All In a Day's (or early morning's) Work

So the radiator has continued to turn on at inopportune times, especially in the early hours of the morning. And this I have learned (from our building handyman) is a function to keep the pipes from freezing!

With the help of this handyman, the radiator's eccentricities have ruled more important (to the success of moderating the temperature of my apartment) than continuing my power struggle with the on off switch.

Radiators - ALIVE!

It sounds like an feature exhibit at the Museum of Natural History or a Sunday afternoon "modern marvel" program on the History Channel; but alas, it is just a recent phenomenon I have experienced of late in my apartment. The radiator has a consciousness of its own.

The morning before last I had awoken quite late in the morning, to the gentle hum and airy cough of the radiator - which I had not turned on before going to bed. Unsettled to say the least I sprung from my bed, flung open the door to the temperate settings. The power switch? Decidedly set on OFF. I fumbled with it for several seconds, moving the gage back and forth, on and off, to and fro without any results - this thing was on and it was staying on.

Frustration unveiled itself. My challenge laid before me.

However, I played cool, going about my Saturday routine, finding something on TV, making tator tots for lunch... all the while knowing that the radiator might try, but would not defeat me. In my minutes fumbling with the power switch I had left it ON. Ha! This rouge of a radiator couldn't bear the thought of actual running, warming, and distributing air through my apartment when it was actually supposed to be doing so - and so I waited.

The tv volume was low as I waited for the over to pre-heat and my radiator to cave.

The click echoed slightly from its belly, short and muffled. This time I walked powerfully to its side, slowly opening the gateway to its powerplate of dials, buttons, and switched. OFF it went. and OFF it stayed.

***

5:56AM the next morning, the click echoed again and cool air pillowed into my room. Its consciousness had not been stifled. It was in these early morning hours that I was defeated - taken from my bed, my flannel sheets, and numerous pillows to battle with this machine.

The ON/OFF match continued. Clicks ensued through the middle to late morning hours - two times I was forced from my bed to bring down the defiant radiator.

The afternoon was quiet, the evening (thus far) was quiet.

I have Restless Leg Syndrome

It's real. Everyone knows it.

1. Sufferers have formed the Restless Leg Sydrome Foundation, developed the Nighwalkers support groups, adjusted their work hours, daily commutes, and dietary needs.

2. I read a book about it - discovering that it was genetic and linked to iron deficiency. To my suprise, the research first done on the syptoms were decades old. Long before television and the mass production of pharmaceuticals.

and while on the subject of television...

3. The commercials - for several medications - are now more prevalent than ever. In a time where medications market themselves (instead of relying on doctors, hospitals, and the clinically savvy to do the dirty work) restless leg syndrome's Requip and Mirapex are all over television. Especially TBS, and maybe USA. Not only do they play, but they play often, once (or dare I say even twice) a commercial break.

May I note here that if you have Restless Leg Syndrome and frequent these stations, you may feel symptoms as a direct result of the stimulating recount of the victim in the commercial. Furthermore, if you haven't ever felt the pangs of the condition, you do now. Or soon will. Just wait. Consult your doctor for more details on how this condition may affect you.

4. People are beginning to use it to describe behavior other than that of the actual condition. The other day while waiting for the elevator, a couple approached. It was obvious that they had just returned from the gym, and the girl was playfully kicking her boyfriend, innocently shouting Restless Leg Syndrome as the cause for her unruly, uncontrollable urges to lash out at him with her lower extreme ties. Never in my years with these legs have I ever kicked someone citing RLS as the excuse, and everyone should know that after exercise one's jumpy legs are, well at least for a short while, at rest.

All Hail, the Glorious Pen

I was watching her ring up my salad, soup, and drink. Trying to do the math before the cash register did wasn't working out so I quickly turned to just hoping the the total would be more than ten dollars. All this emotional energy was channeled into the simple question of whether or not I could or could not use my debit card for this purchase. Technically, I couldn't pay with cash. There was any to pay with.

Alas, the total was 10.58 and I was pleased to pass the card into the hands of the cashier. I waited, more patiently, for the receipt and the pen to scribble the transaction's approval. Hearing the receipt paper tear from the machine, I looked up and saw a puff of black feather fluff attached to the top of the pen. There was, in middle school, a pen just like that one in my collection except that it was purple and had streams of glitter dispersed between the feathers. This pen was black, from feather to ball point. How chic.

I situated the pen in my hand. Awkwardly starting to scribble when I noticed the Playboy logo on the side, almost forgetting to sign the G in Gregory. How did a Playboy pen find its way into a New York City cafe. At the check-out counter? (This is when I believe that some sort of tracking advice might be useful for objects like pens. Just like money, temporary owners of such items as pens, maybe rental cars, some vintage clothing, etc. could access some Internet database to check on where it had been or who might have had it. Begin daunting and frantically mysterious music, please.)

When thinking about this phenomenon a bit more, it appears to me that pens are actually quite popular; and although generic, the commodity is quick striking. There are, in fact, plenty of other tools for writing: pencils, of course, chalk, charcoal, paint, keyboards, crayons, markers, glitter pens, glue and glitter dust, even rocks, and perhaps sand and mud to be both creative and a bit backwards.

Pens (and for some reasons or another my stapler) are the first things to disappear from my desk at SpaFinder. The matching pen to my pink and green notepad was taken within days or returning from the Christmas holiday. Not too spirited if I may say so. Many months ago I was lucky enough to be given a uni-ball with green ink. I used the pen quite often when working with my own notes, of course, not all might appreciate the color, but nevertheless it was my favorite pen. This of course, was gone one morning. Intent on having it return, I went asking around about my lovely uni-ball green ink pen, only to discover my co-worker writing with it! She did give it back, without much to say (She had recently commented on the sharpness of my pencils, which does worry me somewhat). I know keep my most favorite pens it a secret section on desk drawer, which I have decided to not disclose at this time.

In all seriousness pens are, to me at least, worth a line or two; that something of such insignificance can be so fleetingly important to everyone and every company. Much so that they feel the need to put there name on one, or millions, in case someday it may end up in an estranged place like the Green Cafe in Union Square, hoping others like me might give more thought to its presence than the time it takes to make one's mark.

Long-winded

this past friday, over the course of the work day, two different people within the time span of a half an hour asked if my neck was stiff.

the first, was the technology manager, who has asked, or more appropriately, commented on the condition of my décolletage several times before. this, for obvious reasons, always did annoy me slightly but i kindly said no, "i was fine thank you", before our conversation passed awkwardly onto more decidedly objective subjects. ah, the work at hand.

shortly after this short episode occurred, another woman asked me the same unmistakeably query, and i began to envision what i actually may look like when people approach my cubicle: typing furiously away at my computer, hunched over while simultaneously slouching further down the back of my chair, slowly, into the vastness underneath my workspace... stopped mid-thought. a question is asked and i change position to address it, rotating my whole body with the uniformity of an passenger jet-liner, never allowing the shoulder, neck, leg alignment to shift a degree out of symmetry as i stare-up at them, cross-eyed. through reading glasses.

whether or not this might look strange to anyone had never occurred to me. perhaps the alternative would appear slightly even more inappropriate: craning my neck around like a deranged pigeon, while keeping the bulk of my body parallel to the computer as if it were a magnet. quite pathetic it seems, almost workaholic in nature.

it was only after these scenarios, that a few others accrued, making me feel as if i were in some sort of office day fun house which included, but are not limited to, the following: answering "HI!" when my boss called to ask for lunch (of course thinking it might have been a friend), having been caught starting at my feet as i walked out of the bathroom, self-proclaiming myself paranoid when one of my colleagues approached my desk (who, of course, i thought was my friend trying to play a practical joke on me), listening to my name pronounced in a variety of ways, some in other languages, only to find out it was because one man from the magazine department thought i was someone else for these first 11 months i have worked in the office.

harmless oddities, likewise, i wonder if my neck will be ruled stiff monday morning.

Out of Thought, Out of Mind

I originally had plans to spend the weekend at the beach, sunning myself from 9-5 instead of waking up late in the comfort of my air-conditioning, entering the city heat late morning, or afternoon, and spend a few hours at the gym -wishing I had more energy to propel myself along, on the treadmill, the never-ending rubber road on which I never seem to take a good, solid, forward step.

The beach plans were cancelled amidst the flutter in the office Friday afternoon. Actually, it hadn't been all that chaotic, just much to do before the weekend sprung upon us at the chiming of the eighteenth hour.

The plan had been changed to an Italian dinner downtown by the South Street Sea Port, under the name of Jackson Brown. To follow, a concert on the pier. Both were equally enjoyable but my mood, appropriately labeled, was listless.

Merriam-Webster, my most-favorite online dictionary, explains the adjective by stating it is, quite simply "characterized by lack of interest, energy, or spirit." Which brings me to my next topic of conversation. Conversation.

More so than not, I find myself in the peculiar situation of being "caught" out of thought, zoning out, out of it... Not listening. More often than not, I admit to the small crime of ignoring the small talk at the lunch, cocktail, or dinner table, ignoring my mother who asks if I am eating three meals a day, ignoring the station change on the subway...never explaining all to well where I was, or more importantly, what deserved my attention ever much more so than the one holding the proverbial microphone.

To further my thoughts, I'm not sure my lack to attention can be consistently be attributed to lack of interest, energy, or spirit. Of course at times it certainly can, but then what else could it be?

**

"Where is this bar? on Spring Street?" I asked a friend at a party last night.
"Spring Street Lounge. See these jumpy toes?" He begins, "This this little piggy drank some beer, this little piggy ate roast beef, this little piggy caught a cab, and this little piggy ..." By the time his song entered the fourth verse, I was a bit lost. I stared at the floor between his feet, glimmering with the slight coating of spilled drinks, dusted with dirt stuck to sticky-bottomed flip flops.

"And this little piggy went allll the way to the Spring Street lounge." He stops, proudly staring at me. Waiting for my response.

I can only stare.

"Not impressed huh?" He waits again. I snap to. And quickly laugh with him, while he walks away, tending to the next party-goer vulnerable enough for his antics.

Perhaps, in another circumstance, time I would have felt bad for not attributing, or furthering, our conversation. I would have apologized for zoning out, failing to listen, being a jerk. Something of the sort. Certainly at another time.

**

What is it that fosters this uncontrollable ability to look utterly preoccupied with something else besides the words being spoken? It reminds me somewhat of the scene in the newest superman movie, when he shoots up through the atmosphere, out into the vastness, emptiness of outer space - but cannot quiet his mind. He hears everything. But what is it that differs between superman's mind and my own? He hears everyone else - lacking the pressure of his own voice.

My Favorite Food Group

The other day in Barnes & Noble, I was browsing the new non-fiction table, sifting through topics of little interest when my fingers drifted across a world history... of salt.

Now. Salt has been, since I can remember, my favorite condiment, spice, sugar, vegetable, starch, fruit, protein, carb... everything, anything. I LOVE salt. It's just that pure. White. Table salt, sea salt, garlic salt...

For several years, or more than that, my father has cleverly declared that salt was, and still is, my favorite food group. I have proudly relayed this fact to anyone and everyone who has the privilege of witnessing my admiration for the mineral, rock, crystal, and brine.

Salt, A World History, by Mark Kurlansky, begins with admiration as well - for a rock he purchased in Spanish Catalonia adding that "those who think a fascination with salt is a bizarre obsession have simply never owned a rock like this."

I hadn't even gotten beyond the introduction before I began turning down corners of pages, stopping to re-read sentences that has struck me in one way or another, reveling in the fact someone was unknowingly developing my affection for salt by deepening my understanding for sodium, "a chemical term for a substance produced by the reaction of an acid with a base."

Wait. Back-up. No forward, quickly avoiding an impromptu chemistry lesson, forgotten labs about electrons, balancing equations...

"When sodium, an unstable metal can suddenly burst into flame, reacts with a deadly poisonous gas known as chlorine, it becomes the staple food sodium chloride, NaCL, from the only family of rocks eaten by humans."

To reiterate, not only is salt the ONLY rock we eat (rock candy excluded), we narrowly miss encounters with a flaming metal and its poisonous gas camaraderie in order to enhance... enhance the flavoring of our foods.

To add to this excitement, I learned that our bodies need salt to survive (which I had assumed was true) but more importanly if we deplete our bodies of sodium, we will perish. I never, in a lifetime of dedication, knew that salt was such a dramatic, and timeless rock. Though it is proven that salt can be derived from anywhere on the planet, this rock, these crystals started wars and manipulated governments, provided cornerstones for religious ceremonies, and gave satisfaction to girls like me, with plates of french fries and chicken nuggets.

Red Bull, Ice Cream, and Oprah - a Recipe for Philosophical Renderings?

So I finally did see Knocked Up, and had almost completely forgotten about the workplace "battle" between women, which motivated the before-mentioned wonder women host to gather her thoughts and share with others.

The scene took place two times in the movie, at the beginning, when our heroine Allison receives great news, and towards the end, where her meeting yet again proves triumphant. Without ruining too much of the film for those who haven't seen it, the other women in the room repeatedly, and seriously, makes comments which are not wholly outlandish, but certainly unnerving, and precarious towards Allison. The irk is immediately evident.

Call me literal, but it was the women's frank attitude that lended an attractive reality to the situation. A hard-working women gets a promotion which most likely has occurred over 190823590 times in other movies before. The coworker with the comments made the situation original. I got a raise after I cried for an hour, burdened with stress. Not to sound pitiful, but think about translating that into film? Whimpering "thank you, this means so much to me" with reddened eyes.

But what irked me more so, was the way in which the women treated their men. Debbie, Allison's older, and somewhat neurotic, sister blatantly preached to her younger sibling about how she is "conquering" her husband, breaking him down to build him back up again, leaving unwanted personality traits and annoying nuances behind. I should at this time mention that this notion came to Debbie through an Oprah epiphany and intermittent chugging sessions of Red Bull and Hagen Daas. This is reminiscent of hazing.

As the situation evolved, Debbie thought Pete was being unfaithful. In reality, he was sneaking off to play fantasy baseball, and go to the movies. For solitude, for space. Debbie trapped him with her rhetorical, rounding questions, overarching queries as to why he didn't want to do things with her, and why wouldn't he think she wanted to go out? In the end, Pete was given to dutiful title of an asshole. Even Ben, the father-to-be, decided it was so. Poor Pete, I say. Since when did solitude and friends become triggers for assholisism. I'd say I've have to side with Pete on this one.

Women...against Women

Back to my other "new" experience in the city - a "wonder women" price fix dinner in Chelsea Market, at the quaint Green Table restaurant.

The table was long, an extended farmer's table that sat high in the small rhombus shaped room. One side of the table was paired with a long picnic bench, on the other, wooden chairs to match the worn, smoothed wood of its counterpart. I sat down on the picnic side, and joined five other ladies and our host.

"The purpose of this visit," she begins, "is to start a discussion about women. Women in the workplace, their role, their frustrations, and why ther are frustrations in the first place. Why do other women attack women??" The source of this irk spawned from the recent feature film, Knocked Up, where the main character (I have not yet seen the movie) consistently finds herself attacked and ridiculed by an older women in her work environment. The movie The Devil Wears Prada certainly caters to this phenomenon of woman vs. woman, and certainly Knocked Up won't be the last to do so.

I, myself, am privy to this experience. One of my coworkers, ever since the beginning of this year, has forced me upon her trail of eggshells, going as far as to chaise me into our newly renovated (and close quarted) bathrooms, bestowing upon me a thought or two of her own.

The fact is, women do seem to have it out for one another. And not just in the workplace. Feminist are so often thought of as dedicating their lives to proving their equality to men, we rarely believe that their sex would actually be "the" other enemy.

Powerwash and Empowerment

Since I returned to the city after a week and a half of lounging, eating, and sunning at the Delaware Beaches, I have experienced two things, in the past two days, that I have not yet been able to add to the list since my debut in the city almost 9 months ago.

A dental hygienist “powerwashed” my teeth this evening, and last night joined a group of six other women to discuss the ongoing sources of frustration for women, in the workplace, in social situations, and of course in the world of men. The words exchanged during dinner are, right now, still churning in my mind but I do hope to give them their time in the limelight soon enough.

But setting the latter aside, tonight, after work, after 5:00pm, I went to the dentist. This felt automatically strange due to the fact that for the entirety of my twenty-three years I usually went to the dentist in the morning, and most certainly did so between the hours of 9:00am and 2:00pm. Having my last routine cleaning slightly, well a few months, more that six months ago, I explained my situation while looking into the eyes of dental assistants wondering “doesn’t she know, every six months?!” But being cavity-free since birth I felt as if I did have a bit of breathing room.

Nevertheless I prepared myself for the cleaning, the scraping of the fine-but-rigidly-sharp-feeling-metallic-toothpick-device against my skin, the irritation of my subjectified gums, and that shuddering chill that I feel even now recalling the mere thought of such an episode.

“This tool will use a lot of water,” she said, “so be prepared for a shower.”

“A shower?”

I couldn’t even respond before all of a sudden this small jet stream of water rushed out onto my teeth and gums, tearing miscellaneous plaque and other consistencies which I will most respectfully, on your behalf, exclude from this description.

This hygienist is powerwashing my teeth, I think to myself. Powerwashing my teeth. I was absolutely stiff in the chair, awkwardly positioned with my back fully extended, toes pointed, leg muscles flexed and tightened. Bracing myself for god only knows. Only after I became accustomed to the sensation in my mouth and the spray of watery mist forming the pair of safety goggles smashed on my forehead did I, and most embarrasingly I might add, realize what I may have looked like.

This "cleansing" took 10 minutes. No bleeding, no pain. J ust a sting or two when I actually let my tongue relax back into its intended resting place. After a quick polish to follow and then and a check-over from the dentist, I found myself sitting more complacently in the chair, blushing accepting the dubious title of the patient “who is really boring, and has teeth whiter than the dentist.”

Rethink. Revamp

new face. new look.

trying desperately to forget about my earlier intruder, i resort back to the blog, posting my second entry of the day after a two month hiatus from the pastime.

i'm not sure, after 8 posts is it? whether or not the blog is for me... i enjoy it but it seems as though my inspiration comes sparingly after introducing my mind to the 9-5 grind, but i do seem to find consolation in knowing that what i produce here will become something of significance in relation to my snowballing success as a writer. or so it seems.

i look at it as my first project, my mini-memoir/novel/short story... which i wish to have in print complete with binding by the time i am 25. not this particular story, but several which seem to have shaped my career thus far as young professional in the city. the thoughts are all locked up safe in the mind, which distracts itself through incidents such as the previous we shall not mention, more often declaring itself tired enough to pass up creativity for 8 hours of good rest.

my boss travels quite frequently, giving speeches at conferences around the world, showing her expertise and understanding of the spa industry. i had the task of editing her speech for overlooked grammatical errors, and while editing, realized her words were effective, inspiring almost. even in her speech about trans-atlantic spa fusion, i found passion, excitement, and experience in her tone.

it wasn't that i was surprised, but impressed about how easily i was persuaded and attracted by the words of a speech, on a topic i know very little about, as content that empowers both the individual and those for whom its message is indented.

my blog feels lacking at times, as if i am trying to hard to write for something and not about something which has allowed me to do so in the first place. what did i miss in two months that could have been great for this wall? anything.

what will come tomorrow? if i'm lucky, my words are already there.

the one and only

today i saw the first cockroach i have ever seen in my whole lifetime. the first in 22 and 1/2 years. it walked triumphantly across my living room and stopped right in the middle of the open floor - basking in the flickering light of the television, which was, once again, tuned into a Bravo Top Chef marathon. i wanted to throw up.

i quickly ran to the kitchen, grabbing a glass but putting it back and frantically search for one glass that i could possibly sacrifice as the main accomplice in my act of pesticide. several glasses came to hand, but finally the smaller glass, which was once proudly a jar filled with Welch's grape jelly, came crashing down on the stationary beast, chopping off the antennae before settling tightly against the wooden floor.

a call to Margaret and her mother came almost instantaneously, with 45 minutes to pass of consoling and suggestions ways to end the frightful episode. nail polish and a cotton ball proved deadly; upon first shoving the toxin into the glass the thing squirmed and shuddered around the rim of the jar, twitched as fumes filtered into its infectious lungs and permeated the vanishing air supply; twitching slower before one last valiant effort before nestling close to its cotton torturer... all of this happening of a gut renching 1/2 hour of monotonous my staring and telepathic wishes for death. Top Chef was on the back-burner.

almost an hour hadgone by, my roommate returned, cleaned the spot on the floor, and vowed to report to our landlord. i took out the trash and scanned the room, rummaged through closets, peered under appliances, kicked and tapped on walls and radiators.

writing about it had to let my nausea out of my body, my anxiety about going to bed, and waking up to a clean sparkling apartment. one little will not ruin my apartment.

not this one. the one and only.

please.