iCal, or, "Are you still the girl you used to be?"

Vinny left for Amsterdam a week ago, and as a "Sorry you can't come with me" present, he bought me a super sweet iMac with a 24" flat screen and an extra 1GB of RAM. Do you really have to ask why I have an "awesome husband" folder in my gmail, or a "vinny is awesome" tag in my flickr? DO YOU REALLY HAVE TO ASK? ARE YOU THAT STUPID? OR DO YOU JUST NOT PAY ATTENTION?

Sorry, I'm sick, so I am grumpier than usual.

I'm siiiiiiiiick.
I'm siiiiiiiiick
I'm siiiiiiiiiiiick

Beth described my sickness as a "commercial" cold - I have that "code en by noze" voice, and instead of coughing fits, I have sneezing fits. Charming.

Along with feeling sorry for myself, and offering to pay people to buy and bring me food, I am busying myself with getting used to life under my Apple overlords. We transferred all of our important documents to an external hard drive, and I have been organizing them on the mac - but my palm calendar is not compatible with le mac. I've managed to get my contacts into a .CSV file - but the calendar.... sigh.

I'm sure there is a way to make a mac understand a dba file, but instead, what I have decided to do is print up my calendar - starting with January 1, 2000 (the year I finally gave up my precious handwritten organizer) all the way up to next month, and am now manually inputting all of the information into iCal. I call it kicking it old school. I expect you to call it that too.

There are of course, the fabulous cliches that doing this kind of exercise elicits - Me, the omniscient narrator here at my desk as I watch August and September 2001 roll along, Kristen "living in a different world" , making her way around the city, unaware that "the world as we know it is about to change dramatically". The days after 9-11 are empty of appointments. I look at the blanks and fill them up mentally. Thursday, September 13, left work early, in a huff, exclaiming that it was ridiculous for us to be sitting around when there were more important things to be done. Made my way to the precinct in Brooklyn where Vinny's cousin was a detective, carrying bags of food that I had spent most of the night cooking. None of it is notated. It's all in my head. The forensic people wouldn't have any of this information to piece together my murder.

Oh, ouch! The personal cliches are there too. The August night we go to see a movie with friends. I had to hold seats because they were late -- one of my pet peeves and definitely on my list of Most Hated Things - holding seats for someone at a movie, fending off the seat jackals, as it were. My grandmother suffered a stroke while I was in that movie. "You have no idea 'Full Of Hate At Late Movie Goers Kristen'", I think, "fending off the seat jackals is not so bad."

Even the good things are tired cliches -Once I took a corporate job, where I was promised I could still go on auditions. It was at that horrificcorporate job that I suffered the abuse of an evil crazy psycho bitch for nearly a year - I didn't even mark the days like a prisoner scratches the wall - only have the auditions, go sees and personal appointments flagged. When you hate the quotidian, there is no need to remind yourself that you must go back in the morning at the same time. "Hang on!" I think, "You are going to quit at any moment and your life is going to get better!"

And good lord, how many times did I go see Moulin Rouge? What was I? 14?

I just plugged in an address for a modeling job I did for L'Oreal, and what struck me as I typed the familiar style (xx W xxth b/t Xth & Xth) was that About To Have Hair Chopped Off Kristen never in a million years imagined a life in Los Angeles. I find NYC addresses comforting. Now I drive to appointments, mapquest directions, (though I just got myself a nuvi!) and struggle to find parking instead of the ease of knowing where I am going as long as you tell me the address, and jetting about on buses, subways and taxis. The luxury of just hoofing it sometimes. I thought nothing of hopping from one event to the next and back, and I didn't know there was life outside The City.

Thre are dinner appointments at restaurants like Balthazar and Max and Les Halles that make me ACHE for home. I find it comforting to know what my flight numbers were on all the trips I took, and how much we paid for rental cars when we went to visit my parents in D.C. or took off for the country house. I've notated the branch address of the gym for every step, boxing or yoga class I took. For some reason, for two months in 2000 Vinny notated in all caps the names of the television shows we liked and the days they were on, but not the air time. Then there is that fateful day with the single sentence "TV DIED". He was so upset. Birthday parties for people I forgot I even knew, time blocked out for baking cakes or making candy.

Maybe I will miss home less when I get to the days when we make the sudden move to L.A., or maybe I will miss it more.

More likely, I will, as the omniscient narrator, shake my head at a girl who doesn't know where the Beverly Center is.