Life is a dog...

First week at the yob (that's Spanglish for 'job') went surprisingly well. I gotta wear office dress (no sneaks or jeans), the florescent lighting does nothing for my beautiful complexion, a.m. rush hour sux big fat maracas, and mon-to-fri, 9-to-5 work schedule makes feel like a programmed lab rat, I'm an absentee doggy mum, everything's expensive, my chair back does nothing to distribute my boob weight well, but beyond that I can't complain.

Everyone was very helpful, welcoming, and chill. All the big-wigs seem to be in the main headquarters uptown or elsewhere so my work area isn't that fancy schmanz. And animals are the number one topic, concern, and priority always, which is awesome.

Offices are the strangest places. Who the heck thought up the central air, florescent lighting, sealed up window bit and the wall to wall carpeting? Because it's just gross. I share an office with a skinny feisty and outspoken web coordinator from chinatown. It's sort of like college. I was bunked with my 180-degree counterpart. It's cool most of the time because she's pretty amusing. And it's heaven when she's off because I can play my music in our office and/or work in silence if I choose. The one thing that is hard about the arrangement is when she starts griping about the computer she's working on not working and doesn't let up until she gets me to take notice and validate her technological dismay. By the time she succeeds in distracting me from my stuff, her computer's reloaded, she quiets down and resumes her work while I'm left all out of it.

Nevertheless, the pos's way outweigh the negs. And I'm writing. Writing. Writing. Writing. From 9 to 5. It's what I get paid to do. It's a beautiful thing. And I've met someone. And D's a beautiful being. And we're taking our time with everything. And it's really nice. We type or talk just about every single day. Saturday we went to my fave borough, the Boogie-down, to the Botanical Garden and to my fave restaurant. We discovered this beaten trail in the middle of the Garden that felt as if we were in a pristine piece of nature far away from where we actually were, in between the Bronx River Parkway and the Bronx River in New York City. There's a great glass installation exhibit throughout the Garden too--I highly recommend.

I'm happy. Life is normal but at the same time good.

Tis the season to get pumpkins...muahahahahahaaahahaha

Betcha your dog doesn't smile!

Here comes the pumpkin sun

Awww! Notice the sexy mums on his harness... Ladies, don't hate the dog; hate the game.

Our pumpkin booty.

(booty, booty, booty!!!)

Back from Battery Park City, which is the area west of the Westside Hwy by the WTC. It's so idllylic there. High-rises with names like The Solaire and Terrace Pointe, doormen, Hudson River views, manicured green areas, and wealth as far as the eye can see. It's the NYC that Mayor Bloomy and others would love to create. Kinda surreal. Like I walked into a condominium pamphlet. Envious? Probably. It was nice. But so is where I live. It just makes me wonder why the "haves" have so much, and that there are places that have so little and could have too w/ only a little bit of have sent their way. I went to pick up some used books from a Freecycler. She lived on the 34th Floor. And seriously, I think I take more time climbing the two flights of steps up to the 7 train platform than that elevator reaching the 34th floor. Amazing. The elevator was so fast I thought Willy Wonka managed the building.

I need a de-junking, stat.

I'm currently trying to organize my apartment and it's HARD. I have so much crap that I'm aware is crap but I can't seem to give or throw away because I'm convinced I may use them in some sort of creative project some day. But you never do. And you never regret getting rid of it. Some of this crap includes: a shopping basket full of empty Bustelo coffee cans, a broken enlarger, darkroom equipment, about a year's worth of New Yorkers that as long as the New York Library keeps lending me books I will never get through (oy, I'm not even going to think of the four other magazine subscriptions that I ordered yesterday. Eight dollars for four year-long magazine subscriptions? Yeah you would do it too) , an empty, dusty Garfield the Cat fish tank, a plastic punch bowl full of broken dishes for mosaics, an unfinished mosaic plant pot, a dead Gateway tower, a stack of quilts and blankets taller than me, and at least four shoeboxes (or coffins, depending on my mood) of memories from high school, college, grad school...( I have this corny image of one of my daughters finding one in an attic and going through old journals, pictures and dried up roses. But until that day what will I do with all my old rants and high school play bills? Oh, and did I mentioned I have pending work to finish that I'm avoiding by embarking on all of this "organizing"?)

The other day I wondered what it all was for. Every time I lock my door, I can't help feeling like all the stuff on the other side is nothing more than the contents of one big (expensive) locker. Every single piece of it is supposed to serve a purpose or symbolize an intention, but at it's purest level they're just lifeless (except for the plants, Jupiter, Dannyboy, and Andiamo) stuff occupying space.

Ever been in the home of a deceased person? When I was a little girl I went with my godfather, Tio Moncho who was the superintendent of my building, to the apartment of Mrs. Diamond, an elderly woman who coincidentally shared my birthday, to clean it out. Her apartment was filled with dusty furniture, glass- and silverware, and yellow photographs strewn everywhere. It looked like an unearthed furniture showroom from the sixties. You didn't know if the place called for a cleaning crew or an archeological one. Yet, she probably had a story for each and every ashtray, photograph, or clipping. That once she labored over choosing the right color sofa and lamp-shade with dangling fringes. Now it was dusty junk that some burly man with no last name and fat, dirty hands piles up in used furniture store located at the sketchy end of an avenue that at night becomes a prostitute hangout.

Most of Mrs. Diamond's memories went into the incinerator. Dying seems to be like relocating without packing and moving out or giving notice. If it's all destined to become someone's else crap then why not just say goodbye to it and get rid of all of it now? Why keep any of it?

I want to go on a row boat ride. I want to see the trees in Pennsylvania before the leaves fall. I love the name Sabine and Emmanuel. Patrice and Colette too. Jupiter sits with his left back foot in the space btw hands on my laptop keyboard just below the space bar on top of the mouse. He's laying on my right leg, a little on my right arm and at the bottom right corner of my screen. I just finished watching the end of Le Journeur de'l Seducteur and the end credits were rolling hence the French names. I woke up with a big headache--the combination of oversleep, caffeine fix, and forgetting to take my meds yesterday. It was like a laziness hangover. I didn't have an breakfast food so I took my expresso to go--in my Care Bears cup, hooked up Andi's harness and started out the do'. I decided I'd like to open an affordable doggy day care for me and my neighbors sometime in my life. I mean think about it, people leave animals at home about 10 hours a day. Almost half a day. Like when I'm retired or something. There are a lot of dogs in my 'hood. You can't walk down a block without passing by at least one person walking their dog(s). And I bought some sunflowers for my hiring. And potting soil to replant a couple plants. Sorry if I'm typing poorly joop is covering the right portion of my screen. I guess i'll being a productive homemaker. not too sure what i;ll do with this day.

mellow jello

Just got home from a lovely evening with C. We saw "The Science of Sleep" at the Angelika and had some faux-Indian food afterwards. Gael Garcia Bernal shines, Michel Gondry is a genius. He is like the cinematic Roald Dahl. Garcia Bernal's character is a quirky inventor-dreamer artist that inverts reality with his dreams. For example, in one dream he's trying to ski but his feet are stuck in the slope. When he wakes from the dream, finds that his feet are in a freezer at the foot of his bed. The dreams are these intricate animation sequences using robotics and puppetry, among other things. So cool.

I got the job I wanted. I'm an editorial assistant at a major animal rights' organization. I start 10/9. I feel like I'm starting school again; as if summer vacation is about to end. I have one week to: do laundry, clean, and learn how to program my tv-vcr to record Live w/ Regis and Kelly, Judge Mathis, Martha, and The View. (That's how you know you're getting old: when you start wishing you were friends with Regis Philbin (fellow Bronxite), Rosie O'Donnell and Martha Stewart.) I also gotta get some work clothes. Ugh, I gotta find a way to avoid rush hour. Riding during rush hour is bad vibras--too many people loathing their existence all at once. Oh well. I'll figure something out. I get pet insurance, a discount and preferential appointments at the hospital too! It's a good thing I work in a satellite office, and not the main building, because I'd take every stray home.

Everything's good. Over and out. Happy Monday, y'all.