earworm & a flirt

Current earworm:

I hope this is a decent version; can't listen where I am now.

For some reason, when I try to upload a video to Blogger and select "My YouTube Videos," it says that I don't have any. Now, my Blogger sign-in is my Goggle sign-in, same as YouTube, so I don't understand at all why "My YouTube Videos" in Blogger doesn't bring up "My Favorites" or "Recently Watched" in YouTube. What's the point of connectivity if it doesn't connect?

I've been a mite flirty with someone lately, but it's online only and he's not in the US. I consider it about 90% not-wrong. He's either flirting back or just friendly; either is fine. It amounts to something like 4 or 5 tweet replies over about a week. It's his fault for being so magnetic.

anniversaries

Tomorrow is my one-year anniversary at this job, which is a happy-making thing. But I also realize that this week (the 13th, I believe) is a big, round-number anniversary of my loss of virginity. I was WAY young and the anniversary is a pretty big number. What say I don't tell my age or the number, and instead talk about sex in days of yore...

In the early 1960s, the birth control pill came on the market (and it was simply known as The Pill). From that time, until people became aware of AIDS (that it was sexually transmitted and not limited to gay men), there was a twenty-year period where people had more, and more, and more casual sex. And in the late 60s and into the 70s, it became OK and not very well-hidden. In the 70s, there was a phenomenon called "singles bars," where you basically went to find people to take home and have sex with. Some people preferred to think of it as a dating scene, but it was really just for finding sex partners - a straight equivalent of the gay bar.

At the singles bars, women generally wore slinky synthetic dresses and no bra; guys had big hair and mustaches and wore some really loud suits. It was basically a disco atmosphere.

But sexual freedom was all over - not just in the singles bars but in high school and (as in the 60s), among the hippies. (Keep this in mind when I mention "hippies": a lot of what people associated with the 60s actually happened in the 70s.) In certain sets, sex was like shaking hands. There was outside sex when people were in relationships, secretly or within "open" relationships; sometimes there were multiple relationships going on at once, or multiple casual sex partners.

The worst things that could happen were these: getting gonorrhea or syphilis (each requiring a shot of antibiotics), or getting pregnant. HPV wasn't around, herpes wasn't around, AIDS wasn't around. If you picked a partner who wasn't insane or murderous, it was pretty safe.

So, you know I racked up some pretty impressive numbers. I started young and had sex with a lot, a lot of men. (Even the occasional woman.) Although there are some liaisons I probably should have skipped, I don't regret the way I conducted my sex life. Certainly I can't say that I missed out on anything (well, I never did have sex with an Asian guy, but that's about it).

This time in my life is very, very different. I'm married, but my married life lacks the physical component and pretty much always has. This is why I often voice an interest in coloring outside the lines, so to speak. On the one hand, it's a more complicated matter, for many reasons; on the other, I'm not ready to call it quits just yet. I will entertain all proposals from Asian men...although I'm having warm feelings of late for someone who is not Asian. Perhaps you remember my recent blathering about trying to listen to someone while trying to make an impression. I think I've gotten a mite better at it. However, I have to wonder if a youngish guy is simply enjoying my company and nothing else. I'm way cute to guys 60 and up, at least the ones who don't think they deserve 22-year-old trophy girlfriends. Old-hippie guys love me. But this younger dude seems to be paying attention, just not sure what kind. It remains to be seen.

Verizon Fios, my TV provider, just got their act together concerning the Bollywood-on-demand channel. They charge about $7 a month, and I was very disappointed by their selection, which was basically three no-name movies and half a dozen film-music videos. But all of a sudden, there are 25 good movies, recent ones and some golden oldies. On top of that, there are maybe a dozen film-music videos and a dozen making-of features. $7 was overpriced for the old content, but now it feels like a huge bargain. Last night I started watching Manzoor (1983) with Dilip Kumar and Raj Babbar, mostly because I'd never seen a Dilip Kumar movie. It is excellent so far. (Of course, the lengths of these movies often precludes watching an entire film on a typical evening.) It's nice to be able to see an Indian movie on the TV instead of the computer, even if the computer has a better and hi-def screen. (The TV is an old tube TV which will be dying any month now.)

It is a dead quiet week at work. The interns are on spring break an I'm all caught up - even my desk is tidy!

Barry's been on the job for two nights now, and it seems to be working out. It's odd for me to go to bed alone and to wake up along, although I confess that I like sleeping alone and I like having a quiet, undistracted morning. Another change is that I've started cooking dinner, which is a pretty painless way for me to start contributing more to the housework. And as nice as it is to have someone else cook, I can get meals much more to my liking when I do the cooking, and arrange to have leftovers for Barry if he wants the next day, or for me to bring to lunch. (Barry is not good about eating leftovers, I have no idea why. Maybe because he's not interested in eating more of the same the next day. I adore leftovers, especially when something came out really well.)

Food, sex, movies...life is not dull.

and yet

And yet it seems very complicated to get to know someone. You want to listen attentively and observe closely. But there are also things you want to put out there, things that make you seem as interesting and attractive as possible. Rushed. Flop sweat. And then it's over, and you have no idea what to make of any of it. This does not feel as if it were successful.

And looky here! Blogger has just changed their interface, and I have even less of a clue about using it than ever! Maybe this blog will start looking better, maybe worse, and maybe I will just find some place other than Blogger to post this mess.

I am such a smart-ass on Twitter! plus, what is a knish? bonus: the movie where Salman Khan speaks Yiddish

@northofconey if you want to see for yourself. I go smart-ass on some famous people sometimes and don't even care if they respond. I did get a retweet from Merrill Markoe, which made me happy for a whole day. I'm connected to almost a totally different set of people than on Facebook. Of course I mostly follow well-known people I don't know, I was found there by Tricia Vita, who writes the excellent Amusing the Zillion blog about Coney Island. Now I'm also linked to one or two other Coney Island groups. We post links to things about how fucked-up business interests are trying to ruin Coney Island and how much we hate Mayor Bloomberg. (a lot.) I'm loving Twitter, though I read a lot more than I write. I retweet and sometimes reply.  Fun.

I am glad Amitabh is going home soon. I am glad Shiva is feeling cheerier (and that he likes seeing his name here). I am glad that Barry had a job interview today. I am glad I am going to Jannah's this weekend. I am glad Bob Steiner is being a bit flirty on Facebook; I was fairly crazy about him when we were teenagers at summer camp. I am glad I went to that Indian store on Second Avenue last week and bought silk pants and glass bangles; there were photos of Indian movie stars taped up inside the dressing room. I am glad to be learning how to get the glass bangles on and off without busting them, and I am glad for the pretty sound they make clinking together on my wrist. I am glad that my jewelry is in a store, for the first time in many years. I am glad it was a warm day. I am glad I had a big discussion about knishes on Facebook today with someone I never got to know well at college but always admired.

I am anxious for a friend who won't read this because she's too busy doing the thing I'm anxious about.

Knish (pronounce all the letters) is a savory pastry usually stuffed with seasoned mashed potatoes but sometimes with kasha (buckwheat). It's about the size of your fist. There are other kinds, but potato and kasha are the only ones that matter. A knish is old-school Jewish food, meaning that it's extremely heavy, about the density of lead, and one of the most delicious things you've ever eaten.

I've explained Yiddish words on this blog on and off for some years now. I don't know nearly as much as I'd like to; American Jews of my generation have parents who felt it was not "modern" to speak Yiddish, that it made them like their old-fashioned parents, so my parents didn't pass it on the way their parents did. Barry's parents were about ten years older than mine, so they spoke more Yiddish, Barry knows more than I do, and I've learned a bunch from him. It's way cool. It's extra-cool when you hear it from people you wouldn't expect. There's an old James Cagney movie, The Fighting 69th, where he suddenly says a line in Yiddish and it's a shock. Cagney was very Irish, but he also grew up playing in the New York City streets with other children of immigrants.

One day I want to see Salman Khan turn to the camera and say, "Meshugganeh ayeh, meshugganah lockshen." The literal translation, "Crazy eggs, [so] crazy noodles," basically, "the kids turn out like the parents." I would write a whole screenplay around having him say that. Salman Khan is in love with Kareena Kapoor, but she's a little odd. He goes to her house, and meets her father, who is totally wacky (Johnny Lever?). Then he says the line, then they sing and dance next to a tree, alternately dressed in tacky disco clothes and rich traditional garments. Subplot: Salman's widowed mother (maybe Kirron Kher) meets Kareena's wacky widowed father, and it turns out that she's also kind of wacky, but has always felt she had to act in a very serious manner. Kirron: I've finally met a man I can be myself with! Then they sing and dance in a colorful marketplace, during which they grab different things from the various vendors (a scarf, a piece of fruit, a pot) and do funny things with them. I could so write this movie.

Next up: I write a movie around Amitabh singing "Who Let the Dogs Out?"

Last but not least:

Raghu Dixit is a crossover artist in the best sense of the word. His western sensibilities are from acoustic singer-songwriters, not glossy pop stars. And he sings without some elements of the Indian vocal style that are peculiar to a western ear not acquainted with Indian music. I said to Barry, "It's Indian David Hidalgo!"

Actually, if you put Cesar Rojas' beard on David Hidalgo, he would kind of look like Raghu Dixit.

my head is spinning somewhat

Can't really say why, but it is.  Too much good mood.  Too much good mood + can't talk about it = what do you think it equals?

All else is what it is and what it's been: work is still good, I feel hopeful about the jewelry, I'm trying to arrange a dinner with Robin for the 16th or 17th.  Robin will understand the spinning-head stuff.  Her head has been known to spin over such things.

Money sucks, sucks, sucks.  Barry had a shot at a job at Ohel, working with developmentally disabled people, but it turned out he had to have a driver's license.  He's now applying for a slightly less good but similar job, also with Ohel.  Of course, I suggested that he look for similar jobs in other agencies, WHICH HADN'T OCCURRED TO HIM. 

As we say in Mangalore, oy vey.

still not much happier

I feel like this whole issue is really dragging me down.  Barry is in total denial.  I think he's just looking at the current event, not the many times I've found cigarette ashes and butts and cellophane pack-bottoms here and there in the apartment ("It's not!"  "It's old!"  etc.).  In fact, earlier in the day that I caught him buying cigarettes at Rite-Aid, I'd found a cigarette ash on the computer keyboard, which he claimed was from a joint.  He never has enough pot in the house to roll a joint rather than smoke from a pipe.  But I let that one go.

But how do I live with someone who's working against me?  Of course, I don't hate him enough to throw him out with no income, or to move out leaving him with none.  Honestly, I hadn't been thinking in terms of "his money" and "my money" up to this point, and I know we spent a lot of "his money" last year -- his inheritance from his father.  But "my money" right now is what I'm going out and earning every day.  He does a lot of chores and housework but he doesn't bring in a cent.  In fact, he has to borrow money that I have to repay (I have no idea how long he owed that $15 to Alfonso, but it must have been a while ago since Alfonso felt he had to remind me).

He has gotten better about bargain shopping and doing without most luxuries this year, since the unemployment and my Dweck job vanished, but I guess he still doesn't understand that payday means unlimited wealth.  He also doesn't seem to understand that doing chores and housework doesn't mean that he can stop looking for work.  We walked by a cell phone store the other days with a "Help Wanted" sign in the window -- why should I have had to be the one to say "go in and get an application"?  I can't work *and* job-hunt for him at the same time.

I can't seem to work or to get much done at all, although I did a frantic cleaning of the kitchen sink on Saturday afternoon.  He washes most of the dishes most of the time, but not the sink or the area around it, which was really gross.  I'm trying to get the place clean, bit by bit, but he never goes past the maintenance chores.  I've been waiting for him to put up a towel rack in the bathroom for eight months or so (and have reminded/complaining from time to time).

I don't really have the time or energy to do the shopping on top of everything else, but I've had to cancel some doctor's appointments so I can do it.  I can't just give him money.  Let him feel like a fucking hobo.  I feel like a fucking idiot.

And all bets are off on any kind of "misbehaving."  As far as I'm concerned, I'm moving out of this marriage, and much as I'd like a single life, I could probably do a little more at this point than bat my eyes.