Thursday, August 14, 2008

Let the games begin. Again.

OK, so, I'm reviving this mofo because I miss the venue for sharing woes which others might find entertaining or, at the least, to which others might be sympathetic. Or, if neither of those, maybe I can get a shout-out or two like, "Hey, shut the hell up, we're sick of listening to you saying the same things over and over again." Any of those things--cool with me.

Some self-satisfying notes I took on the V train to work today (and yes, I quote my own notebook. Classy):

"There are way too many just like me. I'm overwhelmed with the sheer number of people, of other girls/women/whatever, with the same idealistic dreams and goals, only with exponentially more drive and ambition. No, I take that back--not more ambition, but less fear, more shamelessness, more confidence, something. There are too many beautiful ones, too many who share the passion but excel at sacrificing daily security. How did they become so fearless? How did they manage to let go, to jump out of the plane without a parachute, how are they OK with a daily free-fall? I want that! I want to shuck off these calloused layers of steadfast, stubborn fear; I want to run in the wind of uncertainty and be strengthened by it rather than struck dumb and incapable. How do I begin? How did they all? And should I bother? I feel as if I'm under a boulder, and that boulder is myself. And after two years of psychotherapy, I might be closer to understanding what my mind does to itself and to my intertia, but that doesn't mean I'm any closer to actually different behavior. If anything, the farther I get from the realm of school, the less I excel at being alive.

"Supposedly, I can make other choices, but I feel powerless to do so. I feel as if I've been making the same choice over and over again. I don't want it, though; it just is."

Additionally: My office recently switched insurance from an Oxford plan that does cover a tiny sliver of my therapy to an Oxford plan that covers zero of my therapy, even after submitting reimbursement forms, and this change in plans was also supposed to facilitate cheaper prescriptions. Well, not for good ol' Lyssa and her good ol' SSRI which does not yet have a generic. Nope! My meds are still $50 damn clams per month. I discovered this at Rite Aid today and was shattered, not least of which because I missed a dose last night.

And further! Now, in addition to the tiny ant infestation (that's not a tiny infestation of ants, but an infestation of tiny ants, which are not only in the office kitchen but have also found a way up, around, and into our Poland Spring water cooler [we have to check each glass we pour for critters, lest we consume them]), there is also FRUIT FLY problem in the kitchen! Hooray! The only good news here is that we are moving offices to somewhere in Hell's Kitchen/Fashion District (much farther from my therapy, of course) late next week. Goodbye to this Koreatown not-for-profit slum and it's leaking ceilings and fucked plumbing and way-too-chatty anti-government fanatics down the hall. GOOD RIDDANCE.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

Let's Talk About Elevators, Baby

GAAH. Once upon a time there was a girl named Lyssa who worked on the 9th floor of a certain building on 51st between Broadway and 7th. On the second floor of this building was a certain dancewear shop, only reachable through the main office lobby on 51st. Every day, in the morning, when she was feeling fresh and generous, she would just smile and nod at the idiots [DANCERS, mind you] who would ride the elevator up ONE FLOOR to the dance shop, before she continued up in the elevator to the 9th floor.

However! The end of the day always arrived with a headache and an urgent need for a nap and a Lexapro [and maybe a Vicodin], so the quickest way down in the elevator, the best. One particularly sullen evening, the clock had no sooner struck 5:30 than Lyssa was out the door of the loud, sweltering, smelly, carpeted, musical-theatre-ppl-infested office and into the elevator. New Pornographers blared satisfyingly into the headphones; she tapped her foot with the beat and with intolerable impatience, come on, come on; the elevator beeped down the floors oh so slowly: 7, 6, 5... AND THEN (oh, she was so close!), the elevator came to a thumping halt on floor #2, the door opened, and a crowd of about 15 people--loud, skinny, northface-wearing, bleached-blonde, gum smacking, CLUELESS TOURIST DANCERS smashed themselves into the elevator, with absolutely NO regard for the quiet, angry 4'10" passenger on her way home from work. O.M.G. OMG. omg omg omg. SHUT UP, GET OUT, TAKE THE DAMN STAIRS YOU LAZY FUCKERS.

That is all. Please tip your waiters.


Wednesday, February 22, 2006


Last night, on the phone with an old friend, I discovered one of the most deeply meaningful things one person can say to another... "There is noone I'd rather see Spamalot with than you."


Wednesday, February 08, 2006

You are threadless...

Check me out guys. I am now officially a member of the threadless street team. How cute!

By helping threadless promote, I get points towards a free tee. So if ya ever want to buy something, click here first. Yeah. Ok. Thanks.


Thursday, February 02, 2006

Anderson, Indiana

This paragraph from Tobias Wolff's story in this week's New Yorker really could have been written to describe my sort-of hometown:

Burke knew the story—he’d bet the farm on it. Unions broken, or bought off. Salaries and benefits steadily cut under threat of layoffs that happened anyway as the work went to foreign wage slaves, the owners meanwhile conjuring up jolly visions of the corporate “family” and better days to come, before selling out just in time to duck the fines for a century of fouling the river; then the new owners, vultures with M.B.A.s, gliding in to sack the pension fund before declaring bankruptcy. Burke knew the whole story and it disgusted him, especially the workers who’d let the owners screw them like this while patting them on the head, congratulating them for being the backbone of the country, salt of the earth, the true Americans. Jesus! And still they ate it up, and voted like robbers instead of the robbed. Served them right.


Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Oh, the past...

I was randomly patronizing the Ed2010 site, and look what I found:

Oh, how cute was I at the 2004 Ed2010 intern event. Still, I'm slightly disturbed by two aspects of this picture: 1) My starry-eyed naivete, 2) Why the heck was I wearing black in June? Oh wait, I know...


Tuesday, January 17, 2006