(this is annie)

Halloween costume. Maybe.

I can't sleep, so I decided to pull a Halloween costume together. I swear this isn't becoming a Morrissey-themed website, but I had everything in my closet.

Obviously, the glasses aren't quite right-and then there's that whole "I'm not a flamboyant British man" thing—but for taking only five minutes to do this, it's entertaining enough. But few people would actually get the costume, and I'd be mistaken for a sullen, flower-loving drag king. (Which is fine but it's not the costume.)

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Radio Shocked

During the move, I somehow lost a motley assortment of belongings: dinner plates, underwear, a Japanese phrasebook, and so on. I found the plates, but never found the power cord to my stereo. A few weeks ago, I took a different bus home than I usually do; since it dropped me in front of a Radio Shack, I figured it was time to buy a new power cord.

The store was empty, save for a white-haired man working at the counter. Overwhelmed by the number of cords and doo-dads, I asked him for help. He directed me to the proper cord, and as I was paying, he complimented me on my hat. "Women don't much wear hats anymore," he lamented.

"Neither do men," I said. "I love it when men wear hats. I was born too late for that, though."

"Well, you look like you're a very young woman," said Mr. Radio Shack.

Truthfully, I love it when people tell me this. It's not out of vanity, it's out of a love for my grandfather, whose great public joy was asking people to guess his age. Well into his eighties, he was mistaken for a 64-year-old. Even allowing for some fudging out of politeness, he was lucky. So I love this game, too.

Mr. Shack guessed I was 22 and I laughed before revealing my actual age. Then he asked me to guess his age. It is always, always best to wildly underestimate (which he may have been doing with me). So I said, "Hmm. Sixty-one?"

Then it was his turn to laugh. "Nope, I'm in my mid-seventies," he said gleefully. A beat. "You can't tell because of the face lift and the Botox."

At this point I was about to come back at him with a hilarious joke about how it was the same for me, but Mr. Shack kept going on: "Yep, the face lift was about 11 years ago, and I get Botox every five months or so to keep the wrinkles at bay..."

And until I gently excused myself, Mr. Shack regaled me with tales of thwarted furrows and banished wrinkles.


Jokes that aren't that great

Either I am not funny, or few people get my jokes. I think the truth lies somewhere in between. The other day, I was telling Jeremy about my friend's disarmingly beautiful stepdaughter, and he said, "Like a female Tadzio, right?" and I was all "Haw haw haw, HAW HAW HAW" too loud, because I genuinely appreciate a book joke. Especially if I get it.

A few weeks ago, while waiting for a notoriously slow elevator, some people were making small talk about its excruciatingly slow rise to our floor. "You just wait and wait forever for this thing," one person said. "I know, it's like we're waiting indefinitely," another added. "We should call it Godot," I said. Silence.

Sometimes I feel bad for enjoying a good literary chuckle. I feel like I shouldn't get such a kick out of somewhat obscure references, and that there's an inherent snobbery in doing so. But then I backpedal and think, "Well, it's not my fault that people aren't reading books as much! They're missing out on all sorts of wonderful things!" (See how I conveniently bolster support for personal snobbery while pretending to care about society at large?)


Not a New Yorker.

I spent many hours on a plane to go to New York this past weekend, and I spent almost as much time trying to understand how I'd become so slow, pokey, clumsy and quaint—in essence, everything that New Yorkers are not. The city has always drawn me to it, making me fall in love with it only to quickly give me reasons why our love can never be. (That reason usually has to do with the low salaries of the publishing industry and the high rents of the five boroughs.)

During this visit, I did a housing swap with a Brooklynite who lives in the nicer part of my old neighborhood. It was strange to walk down 7th Avenue, to enter Prospect Park where I used to enter it on weekends, and to stroll by the apartment where Todd no longer lives. It was like taking a tour of the best and most challenging parts of my early 20s, and ultimately, I was glad that it was only a tour. You couldn't pay me to be 22 again.


At the park

My mom and I had some travels; voila des photos! (voici? voila? I need more French classes.)

Of course I remain loyal to my little friends the squirrels. This one crawled into my bag, seemingly aware of the fact that nobody could love the little nut-nibbler more.


"I didn't need to see that phallic symbol."

"Well, for all we know, he could be a Hasidic Jew."

"I bet you haven't cleaned this litterbox in a week!"

"Now, what exactly is the Embarca-cardio?"

"Where is your Scrabble? Why is it that every time you break up with a boyfriend, you lose your games?" (Ed. note: I would argue that I lose my game, not games.)


say hello

    it's anniet at gmail.


© 2009 avt

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