It took me two hours to get to work today (normally a 25 minute drive) due to major traffic. They closed the hghway for a time, and while it was reopened, all the secondary roads were jammed. I have a good sense of direction and know a lot of backroads from all the wacky drives that Brent and I took in high school, but even back roads were a mess.

It was almost fun. I was very late for work, but no one even noticed.

My new favorite song is Bon Jovi’s “Can I Be Happy Now?” It is typical post Crush super-cheesy Bon Jovi.

If this were four years ago, I would have both panicked about being late for work and been able to craft an entry on just why this Bon Jovi song is the perfect Sountrack Song for my life right now.

I hate the dry heat of my office. I drink tons of water all day and I’m still always thirsty.

I didn’t go to work yesterday. After sleeping from 8pm-midnight, I was awake until the 6 AM; it was around 4:30 that I decided to call in. Smart decision.

My weekend was relatively uneventful, save my nearly two hour commute home on Friday evening. The train got to 59^th & Lexington when they announced there was no service into Queens, and the N/W wasn’t going to be running downtown. My first thought was to backtrack to Grand Central via the 6 train and then take the 7, but there were swarms and swarms of people. I said screw it and walked over the Queensboro Bridge. It was very muggy and disgusting. I got to Queensboro Plaza with the intention of taking the N/W home. The station was a mess; there was no service in either direction, no one seemed to know what was going on, and it was horribly humid. After 15 minutes of waiting, I gave up and starting walking. It started to pour by the time I hit Broadway.

By the time I got home I was soaked. Total distance walked, just under 5 miles.

So now it’s already Tuesday, and I’m not working on Friday, AND I’m taking a half day on Thursday, so yay for a super short week. While I was walking to work I had a whole list of things that I wanted to write about but I don’t remember them now. Except that whenever I pass an Ann Taylor store I drool over the clothes in the window and have to remind myself that a) most of their clothes are designed for woman with no hips and thus they don’t look quite right on me b) I really can’t afford their clothes and c) I’m going to be a student in 3 months, which means I can wear the same pair of jeans for a week, so I really don’t need any more clothes that make me look all refined and pulled together.

Speaking of becoming a student, I got my U Chicago Student ID yesterday. I also got the syllabus for the one core course everyone in my program has to take and the reading list is scary. However, I am thankful that I took that random Sociology class my sophomore year, because we read a lot of the stuff on the list, including The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, so that makes me feel a tiny bit less intimidated.

It’s a bit odd to go about my commute, knowing that I am in the last days of having to take the PATH.

I’ve only lived in Jersey City for 6 months, not enough time to form a long-lasting bond with the place, but I’m attached, in little ways. Saturday afternoon, I needed a few groceries. Normally, I go to Shop-Rite, because they have better prices and better food, but I just didn’t feel like making that particular trek. I went to A&P, in the opposite direction, where the aisles are blissfully un-crowded.

It was gorgeous on Saturday, so much so that I had the first line of a Sophie B. Hawkins song in my head “It feels like springtime, on this February morning” even though it’s still January. New York City is so close that from here it looks like a toy. The view can’t properly be called a skyline, because it fills the onlooker’s field of vision.

I cut through the parking lot of Target, but up 14^th Street, traffic exits the Holland Tunnel before the merge onto 78. Rundown, empty buildings border the non-pedestrian side of the street, in sharp contrast to the luxury high rises of Newport. There is still much evidence of the old Jersey City in the lots that haven’t yet been developed. This was mostly useless waterfront until about twenty years ago.

I’ve not ventured to the Journal Square area since I moved here, another place peppered with empty parking lots, but the blocks that stand between the Grove Street PATH Station and Newport mall, as well as the Van Vorst Park area, are perfectly sub-urban. 

I’m on the train to work, and my God do I need more sleep, and I’m writing this in my head, and in my head I like the rhythm of what I’m about to say.

At this time last year I was taking my Modern Political Thought final. Literally.

I have a bad cold and medicine isn’t helping enough and I took A LOT of Benadryll last night so I am all groggy. Me on Benadryll is similar to me drunk; I babble and then I pass out. When I am sick I get inexplicable cravings for Burger King hamburgers. It’s odd.

I am ignoring the dress code and wearing jeans, because no one will yell at me for wearing jeans when probably a quarter of the office will be out today. It seems many people aren’t even bothering to TRY to come in. I know it would be a giant pain in the ass for many, but if one of my co-workers can heroically walk from 186th Street, the people in Queens can indeed get their asses to MetroNorth.

CK just sauntered into work — on time for once — and raised his fist in a show of Jersey solidarity. We wished each other a Happy Transit Strike; “man, I know this must suck for most New Yorkers, but if you’re from Jersey, it feels like a Holiday!”

I was coming in from Bloomfield this morning, and my train to Penn Station was late. Penn Station was a mess, and there were swarms of people on the street. And then I hit Times Square and it was like ‘Where did all the people go?’ I think a lot of people stayed home, maybe, or are just late, because the streets seemed pretty quiet north of Times Square. It could stand to be a few degrees warmer and I wish I didn’t have a cold, but it is indeed a very Happy Transit Strike.

CK and I are both ridiculously smug about our unaffected commutes, because there is much bitching and moaning at the office. Even if NJ Transit were to strike, there’s private competition in Jersey and still would be ways of getting to work. Jersey is the best. NYC liberalism + common sense conservatism. I am so, so sad that I am going to be moving

CK just sauntered into work — on time for once — and raised his fist in a show of Jersey solidarity. We wished each other a Happy Transit Strike; “man, I know this must suck for most New Yorkers, but if you’re from Jersey, it feels like a Holiday!”

I was coming in from Bloomfield this morning, and my train to Penn Station was late. Penn Station was a mess, and there were swarms of people on the street. And then I hit Times Square and it was like ‘Where did all the people go?’ I think a lot of people stayed home, maybe, or are just late, because the streets seemed pretty quiet north of Times Square. It could stand to be a few degrees warmer and I wish I didn’t have a cold, but it is indeed a very Happy Transit Strike.

CK and I are both ridiculously smug about our unaffected commutes, because there is much bitching and moaning at the office. Even if NJ Transit were to strike, there’s private competition in Jersey and still would be ways of getting to work. Jersey is the best. NYC liberalism + common sense conservatism. I am so, so sad that I am going to be moving out of JC.

The phrase ”On the eve of Thanksgiving” reminds me of Survivor Series. Lex Luger did a Thanksgiving PSA-ish thing one year. That was before he went crazy and killed his wife. Shut up. This was like, 1994.

It is freezing out, but I was mildly out of it this morning, and did not notice it on my walk to the train station. I do love that train from Bloomfield goes straight to Penn Station so I don’t have to bother with the crowded PATH. Seriously, it’s a tiny, little thing that just makes my joyful. And uninterrupted morning reading time is always lovely.

I always walk to work from 33^rd, but this morning it was just to cold to make it 20 blocks in a thin, short-sleeved shirt and a not-very warm coat. I need to get a winter jacket. There is no way I’m taking the subway all winter. I wish that I were tall enough to wear a long coat, because they always look so nice when I see them on other (taller) woman. I suppose if I wore heels ALL the time, it might look acceptable, but I certainly can’t walk 40 blocks every day in stilettos.

I’m currently bitter because an email just went out telling us we can leave at 3. This would allow me to get to O-Town at a sane hour, and have plenty of time to bake pies. Then Man-Who-Wants-To-Take-Over-The-World-With-Spreadsheets smarmed over to my desk and informed me that I have to stay till 5.

WhyWhyWhyWhyWhy? On the day before Thanksgiving. When there is NO work to be done. And everyone else in the world has a half-day. I swear, Smarmy really is ruining this company for everyone. And he’s not even MY direct supervisor. He’s a Higher Up who has adopted me as his own personal favorite go-to girl when he wants things done. I should never have proved myself to be so fucking efficient. The traffic is going to be horrendous. I’m thinking I should just take the train to Radburn and make Brenty pick me up, instead of risking the bus to Oakland and a cold walk home.

And randomly: sitting at work this morning, I realize I am wearing this same rose-colored turtleneck when I was having dinner with Brenty and Jon the night before Thanksgiving last year. (Yes, I remember everything.) That was the night I teased Jon that I had found inner-peace, and it wasn’t that far off from the truth, and after dinner we went to his house, and he cooked dessert, and the three of us sprawled out on the couches and watched TV, like we used to do our senior year of high school, and I just felt so happy, both about everything, and being there with them. It’s no secret that I love those boys, and Thanksgiving is as good a time as any to express how grateful I am that I have them in my life.

I’m such a sap, but whatever, I know I have a lot to be grateful for. But that’s a second-annual entry that I’ll save till’ tomorrow. For now I will continue to drink really bad (but free!) coffee, and take notes on Russian history and be bitter about being stuck at my office.

I stumble across the room to shut off the alarm clock. The sun is just rising. I think: Was this really my bedtime last Spring? I can’t believe I used to go to bed at sunrise and struggle to make it to American Political Development at 1240. I’d usually show up disorganized, with disheveled hair, and cup of precious coffee in hand.

That spring, I’d think, when I went to bed at sunrise: Did I really used to get up at 5 AM everyday? I couldn’t believe I had once been able to propel myself out of bed at that hour. I’d sit at the dining room table with my coffee and writing in a volume, finish my algebra homework, or study decathlon.

Depsite a mild fondness for collegiate nocturnal activities  I prefer getting up this early. It’s far saner. I hate commuting, but it’s really the evening part that kills me. I like the morning commute.

There’s always a few men passing out copies of the Metro outside Port Authority. The enthusiasm of the man who stands by the Taxi line everyday always makes me smile; of course he’s paid to be enthusiastic; maybe he takes an upper to get through work — it can’t pay very well and he likely has another equally unprestigious job. But I love the way he never fails to declare “it’s a great morning to wake up.” Inside, he’s quite possibly cursing the crowds of people, the way I cursed customers. But if that’s what he’s doing, he fakes it damn well.

Little things. It’s all about them. Like that I work at 52nd Street, and there’s a Billy Joel album by that title, even though it’s my least favorite.

There’s no traffic anywhere Tuesday morning, so my bus gets in early. I stroll to work, enjoying both the extra ten minutes and how comfortable walking is in sneakers as opposed to flip-flops. I blatantly check out of a guy coming up from the subway at 49th. I make eye contact, even though that’s against the rules in this city. He gives me a look that asks “What the hell are you staring at, crazy girl?”

I get a venti black eye from Starbucks and dilute it with only a splash of milk. It’s Tuesday, so I need more caffeine that usual. The tourists annoy me less then they did when I was plowing through crowds of them near the Empire State Building as I flitted from interview to interview. I’m kind of amused by their reverence for the skyscrapers. When I was in Italy, I used to yell at tourists in Italian, but I also loved being able to walk up to a confused English-speaking tourist puzzling over a map and point them in the right direction. I knew Firenze like the back of my hands, knew the shortest route to the Duomo from anywhere in the city, knew the bus routes out of the historical district, knew how to weave my way through the maze on the other side of Arno.

I want to know this city just as well.

Since I have acquired a full-time “real” job and will soon be living “across the street” from NYC, I should practice saying, in an effected manner “I’m a writer, man, this is just my daaaaaay job.” Of course, then I’d have to slap myself for dropping into pretentious hipster mode. Anyway. My “day job” is nothing short of amazingly perfect.

Only eight more days of annoying commute!