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I'm The One That I Want by Margaret Cho. I was so disappointed that I couldn't make the book fair at UCLA last weekend with my friend Tracey, so she thought to buy the book for me. I missed the one-woman show when I lived in New York, but Tracey and I went to see the film last fall in Santa Monica. If you want to know how much my friends rock, Tracey even had it autographed:
Erica
Good luck in New York!
-Margaret Cho
. . .
I'm also still reading Simple Indulgence: Easy, Everyday Things to Do for Me by Janet Eastman. I'm such a dork, I keep reading the quotes and ideas, but not doing the journalling portion.
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"Someday we'll find it
the rainbow connection
the lovers, the dreamers and me
alllll of us under it's spell."
-Kermit THE Frog
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Stuck in my head:
"Boogie-oogie-oogie get down."
Thank you, Disco Stu! (My favorite Simpsons sight gag-cum-character.)
I heard Britney Spears' "Bottom of My Broken Heart" while making a selection from the feminine hygeine aisle at Wal Mart and exclaimed, "Fucking Britney Spears...Gah!"
That's one of the videos I had to watch about a million times to select snippets for the web site and the enhanced CD single. Ever hearing it again is too much, too soon.
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The Simpsons, The Sopranos & Armistead Maupin's Further Tales of the City. I didn't even realize there were making another one, I just happened to see it listed. I'm going to have to finish the book series now, as I think I've only read through the fourth book and this mini-series is based on the third book.
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While you're visiting the Gallery of Regrettable Food, don't miss Meat!. This one in particular made me laugh until I couldn't breathe. "Sometimes meat likes to dress up and feel pretty."
Swanson Parade of Lost Identity -- women who, in probably their only 15 minutes of fame, were for the most part known only as Mrs. HisLastName.
. . .
Co-Author of The Rules to divorce! So you can't manipulate a man into marrying and staying married to you? Perhaps you have to come into it as two individuals and show who you really are from the beginning? I guess this means that no amount of growing your hair long, pretending not to be smart or funny, and "training" a man will make for a happy marriage.
. . .
Ever wonder where that dollar bill's been? Mine was in Chicago two months ago.
. . .
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Another Elvis dream (I'm doing the Memphis section of my color scrapbook now, but I haven't got to Graceland yet), this one cannibalistic.
What started out as an autopsy to discover THE TRUTH, turned into Elvis Stew. It was rich and beefy. Ewwwwwwwww!
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Why is it that the same personality quirks are taken as crazy and stalky by some, while loveably wacky by others? Is there some litmus test for this, so I stop wasting my time?
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now I'm blogging what I'm eating, whoa.
Still literate as of 9/29/2000 12:20:01 AM
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just what I needed...another dorkblog.
Jeepers, creepers, I last used my peepers on 9/29/2000 12:24:59 AM
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My trip photographs, they're better than expected. Now to get them all organized, it's only been a year!
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Saturday, December 30, 2000
1:05 AM
 astounded it took a bunch of genuises at Harvard to figure out what I'd been telling my parents since I was 5. Abuse causes long-term emotional problems, affects the memory, causes depression and no, we can't just "get over it."
If you had nightmares constantly about someone beating the shit out of you, what part of that is in the past to "get over?" Moreover, we have sympathy for veterans suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but not for adults who suffered these same types of stress not from a war enemy, but from the people in charge of caring for them, as they were developing mentally, emotionally and physically.
A big, fat, DUH!
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2:01 AM
obviously confused, as I am looking into the Harvard Business School, for crissakes.
Clearly, I am not sure what I want. After my most recent argument with The Republican, however, one thing is clear. There is no point, if you ask me, in living so far away from the City, whichever city that may be, if going into said city is a rare and big event, akin to a field trip. I want to walk downstairs, day or night, and have the city at my feet. I want to have bagels, pizza, thai food, a massage, a post office, a bar, friends and shops on my block.
When I'm ready to settle down into nowheresville, I don't want that place to be more full of junkies, loadies and loons per capita than a city. That just defeats the purpose. I wouldn't mind ending up on my own self-sufficient farm when I'm ready to get away from it all, or a small town where everyone knows everyone and you can walk whereever you need to go.
I am not, however, at all ready for that quite yet. The city is in my blood and I feel my cells shrinking from lack of stimulation. Right now, I need that rhythm to survive.
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Friday, December 29, 2000
4:01 PM
sick and job hunting, what a winning combination! So, while I have been online just as much as always, very little of it is fun. I am still not sold on the whole working for other people thing, but as I am down to $12 and bags of pennies, I at least need something to get me through the next few months, pay for business cards, etc.
I've been bleeding for two weeks and sick for one. How much can one woman take? I am fucking tired! I've been waking up at 6 and sending resumes for a few hours before I poop out. So, even though I'm up 3 hours ahead of everyone, I'm still getting nagged for sleeping in. You've gotta love it.
John said he knows people who've had this thing I've got with the lost voice and all and they've stayed sick for 2-3 weeks. I've already been sick for 8 days, which is forever to me. I drink so much water and get the extra sleep I need when I'm sick that generally colds are gone in 2-3 days. This is just absurd for Erica world. Even Dorothy says she's had it for two weeks already and is still having the last dregs of it. Feh!
As for job hunting, it's frustrating to read description after description of jobs I'm interested in and can perform, but that ask for absurd amounts of experience and degrees that aren't necessary. Either you can do the job, or not. Who has 3-5 years experience as a web producer, anyway?
John said I should take advantage of all L.A. has to offer and commute into the city for the big bucks. I am afraid of getting sucked in and forgetting my own dreams if I end up having to commute 3 or 4 hours a day to L.A. for an intensive entertainment industry job. Talk about deja vu! At least in NY, I could live in the city without needing a car, as shitty as the places I lived were in their own unique ways. I'd be just as well to get a place in Queens for $1,000 a month and make the tall, NY dollars. Moreover, it's not entirely impossible to find apartments in that range in Manhattan.
I know someone at Warner Brothers who said he'd put in a good word for me, so maybe something will come of it. I've also applied for a bunch of admin jobs at the big University here. I am torn as to which is preferable. As for the university, I could at least have a very short commute (eventually moving to that side of town, most likely), which means I will still have time for my own projects. However, if I do end up commuting to La la land, that gives me a solid hour each way on the train which I can devote to my own projects (once I am able to buy a laptop with the tall dollars I'll be earning).
San Francisco still isn't out of the question. It's far enough from my mother, but close enough to visit frequently. It's small, easy to get around without a car and not a bad place to have roommates. The salaries are high and I could finish my degree in only a slightly longer period of time than if I stay here. Still, this going back and retracing my steps thing is weird.
A friend told me recently that I just need to stay in one place. To me, three and a half years in SF was a long time for one place. I always wanted to see the world. As much as it's hard to be different, marriage and family were never for me, I've always known that, so there's no need for me to live in the same place for any length of time.
I remain confused and uncommited.
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Tuesday, December 26, 2000
1:28 AM
sorry and sad that I let a handful of shallow, insincere people drive me into a shell over the last few years. I was afraid, I was sure my attention, my friendship, my affection was unwanted at every turn by nearly everyone.
I guess this was because the change in them had been so sudden, so severe, that it seemed to me I must have been in denial all along. Surely had they hated me so much, thought so little of me, even feared me as they claimed, it was something I did. I was a psycho, a stalker, a nut case, or at the very least, a difficult person to get along with.
The thing of it is, I am none of those things. Yes, I am sensitive and, like most sensitive people, am the survivor of many horrible, unspeakable things, I don't go out of my way to dwell on them. That this journal has been so much about The Pain is largely to do with the fact that I am living in a house in which the most terrible, unspeakable things I've ever experienced occured. Also, it is the things that didn't go right, that are painful that I need to write about -- to figure out, to look at, examine, understand, cope with.
As a result, if this journal is all you know of me, you might not know my absurd sense of humor or my love of music or how that sensitivity pushes me to reach deeper levels within myself and my friendships. As John always says, our gifts are both a blessing and a curse.
Just from reading this, you might not know how special and deep my friendship with, say, John is. Have I mentioned that he calls me sis? I prayed so many years for a big brother. That's an absurd wish, of course, because, by definition, a big brother would exist before I did. Yet, at the age of 15, I found six of them.
Who knew that liking the Monkees would lead me to listen to Rodney Bingenheimer's radio show on KROQ, where I'd hear Dramarama's songs for the first time and finally write them a fan letter, which led to them calling me, which led to more letters which led to more phone calls, which led to meeting them a few months later, which led to more meetings, calls and letters than I can remember?
I knew John would be a very important person in my life from the first thing he ever wrote to me. It was sensitive, kind and caring. As I'd learn over the years was another gift of his, he said more in a few short sentences than I do in all my rambling. I can't remember half of what I wrote in all of those letters to the boys over the years, but much of it was to do with the awful place I lived: this house, its occupants, their actions, one's inaction.
Those letters are probably the craziest, horrible things I've ever written. Those boys knew parts of my soul I've yet to expose to anyone else. In hindsight, I find myself somewhat embarrassed at how much got away from me, at how much I said. One of them remarked to me recently that "Dr. Laura would make a lot of those letters." I was terribly embarrassed when he said that, but the fact is, there he was sitting with J and I at dinner, so I couldn't be so awful or scary.
They have seen the worst of me -- the fear, the anger, the confusion, the edges of my sanity and yet they see me as a friend, appreciate my talents, love me, are proud of me, feel privileged to have watched me grow up. Grow, I have. I still make mistakes, as I will until the day I die, but I try to do my best; I continue to learn and grow.
I am so thankful that those boys gave me the room to be myself and the comfort of knowing they would always love and accept me for who I am and whoever I became. They are by no means perfect themselves, but they are damn fine friends. I cannot express the depth of my appreciation for them in mere words. It amazes me to this day. It's as if their being in a band and me being a fan was just a matter of the universe working in mysterious ways. This beautiful story is such an important part of my history, as are so many others.
I've let myself lose touch with so many people over the years, thinking they'd want nothing to do with me because of a few people who told me I was desperate, pathetic, stalking them. I'd behaved no differently toward anyone in my life, so I'd started to believe, after a bad run of luck with acquaintances, that all, or at least most people felt the same way about me.
I've gotten back in touch with so many old friends recently. All have been really happy to hear from me and I from them. It's high time I got my life back and I can't think of a better way to start than by rekindling friendships I'd let fade away.
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1:56 AM
reminded of a man I knew in San Francisco. We had this inexplicable, immediate connection, it was palpable to others in the same room. We talked about books and writing and other Deep Things (tm). I've had a 1,001 crushes, but so few instances of intense connection.
Perhaps he seems more important to me, this dark chef of mine, because I met him on a dark and lonely night in my soul. I had, for whatever reason, reached a pit of despair and was headed, when we met on the 38 Geary, to transfer to the 28 or 29 out to the Golden Gate bridge and try to be the 1000th soul to fling themself hopelessly off of it.
Instead, this black-haired, green-eyed man, dressed all in black found me that night, just going home from work at one of the large, chain hotels. Where wafer thin women sneered at me instead of sitting next to me on the bus, he squeezed right in. He started talking and, though I was usually pretty friendly in that friendly town, I found myself being rather succinct. He kept at it and, before I knew it, dying was the last thing on my mind.
One night he invited me for a drink at the bar downstairs from his apartment. It was also downstairs from where I got my first tattoo. We bumped into each other many more times on the 'Geary and on the streets of the Tenderloin, where I lived and he worked over the next few months. We talked about books and writing and cooking, naturally, as I was a writer who liked to cook and he was a chef who liked to write -- both of us avid readers. I discovered that I really liked the people in that bar and to this day, it is my favored watering hole, that place where everybody knows my name. He started looking in the windows for me whenever he walked by, coming in if he did see me.
One day this man emailed me to say he was married, that his wife had be very sick, but married he was. I had missed his wedding band because all there was when we were together were his big, soft, warm eyes and our words going back and forth and all over the place. I cannot explain it otherwise. Nothing physical had happened, but something emotional, even spiritual, had that he felt the need to tell me this.
I replied to his message, basically saying that I'd enjoyed our talks and, while surprised to find out he was married, we'd done nothing wrong, so maybe we could still talk, if only by email. He wrote back to ask me not to write him at that address, that the other one was better.
I guess I should have figured out something was amiss when he gave me two different email addresses, but hey, I have a dozen that I use regularly, so I didn't give it a second thought. I guess I assumed he was phasing one out, but, actually, he shared one account with his wife. We kept emailing back and forth, him using both addresses and I'd just hit "reply," quite naturally.
I wrote him about my trip to New York and how I'd decided to move there -- how much there was to do and see and how I just wanted to be part of it, Baghdad on the Hudson as O. Henry had dubbed it. He'd been excited for me about the trip and the prospect of moving there, so I thought he'd like to know how it went. I'd replied to the last message from him in my email account, from the verboten email address.
His only response was that I obviously didn't care about him because I'd written to him at the account he'd asked me to not to write him at. He asked me never to write him again, because now his wife thought he was having an affair. Curious how it is that, while I never get the guy, in any possible sense of those words, I have so often been the object of scorn, considered the Other Woman.
I was hurt and confused. On the one hand, I guess it was inevitable, but on the other, I didn't understand what the problem was. If he was having an affair, it certainly wasn't with me. I was angry, too. It was hardly my fault that he kept writing me from that address. It was like he wanted to get "caught."
I felt like a fool. "I don't know," I said to my friend Scott, "Obviously I was wrong, but I just felt so...connected.
"You were Erica, you are...we all are, but some people just forget," he said.
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11:16 PM
not clear what part of, "How's your schedule this week, when can we hang out," meant, to The Republican, "Please, big strong man, criticize me, call me a 'loser' and a 'mama's girl' and tell me how to live my life, it turns me on so, so much."
Can I just tell you, I don't know why I try?
I've got great plans and bigger fish to fry.
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Sunday, December 24, 2000
10:07 AM
not being 100% fair here. My mother isn't evil, by any means, but she, like any mother, knows where to stick the knife in and when to turn. I guess I write about her evil moments more because those are the ones I need to try to understand, to figure out where to file them.
I just needed to say that, because I don't want her to appear to be the big, bad villain. It's true, though, that I think people in general take their kids for granted and treat their kids in ways they would never treat a friend, a stranger, or even an enemy.
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10:15 AM
not sure I can find anything wrong with this. She's not complaining about math or anything especially awful. OK, so she has a skirt suit and a dress and pumps, but even a lot of feminists still buy into that.
My favorite part is the Hillary Rodham haircut. Also, is it just me, or is she Hispanic? Guess Mattel wanted to kill two birds with one stone. Still, one of these days I'm going to get around to doing a page about all the ways in which Barbie sucks and/or a Barbie parody page and Mattel can wallpaper my entire house with Cease & Desist orders -- I know protected speech when I say it.
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10:30 AM
really impressed with Home Grocer. The prices were a little uneven and they didn't have everything I wanted to get, but the same drawbacks hold true with my local grocery store. Also, my mom insists on going to one that's not that great. It's small, the prices aren't very good, but she figures I'd be lost in the nearby UberStore and for some reason won't go to the other nearby grocery store that we used to go to when it was an AlphaBeta.
Anyway, I've grown to hate the shopping. It's no help that we go on Sunday afternoon. It's always crowded with stupid people who appear to have never seen a grocery store before. In the mass communications class I took years ago, my prof said that grocery stores are over-stimulating and so one goes into a semi-hypnotic state. There is too much light, noise, and far, far too many choices.
It's not so bad when I go on a weekday after class, but that requires an extra $5 for cab fare, so it's not perfect, either.
I'd tried to do the Home Grocer thing months ago, but they didn't deliver to my area. We're an hour outside of La La Land, in a city that generally everyone in Southern California shuns or makes fun of. It's not lily-white or completely suburban, like some of the enclaves closer to L.A. It's where we could afford a nice house. While sometimes the extremes of weather get to me and the fact that the public transportation isn't as good as New York (no one's is), I get sick of people criticizing where I can afford to live. It's got a nice downtown area, a few universities and an incredible community college. That's a story for another time, however.
Last week I saw a Home Grocer truck and thought they must deliver in our area now. Indeed, when I put in our zip code I got a welcome message, instead of an error screen. Hooray! Mom wasn't as impressed as I, but until I learn to drive and can go get groceries at will, I think it's a good solution. As long as we order $70 or more, there is no delivery charge, so what have we got to lose? The prices for most things were comparable to our local grocery store and the specials were quite good. The produce, in fact, looks a lot better than the local store.
The best part was there was no yelling, no explaining common sense things to my brother, no whining about putting everything away. They even separated the frozen goods from the refrigerated goods from the dry goods. That made putting things away so much easier. It usually takes me 20 minutes. The pre-sorted groceries only took me about 5 minutes to put away.
. . .
It all led to an unfortunate accident. I kicked the hell out of poor Salem, thinking I was just kicking an empty bag out of the way.
I forgot how much he likes to climb into bags. Silly cat. So he spent the rest of the day running like hell to get away from me. He's over it now, though, thank goodness. I felt so bad, I just kept picking him up and stroking him on the rare occaision that he came out of hiding. Poor kitty.
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10:53 AM
amazed at what a difference it makes to know people care. I made a concerted effort to get my cards out this year and received more than usual as well. It really cheers me up to think of all these people thinking of me and vice versa, as I sit here and type.
Cards from: (top row) Kymm, Heather, Heather again (the FOJM card with me on it), Netra's cheetah card, (row 2):Jennifer, Sharon & Nigel, Kristin, Dorothy (row 3) Pamie, Ana, Sandra, Dana (it's Curious George, of course), my aunt and uncle (row 4) Jen, my 'dopted (and Dorothy's actual) sister Donna and Scott.
The biggest surprise was the couple from Wales, as I'd debated about whether or not to send them one, thinking they wouldn't remember me. We met at the Graceland KOA campground in Memphis. We were next door in these adorable little one-room Lincoln-log cabins on the grounds of the trailer park.
After sort of nodding at each other for a couple of days, one night when I came back, the husband Nigel (natch) offered me a beer. As it turns out, they were also travelling across the U.S. after both being laid off from the same company. It seemed the perfect opportunity for some travel, as their son wasn't yet school age. Really nice people there in Cabin 2. (I was in Cabin 3, one of my lucky numbers). It was nice to have such a pleasant reminder of my trip.
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11:09 AM
astounded at how Ana, whom I've never met in meatspace (as she calls it, fuck that "online" v. "real life" crap), knew I'd like this groovy Zen rock garden.
![[micro-] mini Zen rock garden](/thinks/i_am/i/0012/zen_garden2.jpg)
Not only had I been thinking of getting one, thinking of a coworker at my last job who had one, but I am a sucker for anything in miniature. My big quote as a kid was, "It's Barbie-sized!" Ergo, my Barbie had a rather extensive collection of cocktail swords. Naturally, when I found a little white, hard plastic case with a handle, I rolled up bits of toilet paper and that became her first aid kit. I guess that was just good planning, what with all the swordplay.
Anyway, this little Zen garden is the most adorable thing you've ever seen. It's so small, the little rake is only about two inches long. Without realizing it, I immediately put the rocks as they are in the photo and raked wiggly lines down the side. You can't tell in the picture, but it looks just like a cocker spaniel.
. . .
James also bought me a rockin' gift, literally. He asked if I'd been using his company's online radio service and I said I was just starting to listen to Fabulana's
web radio show and was going to check out that Napster thing the kids are always talking about, plus the site for James' company after I got the new computer. I finally got most of my devices to work, then suddenly my sound card didn't work. The other day, this huge box came from Amazon and, curiosity getting the better of me, I opened it. It was a great set of multimedia speakers. He'd told me to expect two boxes, coming separately, but I couldn't wait, dammit!
When my mother saw them, she asked, rather suspiciously, "James who?" as if there must be something fishy going on. "Why would he buy you speakers?" I explained, but I think she still remains cynical. God forbid anyone do anything nice for me.
That was Friday. Yesterday, the second box came. It was supposed to be a sound card. Boy, do I owe James some more cookies.
Instead, what I received was John Madden's NFL 2001 game for Windows. As much as The Boy ran around, begging to keep it, I'd much prefer the intended gift.
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