100 words a day

Has it really been four and a half months since my last post?  I don’t know why.  I love posting! 

In the last four+ months, I started and quit a new job, working for a shitshow of a decorator I couldn’t stand.  Then an old client resurfaced with a nice project. 

I got engaged on March 26!

The planning alone could provide a ton of material here.  I don’t want to make this all about the wedding so I’ll try to mix it up.  Write more often. 

Wedding date, Check.  Venue, dj, florist, photographer, dress, shoes, cake baker, invitations, checkcheckcheckcheckcheckcheckcheckcheckcheck.

A few weeks ago, I asked my niece what she’d like me to get for her upcoming fourth birthday.

Without hesitation, she barked into the phone, “A diamond ring.  Because Mommy doesn’t share hers.”

O……kay.

I told my sister Maggie (fellow Aunt), and then asked my niece yesterday, again, what she’d like from me.

“Well I don’t need a diamond ring.  Maggie’s getting me that.”

“I thought you wanted me to get you a diamond ring?”

“You can get me one too.  Then I’ll have two, like Mommy has two.”

Yes I’m biased.  But she’s really the smartest girl EVER.

What to say, what to say, what to say. 

Well, obviously I’ve been slacking in the 100wordsaday department. 

Catching up:  Right as work started picking up, I heard from two former clients who’ll need my help again.  Last week my father was hospitalized (now out and recouperating) from angioplasty, which made for an interesting, hectic week with our ‘bustling’ family dynamic.  I’m leaving the biggest and best Manhattan rental apartment to move into my boyfriend’s Bronx co-op.  I started seeing my dietician again since that weight loss goal isn’t meeting itself.

2010 got off to a fast paced, interesting start.

Non-dessert menu items that include the words “foam” or “mousse”.

On Sunday, I told my friend I loved the pedometer she gave me, that it stayed put and never fell off.

On Monday, squeezing into a crowded subway, something flew off me and people scrambled around to see what it was.

Inside, I realized the pedometer didn’t make it.

Stepping back out and reaching down, I heard the doors close as someone kicked my pedometer, and someone else grabbed at it.   

My hand tangled around an ankle and when I stood up, the doors opened back up.    

I hopped in, looked at my dirty hand and my pedometer in it.

I watched part of Freaky Friday yesterday, and when Lindsey Lohan was punished by having her bedroom door removed, I was reminded of my own childhood.

My dad used to do that, shouting “You slam it, you lose it” as he carried the unhinged door down the stairs.  I called him to laugh about this policy for keeping five daughters from slamming doors.

He laughed and said, “Not you so much.  The third one and the fourth one, all the time.  You slam it, you lose it!”

“Did you just call Kate and Maggie by numbers?”

Sheepish laughter.  “Oh.  Yeah.”

One of my few NYC complaints is riding the subway and fortunately, I’ve usually been able to walk to work.

Lately I commute to the West Village, Hoboken and the Bronx, and ride it a lot.
The other night, some vile little thug wannabe was on a tear using filthy words…the f word, the n word, just refusing to shut it.

Then his friends started telling him it was offensive.  To everyone else and to him. 

He tried defending himself and then asked if they were all getting together over the weekend.

“No.  We’re not”. 

I liked those other guys.

Loved: the architecture and detailing, the enormous scale of Chateau de Versailles, the pyramid at the Louvre right alongside the older wings, walking everywhere, Nike of Samothrace, that wine and cheese were so inexpensive, Pere Lachaise Cemetery, the double-decker dessert with the chocolate inside, almost every piece of art inside Musee d’Orsay, finally reaching the top of the hundreds of stairs at Notre Dame right after yelling, “I HATE THIS”.

Didn’t love:  that meal where I thought I was getting steak frites but instead got a giant slab of seared ground beef, bright red and still cold in the middle.

I feel boring lately.  Hence, the silent keyboard.  I can’t even remember what I used to do that was so exciting, but for some reason can’t seem to think of things to talk or write about lately.

I leave for Paris in fifty-two hours which is actually very exciting.  Today I passed not one but two former employers on the street, found $20 in the pocket of my jacket that the cleaners missed or left for me, “christened” my new library card and picked up four books for the trip.  Tonight I’m meeting my friend Hope for dinner at Blockheads.

I love the show “The Office”.  Every single thing about it. 

I wasn’t so psyched that Jim and Pam were getting married though.  I thought that, like the show Friends, it would eliminate the air of mystery as in the case of Ross and Rachel getting together.

But that wedding.  I loved the reference to the YouTube wedding.  I loved Dwight kicking that girl in the face.  I loved Angela clutching her purse and walking up the aisle like a scared old lady at 7:30 mass.  My fave was Erin dancing up the aisle with Andy clinging to a walker.

I looked down, and bills were flying out of my sweatshirt pocket. 

I grabbed a fistful of air, realizing:

“They’re blowing around in the middle lane on Second Avenue”

“That was $22!  RUN!”

I took off in a zigzag pattern, chasing them like I was in a game show wind machine.  I got close enough to read the denominations; stomped once, twice, three times.  Finally, landed on the $20.

Bending to grab it, praying traffic wouldn’t plow over me.

Let the other two singles go and then heard a helpful stranger calling to me after he caught the other $2. 

My unemployed/overweight slump has been going on for awhile now, but I knew eventually I’d snap out of it.

A favorite author (who’s become a friend) hosted a book party recently.  I put on makeup and a cute outfit, and felt a little better.   

She asked if I’d been running lately, as she signed my book.   (“Labor Day” by Joyce Maynard)

Later, I read her message.  The writer who inspires me to no end had written, “For Rose, the person who has inspired me to someday run a marathon.”

And I’ve been feeling like my old self again, ever since.

I offered to attach my boyfriend’s timing chip for his race Saturday, and he put his sneaker on my bed for me to do so. 

I sort of freaked out (not being a neat freak myself), said to never put a shoe that’s touched a NYC sidewalk on my bed. 

He thought I was being neurotic, until we watched the women’s race and some poor runner stopped near us, and vomited.    

“Mr. Shoe on the Bed” pulled me away, to avoid the splash as runners stomped through it. 

I said, “You see my point, about no shoes on the bed?”

I’d been putting off the inevitable, accepting that for the first time in five years, I won’t be running the NYC Marathon on November 1.

This kills me.  I wanted my annual streak to only be broken by injury or pregnancy.  I sort of have an injury and I definitely have a ‘not-fit-enough’ problem.

The race takes over the city.  The course goes up First Avenue, six doors away, for hours that day. 

The advertising before, the screaming fans during, my regret after.  I won’t be able to handle it.

So I am running that day.  I’m running away.  To Paris.

Last Saturday, I woke up with a terrible stomachache and blamed it on eating too much at Dinosaur BBQ the night before.  I could barely move.  I’m usually pretty independent, but so sick I had to send my boyfriend to the store.       

Canada Dry Ginger Ale.  NOT DIET.  Warm. 

Saltine crackers. The original box, classic recipe. 

He repeatedly tried convincing me to leave the bed and get a change of scenery on the sofa.

6:00pm:  Moved to the sofa.  First food of the day, four saltines.

7:30pm:  Change of scenery again, as I ran to the bathroom to throw up.   

Every time a commercial for “The Time Traveler’s Wife” comes on, I get choked up.  A few times, really bawling.

I couldn’t figure out why.  I had no interest in the book, and don’t even think the movie sounds so great.  I like Rachel McAdams, think Eric Bana’s cute, but why the tears? 

Then it hits me.  The song.  Lifehouse, Broken.  It’s one of my running songs. I listened to it repeatedly during long runs. 

It reminds me that this year, the NYC Marathon will be happening without me for the first time in five years, and that really sucks. 

For some reason, I am really creeped out by my mailman.  I’ve lived here for over eight years, but every time I head down the steps and see that mailbag parked West of my building, I cross the street to avoid him. 

I know it’s entirely me.  The crux of our conversations has only been the very harmless “Hey Rose, how ya doing?”  but for some reason, I think he sounds creepy and pervy when he says it. 

If ever I do happen to bump into him, I pretend to be on the phone or furiously digging in my purse. 

During an “intimate time” recently, I was distracted when I thought I smelled smoke.

At a former job with a really mean boss, I was ordering custom lampshades for the common areas in an apartment building.

My boss said to go up and down every floor, counting the lamps, before ordering the $1,200 per shade shades.

The doorman told me “Sixteen floors, two per floor.  No need to go up.”

I believed him. 

But while installing the lampshades (with my boss), there were no lamps on the first floor, no thirteenth floor in the building, and no lamps on the four owner-occupied floors.

I contemplated throwing the extra $14,400 in shades into the incinerator.

One December day in 1996, I was on the phone bickering with an admissions professional at F.I.T., about having to reschedule my portfolio evaluation because my grandmother died.

We were leaving for her funeral, when my sister Mary began furiously pounding on the bedroom door.  I started yelling at her too, when she interrupted to say, “There’s something wrong with Dad!” 

I dialed 911, and yelled down the hall to my sister Maggie, so she could tell me how to describe his condition. 

Before I even started explained it to the operator, I knew it meant he’d had a stroke.

I worked today (a rare occurrence),  and at about 2pm, logged on here and saw a lot of posts.  Then I realized that it must be the day we are posting 10 times.  My email address has been inconsistent and I guess I missed the reminder. 

I emailed Lytspeed to confirm, and wondered how long until I would be home and able to start writing.

The day ended up longer than I anticipated, and here it is 7pm and I’m one down, nine to go.  All dreams of an intricately woven collection of posts have unfortunately gone out the window.   

I attended the same small grade school for over seven years, until my father’s job moved us halfway across the country.

I left my two best friends, Christine and Carolyn, and while we stayed in touch for awhile, I never saw them again.  Eventually, when we all got into trouble over long distance phone bills, contact eventually dwindled off.

Until Monday night.  Facebook.  I found an alumni site for our grade school, and there was Carolyn.  I sent a friend request and within twelve hours, received one from Christine.

28 years later, and the emails are really flying this week.

Headed West on Prince Street last Monday, ignore a few people talking over a dog on the sidewalk, and then hear one of them ask, “No, really.  Are you Dustin Hoffman?”

“No.  No I’m not.” said Dustin Hoffman.

A little scruffy, white haired moustache made it tough to tell with 100% certainty, but the voice confirmed it. 

In my head I heard “Mrs. Robinson, you’re trying to seduce me. Aren’t you?” “I’m walkin here.  I’m walkin here.”, “Ten minutes to Wapner.” and knew it was him.

I walked right past him without even noticing, but would know that voice anywhere.

I pay $15/month to a weirdo in Staten Island who took my powerpoint document and made it a website.   

He rarely spells correctly, and has a real tough time with simple instructions.

Recently, he accidentally forwarded me a breakup email from his fiancée and when I told him I’d received it, he claimed not to have sent it.

I’ve now told him I don’t need him any longer, and he sort of freaked out.  Things got ugly and I pointed out his ineptitude with regard to spelling.

Then he changed my site to say “OUT OF BUSINESS.”  

All spelled correctly.

I don’t have to get ready for work.  My boyfriend does. 

While he showers today, I make coffee, dress, put on makeup, do my hair.  Intending to watch TV in the air conditioned bedroom, I couldn’t figure out his new converter box (he’s the only person I know who was directly affected by “the switch to digital”). 

When he walks back in, I ask him to fix it.  “But I have to go to work!” he says urgently, like I’m keeping him from doing something.

“Like that?”  gesturing toward the facts that I’m fully ready and he is still wet.

Pope John Paul 2 shot-on the playground at St. John’s

John Lennon shot:  home sick from school

Ronald Reagan shot:  home sick from school

Jackie Onassis death:  at the David Letterman show

Princess Diana:  babysitting my nephews

JFK Jr’s plane missing:  in my LI apartment, headed to NYC (where for some reason people set up tributes at the Imagine Mosaic)

9/11:  in the subway, on the street, in Murray’s Bagels (it took all 3 to sort of figure out what was going on just 2 miles away)

Farrah died:  sitting on my sofa

Michael Jackson died:  still on my sofa

Sarah Jessica Parker.  Florence Henderson.  Rocco Dispirito.  Lance Armstrong.  Monica Lewinski.  Matt Lauer (several times).  Katie Couric (not w/Matt).  Seal.  Howard Stern.  Cindy Crawford.  Robert DeNiro.  David Schwimmer.  Woody Allen.  Peter Jennings.  Billy Baldwin.  Ric Ocasek and Paulina Porizkova.  Yoko Ono.  Diane Sawyer.  Joan Collins.  Al Roker (not w/Katie or Matt).  Alec Baldwin.  Amy Sedaris.  Ed Burns and Christy Turlington. Andrew Shue.  Joy Behar.

And, Friday, a big one:  Donald Trump!  A friend asked what the hair was like and I told him, “Combover’s putting it politely.  More like a few strands of Barbie hair, stretched over a bowling ball.”

I haven’t been sleeping well, between not having a job, more weight gain and disappointment about possibly not running the NYC marathon in November. 

Usually this means tossing and turning but last night, mid-nightmare, I yelled out so loud that I woke both myself and my boyfriend up. 

He yelled back “What the hell?”  at the same time as I insisted, “I’ve never done that before!”

He said “How do you know?”, which struck me as really funny.  Now I’m wondering if I routinely yell in my sleep, and last night was just the first time I woke anyone up.

Thrilled to be home yesterday, after four days away (which involved a huge argument with my sister while visiting to meet her newborn son, followed by a cab ride which had me slamming into the plexiglass partition over and over again, and wondering why there was an $8 Visa card from AT&T in the mail), I unlock the front door and look into the kitchen.

The familiar yellow walls, the deck chair I left in the kitchen three weeks ago, and an unusual noise.  I scream and slam the door.

Because there was a pigeon flapping crazily around in there.

Hopefully the nice weather gets me out of the apartment more often and away from the tv.

Because these people are starting to annoy me.

I can’t stand Rachael Ray calling sandwiches “sammies” and all of her other annoying “Rachael-isms”.  Giada just has so many teeth and her on again/off again Italian accent is distracting.  When asked about weekend plans, Martha always says how many plans she has but they rarely involve other people, so what’s she bragging about.

Then I remember, they aren’t my friends.  I don’t have to take it.  There’s a button to make them go away.

The day I predicted I’d be laid off, I wrote a list of things to do upon being laid off, before leaving the office for good.

After “return blackberry”, was “email Chris.”

Chris was a former coworker I had enjoyed working with before he left to start his own firm.

Packing my office after being laid off, I emailed Chris to let him know I was available and interested.

We stayed in touch off and on over the last couple of months and two weeks ago, Chris emailed to say he was getting busy and in need of some help.

I haven’t lost an ounce since my post about trying to lose weight.  It’s actually gone in the other direction, so I’m taking a closer look at why.

I bought a cute new journal to get back to writing down everything I eat.  This true-confession of calories consumed explains it all.  I also gave in and bought some new, bigger clothes when I realized that about 9” of my hanging closet inventory still fits.

Then I remembered what I’ve been telling people for years:  Wanting to lose weight is NOT the same as trying to lose weight. 

Time to try.

Talk about a rut.  My laptop broke (the laptop that I borrowed when my laptop broke).  I need a new roommate by next Sunday.  I’m unemployed and up 25 pounds since November.  I think I need a root canal.  If this were a Lifetime movie, the surprise solution would fall into my lap RIGHT NOW.

I’m in a good mood most of the time, though.   And am either careless, delusional or just very positive, as I just paid a valuable $149 on entry into the 2009 NYC marathon when I’ve run about 15 miles since the last excruciatingly painful one.

I don’t get people who use facebook as their vehicle for communicating big news.

My friend saw another friend’s status update, pertaining to being upset with her husband for getting a DUI when he was supposed to be the designated driver on her birthday.

Not the place for that, in my opinion, but, whatever.

Then yesterday-an old friend:  “can’t believe my Uncle Billy died”

(I can’t believe your grief is broadcast on Facebook).

Later the same day, a guy from high school: “Just found out my girl friend, Veta, died last night. Cause unknown. Still in shock.”

Facebook…the new obituary?

After fending off a lunatic on 86th Street, arguing with a guy in the subway (material for future posts) I meet my mom in Penn Station (marking the first time she’s come to NYC just to see me) then meet my friends at Martha Stewart’s Yarn Show.

We show off my fantastic, “unique” pillow to any staffers who pass, hoping to get my fantastic, unique pillow on national tv.

Then get seated in the back row.

And watch “Segment Seven”, where someone’s crocheted a life size lawnmower, a faux-bearskin rug, and a urinal.

Making my pillow a little less “unique”.

Despite my “unemployed person inertia” lately, finally tomorrow I have a productive day scheduled:  tickets to be in the studio audience of the Martha Stewart Show!

One of my dreams in life is to get paid to knit.

Tomorrow’s show is a knitting themed one, and the audience coordinator emailed to say we should bring projects we’re working on.

I emailed back that I have a successful knit pillow business (honestly, my first one will barely be finished before we get in line tomorrow)

So, by this time tomorrow perhaps I will be brought onstage to discuss it with Martha!

Six weeks of being unemployed has flown by in what feels like six hours. 

It’s been a productive time with Martha Stewart, Kathy Lee and Hoda, 4am panic attacks, pinot grigio, knitting, facebooking (yes it’s a verb now), daytime gym workouts, day trips with a car-owning unemployed friend, making a daily 12-cup pot of coffee and only drinking 6 of them, planning home improvements that make absolutely no sense in a rental apartment.

And, yesterday, attendance at the required “NYS Department of Labor’s Unemployment Seminar”.

33 additional weeks of benefits for a total of 59 weeks of the above activities.

Prior posts may indicate that the funniest person I know is my almost 3 year old niece, Erin.

This week, she shouted at the television, “That’s Obama!  He lives in the White House!”

I suggested that maybe, if she worked hard, someday she’d become president and live in the White House, too. 

She very logically said, “I CAN’T live in the White House.  I live in THIS house.”

After stealing all the Chapstick and Burt’s Bee’s Lip Balm I owned, she introduced a new gem.  I jokingly asked if I could sleep over.

She matter-of-factly answered, “Yeah.  Cause you’re cute.”

Someone once told me “If you want something done, ask a busy person”.

I realized this is true the last time I was unemployed, and the pattern is upon me again.

Simple tasks that should take five minutes seem impossible to start.  Getting places on time never happens anymore.  Laundry from three weeks ago is in a pile on my desk.  I need a written daily list of “things to do”, even if the only ‘thing to do’ is “go to gym”.

I started this post at 8:55am and now it’s taken almost three hours to write one hundred words…

My name is Rose and I weigh 180 pounds.

It’s a situation that a person who previously lost seventy pounds should not be in.

I am at a six-year high weight.  Between my November 2 marathon and today, I’ve gained 20 pounds.  This is not the “95% of people regain the weight” statistic.  I DID keep it off, for six years. 

I know better. 

So I’m examining my options:  Keep climbing and lose control of something I know I can control, or examine my behavior and reverse course.

Stay tuned for “My name is Rose and I weigh 145 pounds”.

I accompanied my dad to an appointment with his eye surgeon today, thanks to my new unemployed person’s schedule.

When the receptionist went buzzing past, he said, “This is a field you should try!”

“At 40 I’m supposed to become an eye surgeon?” 

“No!  Go get a job at Manhattan Eye, Ear, and Throat, walking the patients around to their appointments!”

“Dad, how does my experience as an interior designer factor in?”

“How about that wind energy thing that Barack’s always talking about.  Do that!  That’s big business!  Whatever it is, it’s big.”

He really thinks I can do anything…

I’m not a gym fan.  I prefer running in Central Park, but I’m injured.  I’m stunned by some of the costumes on gymgoers lately:

• Fiftysomething gal wearing a Jane Fonda-inspired thong leotard with ipod stuck inside, which slides down to where we don’t need any more attention inside the leotard.
• Kramer lookalike wearing tan corduroys…like he forgot he might need workout wear.
• hip-hop dork bopping over, wearing a sideways baseball hat, gesturing “cut it” across his throat.  I crack up, turn off the music, and hear, “Ya gotta go!  We’re closed!”

Too bad.  I’m enjoying the show.

“Rose, can you come in here please?”

(‘I’m totally going to get laid off when I go in there’)

“Can you please close the door?”

(‘Here comes the layoff’)

“So, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, I know you have too, and, I have no choice but to lay you off.”

(‘I am so freaking smart to have predicted this, isn’t that reason enough to keep me?’)

…and then, “Well I really loved working here.”

“Yes, everyone loves…” (is he going to say ‘Everyone loves working with you’ ?)

Except he says, “…yes, everyone loves working here.”

Thanks.  That’s helpful.

Things I need to stop taking for granted if I get to keep my job:  eating out as often as I currently do, glasses of wine that cost more in a restaurant than a bottle in the store does, buying yarn for knitting projects I never finish, all of the nicer clothes I just bought, saying “yes” to invitations without having to think about whether or not I can afford it, taking taxis just because the bus is slow and the subway is a 15 minute walk, makeup at Bloomingdales, and the fact that another paycheck is 2 weeks away.

I sit down at the coffee shop near my office and hear a familiar loud voice barking on her cell phone.

Next to me is a designer I briefly worked for several years ago.  My experience is in high end residential design…hers, a style dictated by low prices and void of style.  Not a good fit.  She conducted in person conversations with mouth fulls of tuna, and telephone conversations while crunching on potato chips.

I didn’t last long with CheeseBall Design, Inc.

But today, I laughed upon seeing she now talks on the phone with her mouth full of tuna.