds posh, antiquated, class-bound, mannered...She is always trying to work out what happens to "myself" -- the "damned egotistical self" -- when it is alone, when it is with other people, when it is contented, excited, anxious, ill, when it is asleep or eating or walking, when it is writing. "Sydney comes & I'm Virginia; when I write I'm merely a sensibility. Sometimes I like being Virginia, but only when I'm scattered & various & gregarious.""
It's like Hermione Lee is turning a fan, and on one side Virginia Woolf is so clear and close to me, so evident in her mind and manner. On the other side, she's totally riddled with complexity, and it's like looking at someone with a million combatant reflections. The best part about reading this is that I feel like she - VW - exists only so long as the fan is in motion, shifting constantly between the clear vision and the riddle.
There were two conversations that took place tonight - one that actually transpired, and one that didn't. They were both, in their respective chattiness and silence, pretty illuminating. People - Woolf, Proust's little mother, the voice on the other end of the phone - manage to be both captivating and repellent, you know?
Reza just invented an additional $12.90 out of nowhere to tack onto my bill for this month. It's oddly similar to my feelings about dealing with people or even myself -- what's the point of asking why?
I'm reading Hermione Lee's autobiography of Virginia Woolf. I've been meaning to do this since February when Prof. Greenberg brought it up during the Woolf seminar, but so few libraries or even bookstores carried it and I was in an anti-Amazon.com mood. But today! I ran to the public library after work (from one sterile bookish environment to another) and pinched it off the shelves. And let me just say, it is totally worth it. I had goosebumps rising all over my arms with her opening words. I miss reading and studying Woolf, I really do. And I've wanted to read this book for so long, and it's finally here in my lap. Listen to this:
"There are many times, writing this, when I have been afraid of Virginia Woolf. I think I would have been afraid of meeting her. I am afraid of not being intelligent enough for her. Reading and writing her life, I am often afraid (or, in one of the words she used most about her mental states, "apprehensive") for her...All readers of VW's diaries (even those who have decided to dislike her) will feel an extraordinary sense of intimacy with the voice that is talking there. They will want to call her Virginia, and speak proprietorially about her life. She seems extremely near, contemporary, timeless. But she is also evasive and obscure...If you listen to the only surviving recording of her, you hear a voice from another century, which to us sounds posh, antiquated, class-bound, mannered...She is always trying to work out what happens to "myself" -- the "damned egotistical self" -- when it is alone, when it is with other people, when it is contented, excited, anxious, ill, when it is asleep or eating or walking, when it is writing. "Sydney comes & I'm Virginia; when I write I'm merely a sensibility. Sometimes I like being Virginia, but only when I'm scattered & various & gregarious.""
It's like Hermione Lee is turning a fan, and on one side Virginia Woolf is so clear and close to me, so evident in her mind and manner. On the other side, she's totally riddled with complexity, and it's like looking at someone with a million combatant reflections. The best part about reading this is that I feel like she - VW - exists only so long as the fan is in motion, shifting constantly between the clear vision and the riddle.
There were two conversations that took place tonight - one that actually transpired, and one that didn't. They were both, in their respective chattiness and silence, pretty illuminating. People - Woolf, Proust's little mother, the voice on the other end of the phone - manage to be both captivating and repellent, you know?
Reza just invented an additional $12.90 out of nowhere to tack onto my bill for this month. It's oddly similar to my feelings about dealing with people or even myself -- what's the point of asking why?
9.04.2005
The weekend was good. I had a lot more to say on the subject, but I'm tired and distanced from it all right now. I'm currently sitting in Reza and Yorgo's lab, playing around and admiring all the shiny glassware and stoppered test-tubes and wondering why I know so little about this huge segment of life -- the lab, the science world. Reza and Yorgo are PhDs in Chemical Engineering. They have been harvesting DNA tonight; Carrie (another roommate) and I tagged along to check it out. I won't turn down an invitation to see something this different. Plus I felt like I owed it to them to secure our growing friendship by accompanying them to their principal habitat as of the past 4.5 years.
I went home for the past few days, which turned out surprisingly well, although I left the house in a bad mood. My parents, sister and I hung out over the weekend, eating fabulously and generally enjoying ourselves. I felt like the luckiest girl in the world to have a house in such a beautiful place; there was something special about this weekend because New Canaan was just constantly bathed in golden, warm sunlight. I know it's late summer sunshine luxuriating everywhere, but to me it just seemed like the entire world had been dipped in honey -- the leaves glowed, the skies were cerulean blue, there were maroon, brown and plum-coloured trees basking in the middle of the fields....it really was some kind of temporary paradise.
I saw The Wedding Crashers (fantastic! hilarious! why are all the women so thin?!).
Ok, I'm almost done with recounting. I came back to Princeton, rearranged my room (I now have floor cushions and a shelf), met a new potential roommate (cristophe of hook-up fame), chatted with Carrie, Yorgo and Reza, and drank some port. I bought it. I couldn't help it. It's just so good. And I have so few vices.
Tomorrow, back to work. Is it wrong to feel unenthused?
I went home for the past few days, which turned out surprisingly well, although I left the house in a bad mood. My parents, sister and I hung out over the weekend, eating fabulously and generally enjoying ourselves. I felt like the luckiest girl in the world to have a house in such a beautiful place; there was something special about this weekend because New Canaan was just constantly bathed in golden, warm sunlight. I know it's late summer sunshine luxuriating everywhere, but to me it just seemed like the entire world had been dipped in honey -- the leaves glowed, the skies were cerulean blue, there were maroon, brown and plum-coloured trees basking in the middle of the fields....it really was some kind of temporary paradise.
I saw The Wedding Crashers (fantastic! hilarious! why are all the women so thin?!).
Ok, I'm almost done with recounting. I came back to Princeton, rearranged my room (I now have floor cushions and a shelf), met a new potential roommate (cristophe of hook-up fame), chatted with Carrie, Yorgo and Reza, and drank some port. I bought it. I couldn't help it. It's just so good. And I have so few vices.
Tomorrow, back to work. Is it wrong to feel unenthused?
9.01.2005
Hmm. In the past 3 hours, I have seen both Reza and Yorgos in their underwear. Both of them had a wonderful laugh while I tried not to blush and look stupid. I've really got to work on my fake laugh.
But what was Adithi doing?, you might enquire, O inquisitive reader.
Well!
On the first occasion, I was carrying a 500 page classic novel downstairs with my nalgene bottle, wearing a huge hooded sweatshirt, looking tired and droopy. The second time, I was sprawled all over the couch, eating cereal out of the box, watching some tv show that I won't name because it embarrasses me too much. I know Yorgo thinks I'm bizarre (this is the optimistic version of "weird"), but now he thinks I'm dull and pathetic too, I'm sure. It's impossible to explain that 'you're lonely and don't have a community of friends because you just relocated and you suck at your job etc etc so you have to drown your sorrows in bad tv' to a guy who walks around the house half-undressed, with a 70s style poster in his room that says "Fly guy," clearly screaming: "I am male! I am macho! I am a guy who likes to get it on with sexy babes in bikinis!"
I miss college. I miss being able to watch hours of awful tv without it seeming like a pitiful way to pass an evening. I miss the fact that I didn't care whether or not I was caught by some strange guy at 11pm, with cereal stuck on my face. But Reza and Yorgo are 28 and they're men, not just guys. I feel like a complete and utter loser, like nothing I can do is right because I don't have the right personality to occupy this house. I didn't think that I'd have to apologize for being myself after a certain point in life. But when Yorgo came in for his final glass of milk and caught me in the same exact position, I felt like some silent judgment was being issued.
But what was Adithi doing?, you might enquire, O inquisitive reader.
Well!
On the first occasion, I was carrying a 500 page classic novel downstairs with my nalgene bottle, wearing a huge hooded sweatshirt, looking tired and droopy. The second time, I was sprawled all over the couch, eating cereal out of the box, watching some tv show that I won't name because it embarrasses me too much. I know Yorgo thinks I'm bizarre (this is the optimistic version of "weird"), but now he thinks I'm dull and pathetic too, I'm sure. It's impossible to explain that 'you're lonely and don't have a community of friends because you just relocated and you suck at your job etc etc so you have to drown your sorrows in bad tv' to a guy who walks around the house half-undressed, with a 70s style poster in his room that says "Fly guy," clearly screaming: "I am male! I am macho! I am a guy who likes to get it on with sexy babes in bikinis!"
I miss college. I miss being able to watch hours of awful tv without it seeming like a pitiful way to pass an evening. I miss the fact that I didn't care whether or not I was caught by some strange guy at 11pm, with cereal stuck on my face. But Reza and Yorgo are 28 and they're men, not just guys. I feel like a complete and utter loser, like nothing I can do is right because I don't have the right personality to occupy this house. I didn't think that I'd have to apologize for being myself after a certain point in life. But when Yorgo came in for his final glass of milk and caught me in the same exact position, I felt like some silent judgment was being issued.
At least the cat likes me.
Let's Talk About Sex
You know what I realized? I'm totally Mormon Julie from the Real World. Today Reza, Yorgo and I met a guy who might potentially move in, and had a brief but hilarious discussion about our past tenants, most of whom have hooked up with:
a) one another
b) a guy/girl who wants to move in now
It became pretty excitable, with Reza expostulating about how Christian should not have treated Caitlin like this, because after one hook-up, he made out with Rachel (currently trying to move in). And then there's the mysterious Alex, whom Reza describes as being "vulnerable" -- and how dare Christoph (also eager to move in) hook up with her for one night and never call her again...
Meanwhile, Yorgo was sitting back and saying "hey man, you can't say that. What about Alex? What guy ever called Alex before she called him? You can't say Christian behaved badly. What if you hooked up and..."
Man, these guys are serious! I mean, my god, I really am Mormon Julie. I played it off (have you ever seen me try to look cool?) pretty pathetically. Mostly I laughed a lot, because I couldn't help it, it was ludicrous to hear them discuss the "philosophy"of hooking-up. I'm impressed that they're aware of the whole 'women getting screwed emotionally' deal, but also interested to learn that hey, stereotypes are real: guys want to protect female friends but they also want to have sex with no strings attached. I really missed the boat on the male perspective during college. What a waste of 4 years. It's one thing to imagine what they think -- it's totally different to hear them discussing it between themselves.
What on earth have I gotten myself into? A sex motel? Me? Unless I rotate a series of smirking men through our living room, they're going to think I'm the lamest girl ever. Or maybe I'll just make an audio clip of creaky bed-springs and charged laughter. Right. Good plan. Not that that would be pathetic.
You know what I realized? I'm totally Mormon Julie from the Real World. Today Reza, Yorgo and I met a guy who might potentially move in, and had a brief but hilarious discussion about our past tenants, most of whom have hooked up with:
a) one another
b) a guy/girl who wants to move in now
It became pretty excitable, with Reza expostulating about how Christian should not have treated Caitlin like this, because after one hook-up, he made out with Rachel (currently trying to move in). And then there's the mysterious Alex, whom Reza describes as being "vulnerable" -- and how dare Christoph (also eager to move in) hook up with her for one night and never call her again...
Meanwhile, Yorgo was sitting back and saying "hey man, you can't say that. What about Alex? What guy ever called Alex before she called him? You can't say Christian behaved badly. What if you hooked up and..."
Man, these guys are serious! I mean, my god, I really am Mormon Julie. I played it off (have you ever seen me try to look cool?) pretty pathetically. Mostly I laughed a lot, because I couldn't help it, it was ludicrous to hear them discuss the "philosophy"of hooking-up. I'm impressed that they're aware of the whole 'women getting screwed emotionally' deal, but also interested to learn that hey, stereotypes are real: guys want to protect female friends but they also want to have sex with no strings attached. I really missed the boat on the male perspective during college. What a waste of 4 years. It's one thing to imagine what they think -- it's totally different to hear them discussing it between themselves.
What on earth have I gotten myself into? A sex motel? Me? Unless I rotate a series of smirking men through our living room, they're going to think I'm the lamest girl ever. Or maybe I'll just make an audio clip of creaky bed-springs and charged laughter. Right. Good plan. Not that that would be pathetic.
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