iCU

My iBook is on life-support and I'm not taking it well. She's been acting weird the last few days and I hate to report that last night she just, well, crashed. She froze up and wouldn't turn off without my force. Then she wouldn't turn on. She made a sound like a bad cough and seemed to hate me. This morning when she finally turned on her black screen had goobly all over it and in it was a message that said I needed to restart her, and at the very bottom of the screen she told me: Panic: we're hanging here.

PANIC!!!!!!! HANGING!!!!!!!!! My heart dropped, I threw on a sweater, dirty jeans and sneakers and rushed her to the nearest MacHospital: The Apple Store.

At the genius bar I sat, wringing my hands while the genius took her apart, hooked her up to other machines and told me, ooo, it doesn't look good. Her hard drive has died.

My iBook is a shell, a body, now a soulless entity that's in iCU for the next 7-10 business days.

***

The best thing about owning an Apple computer is that you feel like it becomes a part of you. PC users yell at their machines. I've literally spooned my iBook. Twice.

Apple owners are a special breed - usually artistic, a little nutty, a little quirky, a little hipster and a little stupid for paying that extra money for a machine you only type on. But Apple owners know the love.

And with Apple's marketing department, you can't help but fall in love. What's with making everything start with i? iBook. iLife, for goodness sake. iPod. iSkin. iSock. iTrip. It's you. You, you, you and your Apple product. This is very personal.

So when you own an Apple product for an extended period of time you become slightly obsessed. Your entire life changes. It becomes you, your mom, your dad, your brother, your dog and your iBook.

And when you open your iBook one morning and it tells you "Panic: we're hanging here" you can't help but panic yourself.

I don't even care that I never backed up data (shut up, I know, but I never thought it would happen to me!), I just want my baby back safe in time for Christmas.

Platinum Protection

In order to sign a lease on an apartment in New York City you must make at least 30-45 times the monthly rent. For a three bedroom apartment that is just *perfect* and happens to be in that nice part of Harlem and happens costs $2,400 a month, because of various city laws you must make at least $72,000 a year in order to rent the aforementioned apartment. But when three people try to rent the apartment - two of whom are 24, the third of which is an actor - it makes things a little more difficult.

Because I am 24 and do not have a job and am not married and do not make anywhere close to $72,000, or really even a third of that (which would be $24,000 a year), I am having a hard time leasing this apartment with my two comrades.

You see, it's been a hell of a year for me and it's looking like it's not going to cap off easily, it's going to... more like, bust the cap off and leave me thinking about how I'm 24 and have no money and no real job and no marriage, no assets or savings bonds or trust fund or anything - all of which seem to be requirements to move to New York City, which has been a dream of mine for about the last eight or nine years.

Because, you see, I'm ready. I'm ready to move, to move on, to have a job with a salary and end the year with just one W-2 that shows I made one chunk of change in one city in one state - a place I can call my home. For good.

But see, in New York City, if you cannot make 30-45 times the monthly rent you have to have guarantors - which everyone who is 24 has - and your guarantors must make 75-80 times the monthly rent, which means in order to rent that New York City apartment they must make at least $180,000 a year. Now, if you make $180,000 a year why would you want an apartment in Harlem...? Even if it is the nice part...

But you see all this red tape is so stressful because it's all back to money - it is - it's all about how much combined income you all make and your parents make and whether or not you'll have that one W-2 one job when you move to the city, but why would you get that one W-2 one job before you move when you have no place to live, but you cant get a place to live without having a job and it's just a case of what comes first the chicken or the egg, but we're not dealing with regular poultry here folks, it's more like a golden egg and possibly a platinum chicken.

Leave it to New York City to require you to have a platinum chicken.

But here we are, you see, December 1st 2005 and there are 30 days left to this year, this chapter I just want to be over. I do not want to be broke, I do not want to live in the house where I grew or up or in Los Angeles. I do not want to date stupid people and make bad choices. I want to begin. For real. But there are gobs and gobs and gobs of red tape in the way and I just want to scream out that you need to trust me, that I will pay my rent - just $800/mo it is, not 180K - I will make it work because I want it more than anything in the world right now.

Sadly, that is not enough.

I just want it to be over, you know? Over so it can really begin.

The Mild Version

I met a boy not too long ago who made me chocolate chip cookies today, and called me from Blockbuster to read me the list of their new releases. The boy I met did this today right after he made me tea and fed me DayQuil and tucked me into a down comforter on his bed because I have the flu, I think, or at least a mild version of it.

This boy - he was sick like I am - but poured me soup into a bowl and handed it to me with a silver spoon and a napkin. When I looked at him the other day, all pale and pasty and red-eyed he was, I said to him, "You look like shit," and he looked down at me and said to me - I, who was all pale and pasty and red-eyed, I was - he said to me, "You're so beautiful."

He likes to kiss me, this boy, and touch my face and every once in a while makes me laugh so hard I cry.

This is what they call love, I think, or at least a mild version of it.

Because six weeks ago I probably would have gagged had you told me a boy made you cookies and tucked you into bed, or I would have thrown up on your shoes when you told me something cheesy like he says you're beautiful when you feel like hell on earth.

Cynicism, maybe, was the symptom... mixed with occasional pangs of apathy and a general sense of hopelessness.

"Do you remember what you were doing when you were eighteen?" this boy asked me today, his nose touching mine, his hand holding mine underneath the down comforter, post-DayQuil.
"Yes..." I whispered. "Kind of."
"Because," he whispered back, "You're a different person now, you know what I mean? That person doesn't really exist anymore... you know what I'm saying?"
And yes, I did know what he was saying, from the biological point of view with skin cells shedding off and hair growing out and being shaved and cut and altered and such... and I knew who I was and what I was six years ago is not who I am and what I am now, at least for the most part. I'm like I was, I supposed, just a mild version of it.
"I like to think of it," he said, "as a clean slate. Starting over..."
"But what if I was better then?" I couldn't help but ask.
"But what if you're better now?" he said right back.

And sometimes these days even though I feel sick and flu-ey and 'tis the season for all that and then some, I think what if I am better now... better now than I was six years ago, better now than I was six weeks ago, what with the cookies and DayQuil and biological philosophies and all. I'm great, I say, or at least a mild version of it.

I've Said it Time and Time Again...

My poor mother. It seems like every few months she hears the same words come out of my mouth. This morning was no different.

"Mom, I need to get outta here," I said, and like she always does she turned around in her chair to look at me and said like she always says, she said, You're ready aren't you?
And I said like I always say, Yeah, pretty much.

You see, I've said it plenty of times in the last few weeks, I'm moving - usually in the context of "this cannot get too serious, I'm moving" or "I'm not going to serve you food for too long because I'm moving" or "I'm not sure what I'm doing but I'm moving" - but it wasn't until yesterday, I think, that it sorta hit me.

I had a day off for the first time in ages where I sat in my room and did nothing productive, surrounded by dirty socks and boxes filled with my stuff stacked to the ceiling. I went to pub quiz like I've been doing every Tuesday for three months, then I went out with some co-workers like I've done every day for weeks and as I walked back to my car with that co-worker I've told, I'm moving to several times in that "I'm moving, this cannot get too serious" way, but last night, for the first time I said it - I'm moving - and it was for me.

I'm moving.

Well shit, I thought, here it is, November 1st and I'm moving in two months and I've spent the last couple months and several weeks with my head properly shoved up my ass. I think it's time to re-focus.

In fact I know it's time because I woke up this morning and my first thought was the most terrifying one it could possibly be. I woke up in my bed after a restful night's sleep, opened my eyes and my first thought of today (November 2nd) was, I miss Los Angeles.

I miss Los Angeles?

You have got to be kidding me.

It swarmed over me before I opened my eyes, before I sat up, before I stood up and had a cup of coffee. I missed my couch, my newspaper, my coffeemaker, my space, my apartment, my reclusive routine. I missed a huge city, my bed, my books, my stuff, my room, my roommate. I really just... missed it, missed it all.

And I thought, man, it's time to get outta here if I've gone crazy enough to think I've missed Los Angeles when I've really just missed myself and my life and my space and my independence.

So I sat up and the first thing I saw was my still opened, half-packed little vintage suitcase that's been sitting on my floor since last Thursday when I arrived home from New York and the blue suede heels that sat next to it - the ones I wore when I was in New York two months ago - and I thought, uh, this is ridiculous, I need to get outta here.

So I poured my coffee and walked downstairs and looked at the back of my mom's head and said those words I've said time and time again, Mom, I need to get outta here. It's no longer shocking or dramatic or a big deal in any sort of way, it's just right. And it's certainly time.

iKeepWaiting

Damn. Apple keeps coming out with new ipods faster than I can blog.

By the time I get to writing a substanial post/finally buying my iPod, I'm sure Apple will have come out with at least five new iPods...probably one that will play music, store your photos, allow you to watch videos and build your house for you.

Weak in the Red Zone

For the last 24 hours I have been a stupid girl. There are few things I hate more than being a stupid girl, so this fact is really freakin' annoying. (In case you care - A Few Things I Hate More Than Being/Seeing a Stupid Girl: 1. NY Yankees 2. Dallas Cowboys 3. the Bush Administration) I'm a stupid girl because I found myself complaining about - are you ready for this - things being awesome.

wtf?!

Several weeks ago my friend Kelly came in to town to visit and I distinctly told her that once she left, my list of priorities/needs/wants would change. The list was to be this:
1. work new job where I make lots of money
2. have sex on a regular basis
3. hang out with person (#2, probably) and do chill things like drink beer, watch football, movies, lounge around
4. make new friends at work, hang out sometimes, drink beer
5. pay off credit card bill

Within a week after Kelly's departure I had done all 5. And all 5 have held strong for a few weeks now. And then, all of a sudden, I realized I had nothing to bitch about, nothing to write about, nothing to complain about because everything is great.

I have a job where I work with cool people who like to invite me out and are loads of fun to be around. I'm finally dating someone I've had my sights on for a while now who likes to, um, lay on the couch and watch football on sundays and also has a fine appreciation for good food and wine. I have a night off where I can still go to pub quiz. I have made a new friend at work who likes to meet up randomly for a bite or a drink or a walk or whatever.

I'm making money, people like me, people have crushes on me and people want to hang out with me.

All the while I've got my sights set on my goal: New York.
And, most importantly, my secondary goal: have fun.

So tell me why, in the last 24 hours, I have freaked out when I made money, when I got a text message from a cool boy who says he hopes i have a good night and that I sleep well, when I jumpstarted my day with a pot of coffee, a boy I've liked for a while and an omelet aforementioned boy made for me.

Are things not supposed to go my way...? Is this not what I've wanted/"deserved" for months? Can things just not be genuinely, um, fantastic?

What's up with that?

So I resort to breaking out the stupid girl who needs to know the answers for everything - why things are happening, how things are happening, should things be happening at all...
and then I want to punch myself in the face for being such a moron.

So the Redskins were undefeated, the Yankees lost in round one of the post-season and Bush's approval rating is below 40%...

and I'm pretty freakin' happy.

You Got What You Needed-ish

The Yankees lost and I have nothing to say. The Yankees lost and now I have nothing to do for the rest of the month. The Yankees lost and I didn't do anything except take a sip of beer, finish of my slice of pizza and let my eyes drfit over to the Steelers/Chargers game - the thing everyone else in the bar was watching when they weren't watching the Yankees lose, like I was. I like to watch the Yankees lose and on Monday night I got my wish.

So I sat there with no one to rejoice with. I simply sent and recieved and tiny handful of text messages and watched the commercials pop on after the game. Well, shit, I thought. Now what.

You see, to me, October means one thing: baseball. Or at least that's what I thought.

"Why do you hate the Yankees so much, Alli?" my friend Doug asked me at the bar Monday night. I could have rattled off a laundry list, but instead I just said, I'm an Orioles fan, and let him turn back to his friend and their pitcher of Miller Lite and their comments that they "might have found the only person who still watches baseball," while I turned back to the TV and watched the Yankees lose alone.

The problem, I think, is that I got what I wanted and when you get what you want things get all kinds of messed up. What do you fight for? I wanted the Yankees to lose and they did and now I don't know what to do with myself.

Tuesday night I sat in pub quiz next to my dad. The White Sox/Angels game was on, and he asked me, "So.... who do we want to win in this series, Alli?" and I looked at him and he looked at me and I said, "Um... well... the White Sox, I guess...."
"Yeah," he said back to me.
"I mean, when was the last time they were in the ALCS? The Angels have been in like every other year for the last 10 years or something, right?"
"Pretty much..."
So I guess we're White Sox fans now or something because as Orioles fans and Yankees haters, that's what we're good at - rooting for the underdog.

But the thing with being a Yankee hater is that it's a much more complicated thing than just hating baseball. It's pretty much a socio-political economic thing. I mean, hating the Yankees is hating all that is wrong with the world. Just Sunday night I was explaining to my Brit that one way to hate the Yankees is because of the lack of a salary cap in baseball and how "American" that is - how they can buy the best players, create a virtual fantasy team and keep their players with them because no one else could pay them as much, and who wants to leave a bunch of winners anyway? You hate the Yankees because having life be easy for you is bullshit. You like to fight. Hating the Yankees is hating a dominant legacy, it's about being for the little guy, rooting for the underdog, it's about having hope that the little guy will win. It's about being pro-perseverance, it's about the willingness to struggle, to hurt, to be outnumbered and let down every single year, year after year.

Being a Yankees hater is one of the most passionate American things you can do.

Until, well, you get your wish.

And then all of a sudden you're not that interested in a sport that you love, the little guy became the big guy, the big guy is a little guy, your fight is over, and October might become about football season afterall.

Monday night my friend Doug asked me a question I've never been asked before. He said to me, "Alli, do you love the Orioles more than you hate the Yankees? Don't you find it a little f'ed up that you hate a team more than you love your own?"

And all of a sudden I was scared. Was I a hater? Is half of my love for baseball entirely rooted in spite, revenge, and complete and total shit talking? I think it is. Most of what I love about the sport is about bringing the big guy down.

I am a horrible, hypocritical person.

So the big guy is down now and I, and millions of other Americans, got our wish. So now we're left with some sort of empty void that arrived two weeks prematurely. The Yankees lost and, well, now what?

Go White Sox?