I get a daily peace quote from Living Compassion.
Interestingly, here's what showed up in my in-box today:
UNDRESSING
Learn the alchemy true human beings
know: the moment you accept what
troubles you've been given, the door
will open. Welcome difficulty
as a familiar comrade. Joke with
torment brought by the Friend.
Sorrows are the rags of old clothes
and jackets that serve to cover,
then are taken off. That undressing,
and the naked body underneath, is
the sweetness that comes after grief.
- Jelaluddin Rumi
Friday, March 31, 2006
Left Foot, Right Foot, Left Foot, Breathe
The Dalai Lama once said that when awful things are happening, it must mean that something wonderful is trying to be born.
In that spirit, I ask you to do this:
Tell your friends you love them. Not in the standard, offhand meaningless, "Luv ya" way.
Mean it. Have it come from your heart. Look at your closest friend, straight in the eye, and say these three words from the most compassionate part of you:
"I love you."
Feel your chest break wide open.
Breathe.
And remember something else the Dalai Lama said, which I recited to myself again and again after 9/11: "A broken heart is an open heart, a broken heart is an open heart."
I also give you words from The Genius of Our Time (I mean that. Seriously.) Stevie Wonder:
When was the last time
That they heard you say
Mother or father, I love you
And when was the last time
That they heard you say
Daughter or son, I love you
Ones you say you cherish everyday
Can instantly be taken away
Then you’d say I know this can’t be true
When you never took the time
To simply tell them I love you
When was the last time
That they heard you say
Sister or brother, I love you
And when was the last time
That they heard you say
Darling or best friend, I love you
The one for whom you’d give your very life
Could be taken in the twinkling of an eye
Through your tears you’d ask why did you go
Knowing you’d didn’t always show
Just how much you loved them so
These three words
Sweet and simple
These three words
Short and kind
These three words
Always kindles
An aching heart to smile inside
I know a family
Who hasn’t a cent to their name
And yet the joy and love they have between them
They always claim
And when one’s called from life
The survived mourn the lost
And will never be the same
Yet they rejoice
In knowing they gave them their all
These three words
Sweet and simple
These three words
Short and kind
These three words
Always kindles
In that spirit, I ask you to do this:
Tell your friends you love them. Not in the standard, offhand meaningless, "Luv ya" way.
Mean it. Have it come from your heart. Look at your closest friend, straight in the eye, and say these three words from the most compassionate part of you:
"I love you."
Feel your chest break wide open.
Breathe.
And remember something else the Dalai Lama said, which I recited to myself again and again after 9/11: "A broken heart is an open heart, a broken heart is an open heart."
I also give you words from The Genius of Our Time (I mean that. Seriously.) Stevie Wonder:
When was the last time
That they heard you say
Mother or father, I love you
And when was the last time
That they heard you say
Daughter or son, I love you
Ones you say you cherish everyday
Can instantly be taken away
Then you’d say I know this can’t be true
When you never took the time
To simply tell them I love you
When was the last time
That they heard you say
Sister or brother, I love you
And when was the last time
That they heard you say
Darling or best friend, I love you
The one for whom you’d give your very life
Could be taken in the twinkling of an eye
Through your tears you’d ask why did you go
Knowing you’d didn’t always show
Just how much you loved them so
These three words
Sweet and simple
These three words
Short and kind
These three words
Always kindles
An aching heart to smile inside
I know a family
Who hasn’t a cent to their name
And yet the joy and love they have between them
They always claim
And when one’s called from life
The survived mourn the lost
And will never be the same
Yet they rejoice
In knowing they gave them their all
These three words
Sweet and simple
These three words
Short and kind
These three words
Always kindles
The Good Thing About Being Me is That I Bounce
Feeling somewhat better today. For me, tumbling into the abyss is okay, because I know that at some point the fall turns into a dive, and there's a trampoline at the bottom.
I bounce. Sometimes the bottom is a little lower than at other times, so the the bounce up takes a little more work, but at no time do I ever lose sight of the light at the top. I turn my face to the light, like a flower to the sun. And know that at some point I'll be crawling out of the hole.
So, I did something unusual for me in my blues. I reached out. I called people. And without going into story with them, basically said, "I'm blue." And it was one of my friends, one of my most at-time difficult friends, the one who sometimes infuriates me to the point of growling, who just opened his heart to me. It wasn't his ears, so much as his heart. I FELT it. And I was able to let all of the ca-ca out, and cry and be sad, and grieve and feel bad, and at the end of it, he said two things to me:
"You are so lucky that you have such access to your emotions and that you feel them so deeply. Think about all the people you know who don't have a clue."
and then,
"I love you, Janey."
You know what, just having someone tell you that they love you, from their open heart, simply, kindly and unconditionally, can suddenly make all the delusion and anger begin to melt away, and with that I began to have clarity.
So I sat with everything. And picked up a book by one of my "teachers." And almost as if it was pre-destined, opened the book to a random page and this is what I read (bold text my emphasis):
"Sometimes we feel that forgiving people who have harmed us is tantamount to condoning their harmful behavior. Therefore, staying angry with them seems the only way to express our continued disapproval of their behavior. However, this isn't the case at all. A person and his behavior are separate. We cannot say that a person is evil even if his behavior or intention is harmful. From a Buddhist perspective. . .each person has some internal goodness that can never be destroyed, no matter how badly he or she may act. Thus, we can forgive and let go of our anger toward the person who harmed us and at the same time maintain that his behavior was injurious and unacceptable and should not be continued in the future.
Forgiving does not mean tolerating damaging behavior or staying in an abusive situation. Nor does it necessitate sharing our forgiveness with the other person if he could misconstrue it and resume his harmful behavior. Motivated by compassion, we can take strong measures to prevent or interrupt harm. Thus, forgiving does not render us a "softy."
Forgiving benefits ourselves as well as others. When we hold onto our anger, we're tense and unhappy, and this affects our relationships and physical health. By forgiving, we let go of our anger and thus cease our own suffering. We also prevent ourselves from assuming the role of the perpetrator, as victims so often do, and thus we stop the cycle of harm.
Of course, we cannot force ourselves to dissolve our anger or to forgive someone. Sometimes we may need to remove ourselves physically from a stress-provoking person or situation to get some mental distance. Then, through practicing the antidotes to anger, we can gradually dissolve it. As we do, the spaciousness, clarity and gentleness of forgiveness will naturally arise in our hearts."
-- Thubten Chodron, "Working With Anger"
I bounce. Sometimes the bottom is a little lower than at other times, so the the bounce up takes a little more work, but at no time do I ever lose sight of the light at the top. I turn my face to the light, like a flower to the sun. And know that at some point I'll be crawling out of the hole.
So, I did something unusual for me in my blues. I reached out. I called people. And without going into story with them, basically said, "I'm blue." And it was one of my friends, one of my most at-time difficult friends, the one who sometimes infuriates me to the point of growling, who just opened his heart to me. It wasn't his ears, so much as his heart. I FELT it. And I was able to let all of the ca-ca out, and cry and be sad, and grieve and feel bad, and at the end of it, he said two things to me:
"You are so lucky that you have such access to your emotions and that you feel them so deeply. Think about all the people you know who don't have a clue."
and then,
"I love you, Janey."
You know what, just having someone tell you that they love you, from their open heart, simply, kindly and unconditionally, can suddenly make all the delusion and anger begin to melt away, and with that I began to have clarity.
So I sat with everything. And picked up a book by one of my "teachers." And almost as if it was pre-destined, opened the book to a random page and this is what I read (bold text my emphasis):
"Sometimes we feel that forgiving people who have harmed us is tantamount to condoning their harmful behavior. Therefore, staying angry with them seems the only way to express our continued disapproval of their behavior. However, this isn't the case at all. A person and his behavior are separate. We cannot say that a person is evil even if his behavior or intention is harmful. From a Buddhist perspective. . .each person has some internal goodness that can never be destroyed, no matter how badly he or she may act. Thus, we can forgive and let go of our anger toward the person who harmed us and at the same time maintain that his behavior was injurious and unacceptable and should not be continued in the future.
Forgiving does not mean tolerating damaging behavior or staying in an abusive situation. Nor does it necessitate sharing our forgiveness with the other person if he could misconstrue it and resume his harmful behavior. Motivated by compassion, we can take strong measures to prevent or interrupt harm. Thus, forgiving does not render us a "softy."
Forgiving benefits ourselves as well as others. When we hold onto our anger, we're tense and unhappy, and this affects our relationships and physical health. By forgiving, we let go of our anger and thus cease our own suffering. We also prevent ourselves from assuming the role of the perpetrator, as victims so often do, and thus we stop the cycle of harm.
Of course, we cannot force ourselves to dissolve our anger or to forgive someone. Sometimes we may need to remove ourselves physically from a stress-provoking person or situation to get some mental distance. Then, through practicing the antidotes to anger, we can gradually dissolve it. As we do, the spaciousness, clarity and gentleness of forgiveness will naturally arise in our hearts."
-- Thubten Chodron, "Working With Anger"
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Pondering
Does anyone really need a bigger boat? The boat I've got is essentially seaworthy, just a little loaded to the gunwales with excess crap.
Do I just need to take a hard look at my life and start jettisoning all the old shit?
Just got a call from a dear friend who read the last couple of entries and picked up the phone immediately to call me to see how I am doing.
It cheered me a bit.
Must sit with all of this.
Do I just need to take a hard look at my life and start jettisoning all the old shit?
Just got a call from a dear friend who read the last couple of entries and picked up the phone immediately to call me to see how I am doing.
It cheered me a bit.
Must sit with all of this.
Breakdown in the Passing Lane
That's it. I'm shutting down temporarily. Going away. Disappearing. Crawling back under the porch.
Clearly that is where I need to be right now.
On a normal day, my spirit feels like a red balloon tied to my beltloop. It bobs along with me, cheerful and noticeable and people smile to see it. I smile back, happy to share it.
Right now, it feels like a dented old tin can tied to a stray puppy's tail.
The malaise that I see all around me, IS me. The transgressions I see others around me committing -- I am just as guilty as they are.
Does friendship really exist? Does it? DOES IT?
Does honor within friendship exist? I'm losing my faith in that, not only by my own acts, but by someone else's who has betrayed me deeply. Someone with whom I thought I had an understanding that we keep each others' secrets and keep each others confidences to the grave. I can try to spin what I did but there is no spin. I was a bad friend and I am paying the price.
Dear other person, now I see.
Thank you for making it clear that here is how to go through life:
There is no such thing as community and honor and kindness. There is only ego gratification and self-preservation.
So here is how I preserve myself.
I'm out.
Clearly that is where I need to be right now.
On a normal day, my spirit feels like a red balloon tied to my beltloop. It bobs along with me, cheerful and noticeable and people smile to see it. I smile back, happy to share it.
Right now, it feels like a dented old tin can tied to a stray puppy's tail.
The malaise that I see all around me, IS me. The transgressions I see others around me committing -- I am just as guilty as they are.
Does friendship really exist? Does it? DOES IT?
Does honor within friendship exist? I'm losing my faith in that, not only by my own acts, but by someone else's who has betrayed me deeply. Someone with whom I thought I had an understanding that we keep each others' secrets and keep each others confidences to the grave. I can try to spin what I did but there is no spin. I was a bad friend and I am paying the price.
Dear other person, now I see.
Thank you for making it clear that here is how to go through life:
There is no such thing as community and honor and kindness. There is only ego gratification and self-preservation.
So here is how I preserve myself.
I'm out.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Just Wondering
Boyohboyohboy
I am on a roooooolllll it seems.
I need a vacation or to get the hell out of town for good, because I am clearly on some sort of path of destruction. This week, you can just call me Shiva.
I've got friends mad at me or I'm mad at them and people seem to be running around poking their noses where they don't belong.
I am so infuriated and annoyed and feel gut-kicked with betrayal.
But I do need to say:
G -- I am so sorry I didn't pick up the phone and call you that day. It was a shitty thing to not call you, and now I can't. I know you are real mad at me right now, and the only thing I know to do is to just leave you be as you asked. I hope when you are ready we will fix it. I don't know what else to say except I feel terrible about not doing that one thing, which would have been so easy. Then too much time went by and I couldn't. I'm sorry.
I am on a roooooolllll it seems.
I need a vacation or to get the hell out of town for good, because I am clearly on some sort of path of destruction. This week, you can just call me Shiva.
I've got friends mad at me or I'm mad at them and people seem to be running around poking their noses where they don't belong.
I am so infuriated and annoyed and feel gut-kicked with betrayal.
But I do need to say:
G -- I am so sorry I didn't pick up the phone and call you that day. It was a shitty thing to not call you, and now I can't. I know you are real mad at me right now, and the only thing I know to do is to just leave you be as you asked. I hope when you are ready we will fix it. I don't know what else to say except I feel terrible about not doing that one thing, which would have been so easy. Then too much time went by and I couldn't. I'm sorry.
&*($%#$*(%
Okay, here I am to whine.
Can someone please tell me how I can get more than three &*()^^&*%^ links to show up at the side of my blog?
I'm clearly "differently-abled" when it comes to technology.
Can someone please tell me how I can get more than three &*()^^&*%^ links to show up at the side of my blog?
I'm clearly "differently-abled" when it comes to technology.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Monday, March 27, 2006
The Rest of the Weekend
Spent it doing Super-Secret Girl Things. You know, the burnishing, buffing, shining, plucking, shaving, pumicing, trimming, dyeing, and general upkeep things.
Then had brunch with Jim on Sunday. Went to his house, drank a glass of wine, smoked a joint, then went to Blue Mill, where the service is spotty, the food is so-so, but I do love it anyway. It is such a neighborhood joint, fabulous in its unfabulousness, populated by the denizens of the West Village. There was a table of Tri-Delt-y kind of chicks behind us, but thanks to my buzz their sororital chatter didn't bother me at all.
Afterward, wandered to Union Square, loving the play of light on the buildings, taking my sweet time and sauntering there with what I'm sure was a beatific stoned smile on my face. I love walking my city.
Wandered around Barnes & Noble. B & N stoned, cool. Went to Petco. Stoned, not cool.
Sat on the steps at the foot of Union Square looking south down Broadway, smoking a cigarette before jumping on the subway. Looked at the floor after floor of merchandise in that big building with DSW and Filene's Basement and thought,
"There isn't one thing I want there."
Had an overwhelming sense of deja vu as I remembered that January and February of 2001, when I moved through the city with a sense of sweet farewell. When everything I visited, every place I saw, felt like goodbye. I had that same feeling of starting to say goodbye to New York again, and wondered where it came from. Well, of course, it is coming from my incredible homesickness for Colorado. (How you can be homesick for a place that was home for only a year remains a mystery, but there you have it. Sometimes I get homesick for New Orleans, too, and I never even lived there. I think you can find places the same way you find people -- you go there, and something about it says, "home.")
Finished off the Secret Girl Things today with the first bikini wax of the season at lunchtime.
Then had brunch with Jim on Sunday. Went to his house, drank a glass of wine, smoked a joint, then went to Blue Mill, where the service is spotty, the food is so-so, but I do love it anyway. It is such a neighborhood joint, fabulous in its unfabulousness, populated by the denizens of the West Village. There was a table of Tri-Delt-y kind of chicks behind us, but thanks to my buzz their sororital chatter didn't bother me at all.
Afterward, wandered to Union Square, loving the play of light on the buildings, taking my sweet time and sauntering there with what I'm sure was a beatific stoned smile on my face. I love walking my city.
Wandered around Barnes & Noble. B & N stoned, cool. Went to Petco. Stoned, not cool.
Sat on the steps at the foot of Union Square looking south down Broadway, smoking a cigarette before jumping on the subway. Looked at the floor after floor of merchandise in that big building with DSW and Filene's Basement and thought,
"There isn't one thing I want there."
Had an overwhelming sense of deja vu as I remembered that January and February of 2001, when I moved through the city with a sense of sweet farewell. When everything I visited, every place I saw, felt like goodbye. I had that same feeling of starting to say goodbye to New York again, and wondered where it came from. Well, of course, it is coming from my incredible homesickness for Colorado. (How you can be homesick for a place that was home for only a year remains a mystery, but there you have it. Sometimes I get homesick for New Orleans, too, and I never even lived there. I think you can find places the same way you find people -- you go there, and something about it says, "home.")
Finished off the Secret Girl Things today with the first bikini wax of the season at lunchtime.
Did you ever notice...
A small cup of tea costs 75 cents, and a large just about double that.
You never get a 2nd teabag, so you pay 50 or 75 cents for four more ounces of hot water.
You never get a 2nd teabag, so you pay 50 or 75 cents for four more ounces of hot water.
Pixelated Vampires
I don't know who said it, but it perfectly describes those of us who get sucked into hours of mindless TV watching for hours and hours on end.
Reality Shows and Sports and Series and News and of course, Law and Order.
Right now I'm in the middle of a News Embargo, in which I refuse to turn on the television in the morning when I get up or in the evening when I come home. I refuse to read either of those two free newspapers that they hand out on the subways. I stay off the news websites as much as I can. By all means, I avoid buzzflash.com.
I find that the news, local and national, is just in the business of feeding a stream of fear into your home. Or rather, they attempt to create worry rather than fear. It creates a false insecurity about living life, feeding a steady diet of crap into our minds. Bird Flu coming to your town? Coming up next! Crazy Killer Bouncers preying on Manhattan's young single women? Is it a trend? We'll be back with the story. Storm of the Century about to hit New York City! Is the city ready? News at eleven.
It is so easy, when you watch the news, to see how the media feeds the culture of "if you keep 'em afraid, you keep 'em under control." But the media is not all to blame. We, the viewers are willing participants in the game. We step right up and play along. I found myself leaving the house every day wound up and heading into the world with an extra-added dose of a aggression.
So I turned off my television.
And it was good.
Two hours of nothing but quiet and contemplation in the morning. No bombardment of bad news and bad advertising.
I do miss the snark of Miles O'Brien (CNN Hottie), but it's *OKAY*.
The two main reasons I have continued to pay for cable are this: Outdoor Life Network in July (YOU figure it out) and "The Sopranos."
I confess to spending the occasional weekend as one of those Pixelated Vampires, glassy eyed and zombie-fied, watching "Law & Order" reruns (Vincent D'Onofrio -- Weirdo Hottie) and eating processed food. I own my love of "Project Runway" and "America's Next Top Model," (Watch Tyra's Egomania Grow!). And I once spent an entire weekend in front of the TV devouring two seasons of the late, lamented (at least by me and a few of my friends) "Dead Like Me."
You know those smug assholes whom you meet who claim, "Oh, I never watch TV?" but seem to know the ins and outs of every show in primetime? Well, I'm not one of them. I watch TV, like an addict, like a junkie, and I am, I admit, a member of the PV set.
Total Aside: Frankly, other than the Super Bowl or other sporting events, I never understood people who have "TV Show Parties." Hi, we're going to gather together to sit in a room and NOT talk to each other. Is there anything more lame than that? You people need to get out more if your social life revolves around watching television as a group activity. It's kind of sad, actually.
But I want to start drawing a line somewhere.
So I am keeping my friend the television at arms length these days.
And it is good.
Reality Shows and Sports and Series and News and of course, Law and Order.
Right now I'm in the middle of a News Embargo, in which I refuse to turn on the television in the morning when I get up or in the evening when I come home. I refuse to read either of those two free newspapers that they hand out on the subways. I stay off the news websites as much as I can. By all means, I avoid buzzflash.com.
I find that the news, local and national, is just in the business of feeding a stream of fear into your home. Or rather, they attempt to create worry rather than fear. It creates a false insecurity about living life, feeding a steady diet of crap into our minds. Bird Flu coming to your town? Coming up next! Crazy Killer Bouncers preying on Manhattan's young single women? Is it a trend? We'll be back with the story. Storm of the Century about to hit New York City! Is the city ready? News at eleven.
It is so easy, when you watch the news, to see how the media feeds the culture of "if you keep 'em afraid, you keep 'em under control." But the media is not all to blame. We, the viewers are willing participants in the game. We step right up and play along. I found myself leaving the house every day wound up and heading into the world with an extra-added dose of a aggression.
So I turned off my television.
And it was good.
Two hours of nothing but quiet and contemplation in the morning. No bombardment of bad news and bad advertising.
I do miss the snark of Miles O'Brien (CNN Hottie), but it's *OKAY*.
The two main reasons I have continued to pay for cable are this: Outdoor Life Network in July (YOU figure it out) and "The Sopranos."
I confess to spending the occasional weekend as one of those Pixelated Vampires, glassy eyed and zombie-fied, watching "Law & Order" reruns (Vincent D'Onofrio -- Weirdo Hottie) and eating processed food. I own my love of "Project Runway" and "America's Next Top Model," (Watch Tyra's Egomania Grow!). And I once spent an entire weekend in front of the TV devouring two seasons of the late, lamented (at least by me and a few of my friends) "Dead Like Me."
You know those smug assholes whom you meet who claim, "Oh, I never watch TV?" but seem to know the ins and outs of every show in primetime? Well, I'm not one of them. I watch TV, like an addict, like a junkie, and I am, I admit, a member of the PV set.
Total Aside: Frankly, other than the Super Bowl or other sporting events, I never understood people who have "TV Show Parties." Hi, we're going to gather together to sit in a room and NOT talk to each other. Is there anything more lame than that? You people need to get out more if your social life revolves around watching television as a group activity. It's kind of sad, actually.
But I want to start drawing a line somewhere.
So I am keeping my friend the television at arms length these days.
And it is good.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
I'll Tell You Some Secrets
I've thought about making a Post Secret postcard, but just haven't gotten around to it.
Secrets lose their power when you put them out in the open. They eat at you from the inside and I'm pretty sure they probably cause cancer.
Here are some of mine:
When I don't answer my phone, most of the time it's because I am using my caller ID and don't really feel like talking to the person who is calling.
I hate to talk to anyone for at least two hours in the morning. That's why I need to get up at 5:30 -- so I can putz around in silence until I leave at 7:30. When I go away for the weekend with Jim, I hate when he yammers at me as soon as I get up. He doesn't know that I lay in bed in my little guest room and read until I'm ready to face his morning chirpiness.
When I read the tabloid newspapers, I try to figure out which stories will become "Law & Order" episodes. Then I try to fine it down to, "Original? SVU? Criminal Intent?"
I have started and deleted about a dozen posts about my mother. I am trying to come to grips with the idea that one day in the not-so-distant future the words "mother" and "father" as they relate to my life are going to be erased. I'm afraid of what will happen to me when my mother dies.
Part of me still believes what my mother told me -- that the world will always be nicer to blonde girls than to girls who look like me. Generally, she was right.
When cracky-crackhead's dog barks incessantly in the yard behind the building, first I call 311. Then, sometimes, I throw garbage out my window at it.
I had an abortion in 1991 and I'm not 100% sure that the guy who took responsibility for it, paid for it, and went to Planned Parenthood with me was the father. He has never known. I never told the other guy (who was my boyfriend), I was pregnant, because we had broken up by then.
I was molested on the Williamsburg Bridge at 10:00 on a hot Sunday morning in June of 2004.
Once during the transit strike, I stopped on the Williamsburg Bridge and looked around at the other people walking home in the cold. I peered through the fence at the river below and wondered if anyone would be fast enough to stop me if I climbed up and over. I realized that my fall would be broken by the subway tracks, so I just kept walking.
Secrets lose their power when you put them out in the open. They eat at you from the inside and I'm pretty sure they probably cause cancer.
Here are some of mine:
When I don't answer my phone, most of the time it's because I am using my caller ID and don't really feel like talking to the person who is calling.
I hate to talk to anyone for at least two hours in the morning. That's why I need to get up at 5:30 -- so I can putz around in silence until I leave at 7:30. When I go away for the weekend with Jim, I hate when he yammers at me as soon as I get up. He doesn't know that I lay in bed in my little guest room and read until I'm ready to face his morning chirpiness.
When I read the tabloid newspapers, I try to figure out which stories will become "Law & Order" episodes. Then I try to fine it down to, "Original? SVU? Criminal Intent?"
I have started and deleted about a dozen posts about my mother. I am trying to come to grips with the idea that one day in the not-so-distant future the words "mother" and "father" as they relate to my life are going to be erased. I'm afraid of what will happen to me when my mother dies.
Part of me still believes what my mother told me -- that the world will always be nicer to blonde girls than to girls who look like me. Generally, she was right.
When cracky-crackhead's dog barks incessantly in the yard behind the building, first I call 311. Then, sometimes, I throw garbage out my window at it.
I had an abortion in 1991 and I'm not 100% sure that the guy who took responsibility for it, paid for it, and went to Planned Parenthood with me was the father. He has never known. I never told the other guy (who was my boyfriend), I was pregnant, because we had broken up by then.
I was molested on the Williamsburg Bridge at 10:00 on a hot Sunday morning in June of 2004.
Once during the transit strike, I stopped on the Williamsburg Bridge and looked around at the other people walking home in the cold. I peered through the fence at the river below and wondered if anyone would be fast enough to stop me if I climbed up and over. I realized that my fall would be broken by the subway tracks, so I just kept walking.
Am I Attracted to the Bad Boys...Or Are They Attracted to Me?
You know, I have to ponder this question as I come off the night that just happened.
Wait, back up back up back up.
EVG called me in the middle of the day on Thursday "to find out how the shelves are working out." By god, I wish he would cut it out. Then he told me *they* were having houseguests this weekend. Speaking in code for "no playing around" but then he said "I'll give you a call next week." NO NO NO NO NO NO NO. Today I had a long conversation with my friend Alisa who very lovingly and without judgement offered that the reason I wall myself off from him is precisely because he is UNAVAILABLE. Ri-yeet? Subconsciously AND consciously, I know that it's dangerous to proceed past a certain limit, particularly since I've spent the last 3 months recovering from not being a priority in someone's life, trying to make myself a priority in my own. (Then she gave me a verbal whup in the ass for having sex without a condom.)
So last night, I decided I was staying out of the East Village altogether, safest thing for me to do, period. punto. end of story.
Trekked up to the old 'hood, Hell's Kitchen for a haircut with Roni, which by the way rocks and Roni, you are a STAR! Even better, I didn't have to pay for it. More than offset by the sixty bucks I spent on hair products as we left the salon, I'd say. And to anyone out there who may be listening, go see Roni at David Ryan Salon. Amazing person, gorgeous and sexy to boot.
We did our usual and went to Kodama afterward for sushi, and both of us overindulged a little on sake, which for me, has the effect of not making me drunk so much as mellowly high. I become very, yo, dude, it's all good, when I drink sake...I am suffused with well-being while at the same time my fingers are swelling from soy sauce into little link sausages.
Off to Smith's, where there is now a Friday night 70's oldies jam, with Roni sitting in on a few songs. She called her friend JP, a guy who is, um, connected in some way. He shows up with his friend N, and they proceed to whip out rolls of twenties and ply us with beers. They are fun and funny, and the interesting thing is that the people around us seem to sense that these aren't people to mess with.
Now, one of my greatest tricks to keep from answering questions about myself is to pepper a new person with questions -- keep him talking about himself. People loooove to talk about themselves, and I love to get them talking. However, I also have a sixth sense about some people -- that it is better to take them strictly at face value and don't ask too many questions. As my mother, a very wise woman, once said to me, "Some things it's better not to know." These types of people will volunteer information on a need-to-know basis. At the root of it, I'm naive but not stupid, so I don't ask any questions that will make people have to lie to me. Better that the question is just never asked.
During our conversation, which is actually pretty innocuous, N looks straight into my eyes.
"You like bad boys, don't you?"
I'm telling you, some animals just have a sixth sense. I think I'm the lame gazelle, the one the predators are coldly eyeing, waiting for me to fall behind the group so they can fall on me in a pack and drag me squealing into the dust. Cut to the aftermath shot, with the lions lying around looking bored with bloodied muzzles, all but belching as my carcass draws flies.
I stepped outside to smoke. Standing next to the bouncer were three boyz-in-the-hood gangsta types. With his flat-brimmed blue baseball cap tilted just so, one of them stepped over to me. He was actually kind of pretty, in a sinister sort of way. I noticed the blue teardrop tattoo next to his left eye.
"Ay, mami," he said in a surprisingly soft voice, which made him just a little more menacing. "Where you from?" (That f-ing question, AGAIN!).
I pointed at the ground between my feet. "Right here."
"Who you hangin' wit' tonight? You wit' your man?"
"I'm with a couple of fellows and a friend," I stammered. Yes, I said "fellows" in a sentence. Who the hell says "fellows"? WASP motherfuckers say "fellows." Not me. But I guess I do, because I just did.
I glanced at the bouncer, an enormous bald-headed man, who gave me the slightest shake of the head. I saw a warning in his eyes and then he glared at the three homies.
"Um. I have to go back inside," I said, stubbing out my cig with a twist of my foot.
"Ay, mami, you sure you don't wanna hang wit' me?"
"Have a good evening!" I dashed back into the bar.
When it was time for JP and his friend to leave, JP backed us up, and turned to me.
"How you girls gettin' home? I don't want you takin' the subway. Take a car. You and Roni." There was a sort of menacing chivalry to it (honor among thieves?) as he peeled off a couple of bills from the wad and gave me his best stern Paulie Walnuts look. I thanked him gratefully, hugged him goodbye (noticing in the process that the leather of his jacket was like buttah. Italian kid, for SURE, so soft it should have been gloves.) and they left.
Now, back to the subject at hand.
What is it about me and the Danger Boys? My first Danger Boy was Rocky. He stalked me for months at the gym, waiting for his opening, then he came in for the kill, nearly killing me in the process. Now there is EVG, then these guys last night who seem to get something off of me.
I keep asking myself the question -- what is it about me that makes the Danger Boys want to draw near? Do they sense that I am vulnerable? And what is it about the Danger Boys that is attractive to me? That's pretty clear -- I'm a girl who was raised a Catholic. Everything that we were told is "bad" becomes irresistable to us. John Bota in high school -- the baddest of the bad, but also the hottest of the hot. He wore cowboy boots and sometimes a cowboy hat. We eye-fucked each other every time we ever passed in the hallway, but never once did a word pass between us.
Now, don't confuse this with the poseurific "bad boys" who you know are big phonies because in conversation they will shrug sort of self-consciously and say, "What can I say? I'm a bad boy." Or the super-straight white-collar types who love to brag about how "I used to be a bad boy, but the little woman here straightened me out." Now hear this, all reformed frat boys, prep school boys, etc., etc., etc: Just because you smoked dope, maybe dealt a little on the side to your friends, got real drunk all the time, and maybe were arrested for DUI, owned a motorcycle -- that does not make you a bad boy. (ref: James Frey) That makes you a garden-variety white american male. I know, no one wants to hear that. But I'm here to poke holes in your belief system, fellas.
The real bad boys, the ones who hold such a fascination for me, they're the ones who don't talk about it at all. It comes out in conversation in tiny little hints. The things that make you want to put your hand up and say, "okay, you've told me enough!" The odd, unprofessional tattoo that could only have been acquired in prison. The oblique references to past places and things.
What is their dark glamour? And I don't mean the type of glamour that most people think of. I mean glamour, as in magic spell. Because that is what happens to me when I am around them. I am mesmerized and intoxicated with whatever smoky whiff they are giving off from their souls.
Perhaps they are seeking light from me, and I complement it by reaching for darkness. Maybe i am yin to their yang.
I don't know yet.
Will have to sit with it some more.
Wait, back up back up back up.
EVG called me in the middle of the day on Thursday "to find out how the shelves are working out." By god, I wish he would cut it out. Then he told me *they* were having houseguests this weekend. Speaking in code for "no playing around" but then he said "I'll give you a call next week." NO NO NO NO NO NO NO. Today I had a long conversation with my friend Alisa who very lovingly and without judgement offered that the reason I wall myself off from him is precisely because he is UNAVAILABLE. Ri-yeet? Subconsciously AND consciously, I know that it's dangerous to proceed past a certain limit, particularly since I've spent the last 3 months recovering from not being a priority in someone's life, trying to make myself a priority in my own. (Then she gave me a verbal whup in the ass for having sex without a condom.)
So last night, I decided I was staying out of the East Village altogether, safest thing for me to do, period. punto. end of story.
Trekked up to the old 'hood, Hell's Kitchen for a haircut with Roni, which by the way rocks and Roni, you are a STAR! Even better, I didn't have to pay for it. More than offset by the sixty bucks I spent on hair products as we left the salon, I'd say. And to anyone out there who may be listening, go see Roni at David Ryan Salon. Amazing person, gorgeous and sexy to boot.
We did our usual and went to Kodama afterward for sushi, and both of us overindulged a little on sake, which for me, has the effect of not making me drunk so much as mellowly high. I become very, yo, dude, it's all good, when I drink sake...I am suffused with well-being while at the same time my fingers are swelling from soy sauce into little link sausages.
Off to Smith's, where there is now a Friday night 70's oldies jam, with Roni sitting in on a few songs. She called her friend JP, a guy who is, um, connected in some way. He shows up with his friend N, and they proceed to whip out rolls of twenties and ply us with beers. They are fun and funny, and the interesting thing is that the people around us seem to sense that these aren't people to mess with.
Now, one of my greatest tricks to keep from answering questions about myself is to pepper a new person with questions -- keep him talking about himself. People loooove to talk about themselves, and I love to get them talking. However, I also have a sixth sense about some people -- that it is better to take them strictly at face value and don't ask too many questions. As my mother, a very wise woman, once said to me, "Some things it's better not to know." These types of people will volunteer information on a need-to-know basis. At the root of it, I'm naive but not stupid, so I don't ask any questions that will make people have to lie to me. Better that the question is just never asked.
During our conversation, which is actually pretty innocuous, N looks straight into my eyes.
"You like bad boys, don't you?"
I'm telling you, some animals just have a sixth sense. I think I'm the lame gazelle, the one the predators are coldly eyeing, waiting for me to fall behind the group so they can fall on me in a pack and drag me squealing into the dust. Cut to the aftermath shot, with the lions lying around looking bored with bloodied muzzles, all but belching as my carcass draws flies.
I stepped outside to smoke. Standing next to the bouncer were three boyz-in-the-hood gangsta types. With his flat-brimmed blue baseball cap tilted just so, one of them stepped over to me. He was actually kind of pretty, in a sinister sort of way. I noticed the blue teardrop tattoo next to his left eye.
"Ay, mami," he said in a surprisingly soft voice, which made him just a little more menacing. "Where you from?" (That f-ing question, AGAIN!).
I pointed at the ground between my feet. "Right here."
"Who you hangin' wit' tonight? You wit' your man?"
"I'm with a couple of fellows and a friend," I stammered. Yes, I said "fellows" in a sentence. Who the hell says "fellows"? WASP motherfuckers say "fellows." Not me. But I guess I do, because I just did.
I glanced at the bouncer, an enormous bald-headed man, who gave me the slightest shake of the head. I saw a warning in his eyes and then he glared at the three homies.
"Um. I have to go back inside," I said, stubbing out my cig with a twist of my foot.
"Ay, mami, you sure you don't wanna hang wit' me?"
"Have a good evening!" I dashed back into the bar.
When it was time for JP and his friend to leave, JP backed us up, and turned to me.
"How you girls gettin' home? I don't want you takin' the subway. Take a car. You and Roni." There was a sort of menacing chivalry to it (honor among thieves?) as he peeled off a couple of bills from the wad and gave me his best stern Paulie Walnuts look. I thanked him gratefully, hugged him goodbye (noticing in the process that the leather of his jacket was like buttah. Italian kid, for SURE, so soft it should have been gloves.) and they left.
Now, back to the subject at hand.
What is it about me and the Danger Boys? My first Danger Boy was Rocky. He stalked me for months at the gym, waiting for his opening, then he came in for the kill, nearly killing me in the process. Now there is EVG, then these guys last night who seem to get something off of me.
I keep asking myself the question -- what is it about me that makes the Danger Boys want to draw near? Do they sense that I am vulnerable? And what is it about the Danger Boys that is attractive to me? That's pretty clear -- I'm a girl who was raised a Catholic. Everything that we were told is "bad" becomes irresistable to us. John Bota in high school -- the baddest of the bad, but also the hottest of the hot. He wore cowboy boots and sometimes a cowboy hat. We eye-fucked each other every time we ever passed in the hallway, but never once did a word pass between us.
Now, don't confuse this with the poseurific "bad boys" who you know are big phonies because in conversation they will shrug sort of self-consciously and say, "What can I say? I'm a bad boy." Or the super-straight white-collar types who love to brag about how "I used to be a bad boy, but the little woman here straightened me out." Now hear this, all reformed frat boys, prep school boys, etc., etc., etc: Just because you smoked dope, maybe dealt a little on the side to your friends, got real drunk all the time, and maybe were arrested for DUI, owned a motorcycle -- that does not make you a bad boy. (ref: James Frey) That makes you a garden-variety white american male. I know, no one wants to hear that. But I'm here to poke holes in your belief system, fellas.
The real bad boys, the ones who hold such a fascination for me, they're the ones who don't talk about it at all. It comes out in conversation in tiny little hints. The things that make you want to put your hand up and say, "okay, you've told me enough!" The odd, unprofessional tattoo that could only have been acquired in prison. The oblique references to past places and things.
What is their dark glamour? And I don't mean the type of glamour that most people think of. I mean glamour, as in magic spell. Because that is what happens to me when I am around them. I am mesmerized and intoxicated with whatever smoky whiff they are giving off from their souls.
Perhaps they are seeking light from me, and I complement it by reaching for darkness. Maybe i am yin to their yang.
I don't know yet.
Will have to sit with it some more.
Friday, March 24, 2006
The Special K Update
Ok, so I switched to Cheerios this week. Even I have my limits.
But no matter, the frickin' Special K Challenge works. My "fat" jeans are now sitting down on my hips and bagging in the ass.
Happy, happy, happy!
The rest of my life might be a disaster, but I am losing weight.
But no matter, the frickin' Special K Challenge works. My "fat" jeans are now sitting down on my hips and bagging in the ass.
Happy, happy, happy!
The rest of my life might be a disaster, but I am losing weight.
Definition: Aztec Love
We've all experienced it.
Someone rips your heart out and eats it in front of your dying eyes.
Someone rips your heart out and eats it in front of your dying eyes.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Often an Idiot
A lovely, lovely man chatted me up last night for quite some time and at the end of the night asked me "Do you fancy me?"
I replied that I "fancied" someone else, and departed with (what I hope was) a gentle smile.
As soon as I got in the cab, it struck me that I am an idiot, IDIOT and that I was hedging a bet on someone unavailable AGAIN -- that I made myself unavailable when I should be making myself available. I immediately called W, whom I had left in the bar and said, "Please give ____ my phone number." Alas, he had already left, right after I did.
As I said, I am an EEEEDEEEYOT.
I replied that I "fancied" someone else, and departed with (what I hope was) a gentle smile.
As soon as I got in the cab, it struck me that I am an idiot, IDIOT and that I was hedging a bet on someone unavailable AGAIN -- that I made myself unavailable when I should be making myself available. I immediately called W, whom I had left in the bar and said, "Please give ____ my phone number." Alas, he had already left, right after I did.
As I said, I am an EEEEDEEEYOT.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Miss Bee Haven
That will be my drag name from now on.... because clearly I just can't "be good."
We tried, honestly, we did. We even talked frankly about why it is a bad idea for us to sleep together, given the state of his current relationship and my entirely fucked-up mindset about relationships, men, recovery from the last relationship, etc.... Why we really, really want to be great friends, because it's so rare to meet someone for the first time, look in his or her eyes and silently acknowledge to each other, "Yeah. I know you." Why it's important to both of us that whatever sexual energy passed between us should stay past.
He did talk about his current situation, how he is the original "3-month Wonder" and this current stretch of 4 years is unusual and he is "evaluating his options" and knows he needs to make some decisions soon. He talked again and again about the walls he sees me throwing up all over the place. I don't want him trying to breach any of my walls. That means he is trying to get in, and right now that's the last thing I want or need. (Or is it? Am I just throwing them up as a test to see who is worthy, who has the fortitude to storm the castle walls?)
We sat and talked for a long time. He was drinking Stellas, I was having wine. I picked up my guitar and played for awhile, putting the fat dreadnought body between us. We smoked a joint together. My living room isn't big enough for a sofa, so I have two big, cushy chairs. He was in the BIG chair, the one that is "him-sized," the one that I knew was too big when I bought it, but the way it swallowed me in the store gave me that comfortable womblike feeling. It's my favorite place to nap.
We were like the two bad kids who got caught doing something and are sent to the principal's office, sitting and trying to behave, fidgeting and trying not to think about the thing we're not supposed to be thinking about. It only took that one moment of weakness, when he gestured at the chair he sat in and said, "You know, this is a pretty big chair."
"Yes, it is," I said, feigning innocence.
"C'mere, you."
And so it started again. And there was that part of me that reveled in the sheer raunchiness of it, the naughtiness, the being-badness of it. The feeling and sound of flesh on flesh and his sweat mingling with mine, his animal noises and mine becoming a barnyard chorus. I love being in bed with a guy who is capable of throwing me around like a ragdoll ... and does. This is about the sex, nothing but the sex, and we are positively wallowing like water buffalo in it. Full disclosure, we both dove for the drawer for the condoms, he pulled out the box of condoms, there was some fumbling at the condoms and then for some crazy, i-don't-know-what-he-was-thinking reason, he simply tossed them aside. Rode in bareback -- not once, but twice.
Well, at least I thought it was all about the sex... until we flopped back, exhausted and he rolled onto his side and looked at me.
"Why do you keep running away from me?"
JESUS CHRIST ON A CRUTCH.
Just let it be about sex, okay? OKAY? Or as I said to him plaintively, "Can't two friends just have a gladhearted fuck?"
We tried, honestly, we did. We even talked frankly about why it is a bad idea for us to sleep together, given the state of his current relationship and my entirely fucked-up mindset about relationships, men, recovery from the last relationship, etc.... Why we really, really want to be great friends, because it's so rare to meet someone for the first time, look in his or her eyes and silently acknowledge to each other, "Yeah. I know you." Why it's important to both of us that whatever sexual energy passed between us should stay past.
He did talk about his current situation, how he is the original "3-month Wonder" and this current stretch of 4 years is unusual and he is "evaluating his options" and knows he needs to make some decisions soon. He talked again and again about the walls he sees me throwing up all over the place. I don't want him trying to breach any of my walls. That means he is trying to get in, and right now that's the last thing I want or need. (Or is it? Am I just throwing them up as a test to see who is worthy, who has the fortitude to storm the castle walls?)
We sat and talked for a long time. He was drinking Stellas, I was having wine. I picked up my guitar and played for awhile, putting the fat dreadnought body between us. We smoked a joint together. My living room isn't big enough for a sofa, so I have two big, cushy chairs. He was in the BIG chair, the one that is "him-sized," the one that I knew was too big when I bought it, but the way it swallowed me in the store gave me that comfortable womblike feeling. It's my favorite place to nap.
We were like the two bad kids who got caught doing something and are sent to the principal's office, sitting and trying to behave, fidgeting and trying not to think about the thing we're not supposed to be thinking about. It only took that one moment of weakness, when he gestured at the chair he sat in and said, "You know, this is a pretty big chair."
"Yes, it is," I said, feigning innocence.
"C'mere, you."
And so it started again. And there was that part of me that reveled in the sheer raunchiness of it, the naughtiness, the being-badness of it. The feeling and sound of flesh on flesh and his sweat mingling with mine, his animal noises and mine becoming a barnyard chorus. I love being in bed with a guy who is capable of throwing me around like a ragdoll ... and does. This is about the sex, nothing but the sex, and we are positively wallowing like water buffalo in it. Full disclosure, we both dove for the drawer for the condoms, he pulled out the box of condoms, there was some fumbling at the condoms and then for some crazy, i-don't-know-what-he-was-thinking reason, he simply tossed them aside. Rode in bareback -- not once, but twice.
Well, at least I thought it was all about the sex... until we flopped back, exhausted and he rolled onto his side and looked at me.
"Why do you keep running away from me?"
JESUS CHRIST ON A CRUTCH.
Just let it be about sex, okay? OKAY? Or as I said to him plaintively, "Can't two friends just have a gladhearted fuck?"
Monday, March 20, 2006
Monstrous Energy
After I posted on Friday, my neutrinos started FLYING.
Well, I call them my neutrinos. I don't know what they are. All I know is that sometimes I make lights go out. I've started paying attention when it happens, and the energy that I'm feeling when it happens. Usually I'm really, really fired up or riled up about something.
Generally, I notice it when I am walking down the street. I'll walk under a streetlight and it will fritz out as I pass beneath it. I've been with friends who notice the light go out, pause and look up, mystified.
"Oh," I've learned to say breezily, "that's just me. I did that."
Sometimes I'll reach out to flip a light switch and the bulbs in the fixture or lamp will explode with a blue ozone flash.
Friday, I got riled up about something at work -- a perceived kick in the stomach/stab in the back. Granted, I got myself worked up before I knew the full story, but at the moment, I was sitting at my desk, seeeeeething with ire.
Suddenly, the spotlight in the overhead light fixture BLEW out with that same blue flash and a sizzle. At the exact moment, the task light, which was firmly attached to the bookkeeper's desk behind mine, seemed to detach itself from the desk and hurl itself to the floor with a clatter.
In all of the hubbub that followed -- everyone in the office coming over to investigate, standing around saying, "What the hell just happened?" -- I didn't initially realize what I had done. Then the realization came over me.
"Sorry, guys," I said sheepishly. "I think I did that." Then I had to explain about this mild kinesis I seem to possess.
My boss was blown away and kind of halfway skeptical and halfway believing.
"We have to learn how to harness that!" he said.
I wonder if it's my own version of malocchio, only re-directed to inanimate objects. It only makes sense we can do this. Our bodies are nothing more than meat, water and electrical impulses, after all. Why shouldn't our electricity sometimes spiral out of control? It's as if I sometimes don't have a lightning rod that everyone else has...
Does anyone know of someone I can consult about this? How can I focus it? I don't want to be FireStarter or anything ("Charlie! Point it at the water!").
Well, I call them my neutrinos. I don't know what they are. All I know is that sometimes I make lights go out. I've started paying attention when it happens, and the energy that I'm feeling when it happens. Usually I'm really, really fired up or riled up about something.
Generally, I notice it when I am walking down the street. I'll walk under a streetlight and it will fritz out as I pass beneath it. I've been with friends who notice the light go out, pause and look up, mystified.
"Oh," I've learned to say breezily, "that's just me. I did that."
Sometimes I'll reach out to flip a light switch and the bulbs in the fixture or lamp will explode with a blue ozone flash.
Friday, I got riled up about something at work -- a perceived kick in the stomach/stab in the back. Granted, I got myself worked up before I knew the full story, but at the moment, I was sitting at my desk, seeeeeething with ire.
Suddenly, the spotlight in the overhead light fixture BLEW out with that same blue flash and a sizzle. At the exact moment, the task light, which was firmly attached to the bookkeeper's desk behind mine, seemed to detach itself from the desk and hurl itself to the floor with a clatter.
In all of the hubbub that followed -- everyone in the office coming over to investigate, standing around saying, "What the hell just happened?" -- I didn't initially realize what I had done. Then the realization came over me.
"Sorry, guys," I said sheepishly. "I think I did that." Then I had to explain about this mild kinesis I seem to possess.
My boss was blown away and kind of halfway skeptical and halfway believing.
"We have to learn how to harness that!" he said.
I wonder if it's my own version of malocchio, only re-directed to inanimate objects. It only makes sense we can do this. Our bodies are nothing more than meat, water and electrical impulses, after all. Why shouldn't our electricity sometimes spiral out of control? It's as if I sometimes don't have a lightning rod that everyone else has...
Does anyone know of someone I can consult about this? How can I focus it? I don't want to be FireStarter or anything ("Charlie! Point it at the water!").
Friday, March 17, 2006
What a WEEK I'm having
It had to happen... and when it did, it was nothing more than comical.
Given the storm of bullshit that has been going on this week, I was very excited to have a quiet evening at home last night, happily arranging my new closet room and moving my clothes off of the $30 Martha Stewart rack and onto a real clothes rail.
So, I manfully trucked the 8-foot hanging rod home on the subway. Yes, I was THAT PERSON, taking big stuff on the subway at rush hour.
Let's recap.
MK reappears and something bad happens.
BD reappears and is a basket case.
Shitstorm at work, with a blizzard of quote requests and pain in the ass clients. G manages to passive-aggressively get himself fired or quits (I'm not quite sure what happened except that there was a flurry of crap happening at the office)
I decide to get rid of most of my EV connections, right down to deleting the EVG from my phone AGAIN.
It makes sense that I was realllly looking forward to a couple of hours of nesting and bustling around in my little apartment. So I get home, put the clothes bar up, and start loading in.
I'm delighted, building my nest like an osprey.
In the middle of the load-in I text EVG and say, "Love the shelves, you are a STAR. I'll give your level to Racer X tomorrow to give to you." (My subtle message of "I am not interested in running into you or talking to you any more.")
Ten minutes later, as I put the LAST few hangers onto the rod, THE ENTIRE SHELF COMES DOWN. Whacking me on the wrist -- quite painfully, I might add, and leaving bruises and scratches!!!
I pick up the phone and call EVG.
"Ummmmm. I don't know how to tell you this, but the entire shelf just fell off the wall." Laughing the whole time.
"WHAT? That's never happened to me before! Oh. My. God. I'm so sorry!"
I laughed about it all night. Then of course smoked a big fattie.
So now EVG is coming back tomorrow.
The universe is telling me something -- I think the message is, face your damn fears, at some point you are going to have to deal with this. You can't run away forever.
Karmically, I'm not one of those "next lifetime" people. I'm very much on the instant retribution plan...
Here we go.
We'll see what happens tomorrow.
He's just so damn pretty to look at. And that espresso-colored voice of his. Oof
Given the storm of bullshit that has been going on this week, I was very excited to have a quiet evening at home last night, happily arranging my new closet room and moving my clothes off of the $30 Martha Stewart rack and onto a real clothes rail.
So, I manfully trucked the 8-foot hanging rod home on the subway. Yes, I was THAT PERSON, taking big stuff on the subway at rush hour.
Let's recap.
MK reappears and something bad happens.
BD reappears and is a basket case.
Shitstorm at work, with a blizzard of quote requests and pain in the ass clients. G manages to passive-aggressively get himself fired or quits (I'm not quite sure what happened except that there was a flurry of crap happening at the office)
I decide to get rid of most of my EV connections, right down to deleting the EVG from my phone AGAIN.
It makes sense that I was realllly looking forward to a couple of hours of nesting and bustling around in my little apartment. So I get home, put the clothes bar up, and start loading in.
I'm delighted, building my nest like an osprey.
In the middle of the load-in I text EVG and say, "Love the shelves, you are a STAR. I'll give your level to Racer X tomorrow to give to you." (My subtle message of "I am not interested in running into you or talking to you any more.")
Ten minutes later, as I put the LAST few hangers onto the rod, THE ENTIRE SHELF COMES DOWN. Whacking me on the wrist -- quite painfully, I might add, and leaving bruises and scratches!!!
I pick up the phone and call EVG.
"Ummmmm. I don't know how to tell you this, but the entire shelf just fell off the wall." Laughing the whole time.
"WHAT? That's never happened to me before! Oh. My. God. I'm so sorry!"
I laughed about it all night. Then of course smoked a big fattie.
So now EVG is coming back tomorrow.
The universe is telling me something -- I think the message is, face your damn fears, at some point you are going to have to deal with this. You can't run away forever.
Karmically, I'm not one of those "next lifetime" people. I'm very much on the instant retribution plan...
Here we go.
We'll see what happens tomorrow.
He's just so damn pretty to look at. And that espresso-colored voice of his. Oof
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Flashback: 1989, Bill
I was living in that tiny Hell's Kitchen apartment -- my first real New York City apartment, just one tiny bedroom to share with my roommate, a college sorority sister. We owned a sofa bed; our coffee table was a box that once held copier paper. It said "Hammermill" on the side. The wardrobes of two career-building, night-clubbing twenty-something girls were crammed into one closet. We slept side by side on chaste twin beds facing 48th Street.
That summer was one of the hottest on record, days on end over 100 degrees. In the days before all the city's buses were air-conditioned cigars, a trip crosstown on the 104 was enough to ruin the best day. Sweaty armpits in my face and the swampy bodies of fellow commuters were more than I could take. Most days I chose to walk.
Each day, my walk home took me past my neighborhood firehouse, where I would cast sidelong glances at the men gathered on the apron. I knew that I was young and cute and that their eyes followed me as I walked by.
"Much cuter than cops," I observed to Joyce, my roommate. Her father was a university professor and she didn't understand what she called my "Blue-collar fantasies." I was dating a construction worker at the time, spending my weekends traveling on the Red and Tan #47 bus to have mediocre but regular sex with him. I thought I might love him, even though he was ten years older than I was.
"So-so regular sex is better than no sex at all," I declared.
I used to see the dog outside the firehouse. He always looked so sad and put-upon, and so resigned to his fate as a prop for the firemen. He was a giant of a dog, nothing but black fur and drool, and he easily outweighed me by fifty pounds. I pitied him in that steaming New York City August as he panted away the afternoons. I wondered if he was happy.
One day he looked at me with such beseeching eyes that I had to stop. I crouched in front of him and scratched his huge furry head. He closed his eyes and seemed to smile, and with a big-dog snuffle, he settled down with his head on his paws. I fondled his bunny-fur ears and murmured baby talk at him for a minute before I became aware of The Feet.
Arranged in a semicircle in front of me were half a dozen pairs of great, big man-shoes. Black, lace-up brogans, mostly, with scuffed toes; some boots that were just extended versions of the brogans. I continued looking upward and realized that in front of me were six men, all smiling bemusedly, all with their arms crossed comfortably over their chests. Some of them held coffee cups.
I was wearing a red tank top. I caught a couple of them looking down my shirt.
I knew I should say something, because obviously they were waiting for the first question. They waited for me to initiate. This was a situation they were used to. I chose the obvious route, and gave them my best "aren't I cute" head tilt, the one I knew spilled a swirl of hair fetchingly over my shoulder.
"What's his name?"
The poor thing's name was Bear. His owner was tall and taciturn. There was something about his unsmiling disposition that reminded me of my oldest brother and drew me to him. Crabby but kind, I decided, looking at the slight downturn of his mouth. I liked his true-blue New York accent. He was "from here," as most of my new City friends were not. His name was Rod, short for Gerard, as only a Brooklynite would say it.
The shift (or tour, as I would learn they were called) was ending, and he invited me to McHale's for a beer. It wasn't quite a date (there was that boyfriend in Rockland County, after all), but I went anyway. We sat in a booth near the front door. The air-conditioning was punctuated by humid blasts from 8th Avenue as the door opened and closed.
"I invited one of the othuh guys from the fiuh-house to come have a beah with us," Rod said. (That's the last dialect I will write! I swear!) I was relieved. That meant it wasn't a date. We were just two potential new friends settling in when another push of damp heat swirled around my legs and in walked Bill.
"This is Billy," Rod said innocently, and I politely reached out to shake his hand. I looked into his face and was immediately taken by his smile -- his smile more a polite gesture than anything else, really, but so bright and flashing for an instant before he reined it in that I was taken by surprise. I saw immediately that he wasn't a smiler by nature; he was more naturally solemn than I. In that first instant I saw that he wasn't a laugher, but a watcher. Where were the lighthearted, laughing Irishmen I had heard populated New York?
Our eyes met for no more than the socially-permissible second, but the thing I saw there must have been in my eyes, too, for we both looked down quickly at our sweating beer bottles. He asked polite and interested questions, which I answered with equal politeness and gravity. We carefully avoided prolonged eye contact as the three of us conversed over those icy Budweisers. I think we knew something was going to happen, and before we had done more than shake hands with each other, we already felt guilty about it.
That summer was one of the hottest on record, days on end over 100 degrees. In the days before all the city's buses were air-conditioned cigars, a trip crosstown on the 104 was enough to ruin the best day. Sweaty armpits in my face and the swampy bodies of fellow commuters were more than I could take. Most days I chose to walk.
Each day, my walk home took me past my neighborhood firehouse, where I would cast sidelong glances at the men gathered on the apron. I knew that I was young and cute and that their eyes followed me as I walked by.
"Much cuter than cops," I observed to Joyce, my roommate. Her father was a university professor and she didn't understand what she called my "Blue-collar fantasies." I was dating a construction worker at the time, spending my weekends traveling on the Red and Tan #47 bus to have mediocre but regular sex with him. I thought I might love him, even though he was ten years older than I was.
"So-so regular sex is better than no sex at all," I declared.
I used to see the dog outside the firehouse. He always looked so sad and put-upon, and so resigned to his fate as a prop for the firemen. He was a giant of a dog, nothing but black fur and drool, and he easily outweighed me by fifty pounds. I pitied him in that steaming New York City August as he panted away the afternoons. I wondered if he was happy.
One day he looked at me with such beseeching eyes that I had to stop. I crouched in front of him and scratched his huge furry head. He closed his eyes and seemed to smile, and with a big-dog snuffle, he settled down with his head on his paws. I fondled his bunny-fur ears and murmured baby talk at him for a minute before I became aware of The Feet.
Arranged in a semicircle in front of me were half a dozen pairs of great, big man-shoes. Black, lace-up brogans, mostly, with scuffed toes; some boots that were just extended versions of the brogans. I continued looking upward and realized that in front of me were six men, all smiling bemusedly, all with their arms crossed comfortably over their chests. Some of them held coffee cups.
I was wearing a red tank top. I caught a couple of them looking down my shirt.
I knew I should say something, because obviously they were waiting for the first question. They waited for me to initiate. This was a situation they were used to. I chose the obvious route, and gave them my best "aren't I cute" head tilt, the one I knew spilled a swirl of hair fetchingly over my shoulder.
"What's his name?"
The poor thing's name was Bear. His owner was tall and taciturn. There was something about his unsmiling disposition that reminded me of my oldest brother and drew me to him. Crabby but kind, I decided, looking at the slight downturn of his mouth. I liked his true-blue New York accent. He was "from here," as most of my new City friends were not. His name was Rod, short for Gerard, as only a Brooklynite would say it.
The shift (or tour, as I would learn they were called) was ending, and he invited me to McHale's for a beer. It wasn't quite a date (there was that boyfriend in Rockland County, after all), but I went anyway. We sat in a booth near the front door. The air-conditioning was punctuated by humid blasts from 8th Avenue as the door opened and closed.
"I invited one of the othuh guys from the fiuh-house to come have a beah with us," Rod said. (That's the last dialect I will write! I swear!) I was relieved. That meant it wasn't a date. We were just two potential new friends settling in when another push of damp heat swirled around my legs and in walked Bill.
"This is Billy," Rod said innocently, and I politely reached out to shake his hand. I looked into his face and was immediately taken by his smile -- his smile more a polite gesture than anything else, really, but so bright and flashing for an instant before he reined it in that I was taken by surprise. I saw immediately that he wasn't a smiler by nature; he was more naturally solemn than I. In that first instant I saw that he wasn't a laugher, but a watcher. Where were the lighthearted, laughing Irishmen I had heard populated New York?
Our eyes met for no more than the socially-permissible second, but the thing I saw there must have been in my eyes, too, for we both looked down quickly at our sweating beer bottles. He asked polite and interested questions, which I answered with equal politeness and gravity. We carefully avoided prolonged eye contact as the three of us conversed over those icy Budweisers. I think we knew something was going to happen, and before we had done more than shake hands with each other, we already felt guilty about it.
Clearly, I am Also Sex-Starved
Because today the hot middle-eastern man who made my cheese-steak gave me a blazing white smile that made me weak in the knees.
"Where are you from?" he breathed as he handed the foil-wrapped missile to me.
(Yes, there was that question again!)
I may need to start patronizing that street-meat cart more frequently. Just for that smile.
"Where are you from?" he breathed as he handed the foil-wrapped missile to me.
(Yes, there was that question again!)
I may need to start patronizing that street-meat cart more frequently. Just for that smile.
Twenty-Four
It was so easy to be twenty-four, wasn't it? To be young and ambitious and beautiful in The City; still new enough to greet every experience with wide-eyed enthusiasm and dive into everything you did headfirst without checking the depth of the water. To be dating one man, stringing another along, and sleeping with yet a third, just because you could.
You had power and you were drunk with it, rolling in it, wallowing in it, as if you knew that you had to do it now, NOW before The City stopped loving you for being young and brash and started dealing you swats across the nose with the rolled-up newspaper of its indifference; before you stopped being good-looking and became, instead, good-looking-for-your-age.
You look in the mirror in the morning now and say, child, at least you knew what you had when you had it.
By the time you got to that certain age, clinging to the top of the slope with your feet scrabbling for a toehold, looking over your shoulder to where the chasm of forty yawned below you, you knew that you had learned at least three things about yourself.
First, that the Great Love of Your Life had not been any man, not either of the two you nearly married, nor the many others who got swept up in the comet-tail of your hurly-burly life, but this conglomeration of buildings and noise and brutal energy that fed you and drove you until it burned you out and you had to flee.
Second, that you had a gift for solitude; that in The City of crowds and constant companionship, you were able to find that place inside you where you knew the difference between lonely and alone. That there was a crucial part of your nature that made you, unlike your fellow citizens of the Metropolis, turn inward when injured, to crawl under the porch of your psyche to lick your wounds in solitary, to nurture your independence as if you knew that somewhere down the road you were going to need it.
Third, that along the way you learned a watchfulness and wariness that most people didn't see. That you could be the girl who turned every head when you entered a room, or you could choose to be invisible. You learned to keep others from learning about you by learning about them, instead. You deflected their questions about you and your life by beating them to the punch and asking them about theirs, letting them talk about themselves, knowing that everyone's favorite topic of conversation is, eternally, himself. You left them feeling puzzled and a little cheated, feeling as if they had exposed their soul to someone whom they knew nothing about.
No, wait.
There was something else you learned. That there were still tears inside you, and after a long and arid time, you found that you were just a walking cliche after all.
You had power and you were drunk with it, rolling in it, wallowing in it, as if you knew that you had to do it now, NOW before The City stopped loving you for being young and brash and started dealing you swats across the nose with the rolled-up newspaper of its indifference; before you stopped being good-looking and became, instead, good-looking-for-your-age.
You look in the mirror in the morning now and say, child, at least you knew what you had when you had it.
By the time you got to that certain age, clinging to the top of the slope with your feet scrabbling for a toehold, looking over your shoulder to where the chasm of forty yawned below you, you knew that you had learned at least three things about yourself.
First, that the Great Love of Your Life had not been any man, not either of the two you nearly married, nor the many others who got swept up in the comet-tail of your hurly-burly life, but this conglomeration of buildings and noise and brutal energy that fed you and drove you until it burned you out and you had to flee.
Second, that you had a gift for solitude; that in The City of crowds and constant companionship, you were able to find that place inside you where you knew the difference between lonely and alone. That there was a crucial part of your nature that made you, unlike your fellow citizens of the Metropolis, turn inward when injured, to crawl under the porch of your psyche to lick your wounds in solitary, to nurture your independence as if you knew that somewhere down the road you were going to need it.
Third, that along the way you learned a watchfulness and wariness that most people didn't see. That you could be the girl who turned every head when you entered a room, or you could choose to be invisible. You learned to keep others from learning about you by learning about them, instead. You deflected their questions about you and your life by beating them to the punch and asking them about theirs, letting them talk about themselves, knowing that everyone's favorite topic of conversation is, eternally, himself. You left them feeling puzzled and a little cheated, feeling as if they had exposed their soul to someone whom they knew nothing about.
No, wait.
There was something else you learned. That there were still tears inside you, and after a long and arid time, you found that you were just a walking cliche after all.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
WTF?
It's officially Bad Ex-Boyfriend Week.
BD, the firefighter I was once in love with, JUST called me. He is apparently in some sort of crisis and needs to talk to me. After nearly 2 years?
All I can say is the Universe doesn't give me drizzle, it gives me HAIL, golf-ball sized hail.
I just hope my windshield can hold out.
BD, the firefighter I was once in love with, JUST called me. He is apparently in some sort of crisis and needs to talk to me. After nearly 2 years?
All I can say is the Universe doesn't give me drizzle, it gives me HAIL, golf-ball sized hail.
I just hope my windshield can hold out.
File Under: Will She Never Learn?
An unmitigated disaster.
Decided to take MK up on his offer to see his new apartment. That's code for "Have Sex," people. Met him at Sin w/Z, whose girl came out as well.
Had a couple of beers there, then on to a sushi restaurant at the corner of E 4th and 1st Ave. I can't for the life of me remember what it is called.
Ate a lot of sushi, with hot sake. Mistake #1: Sake on top of beer.
Made our way to MK's new digs, which are actually quite cute and probably the steal of the century in the East Village at $1500 a month. But still a bachelor pad -- computer sitting on upturned crate, TV on floor in doorway of bedroom. A real candidate for a Queer Eye makeover.
But -- he did have a good bottle of wine AND weed. Mistake #2: Marijuana and wine on top of sake on top of beer. I had one hit off his bowl -- harsh weed, set me choking. that was enough for me. Meanwhile, I watched in fascination as he smoked, and smoked and smoked.
Oh my god, my ex boyfriend has become a pothead. This was a man who I saw drunk maybe a half dozen times the entire time we were dating. He was the original Have One Drink and Nurse the Second All Night guy. And here he had gone drink for drink with me AND was firing up again and again.
And then he started to tell me a story. About his current girlfriend, how he believes she cheated on him, she denies it, but he has evidence, blah-de-blah-de-blah. He was pacing and angry and there was so much dark energy coming off of him that I didn't recognize him. Time had changed him
The realization came over me slowly. (I'm a slow learner). This wasn't a sweet reunion of two old lovers who would make love one last time, then part with all of our happy memories intact. This wasn't a misty tale of love lost and found and lost again that I would write about for the Sunday Times "Modern Love" column.
This was a Revenge Fuck.
I began to cry. And I couldn't stop. I put my hands over my eyes like a small child and began to sob. MK appeared shocked, scared. He never did know what to do with my tears. No one ever does. I do such a good job of faking people out with my "I'm impervious to pain" facade, that when I cry people become frightened. I got up and pulled on my boots.
"I have to go right now."
"Why are you crying?" He tried to comfort me -- had his arms around me.
"I used to be your number one girl!" I wailed. It was the only coherent sentence I could form. "I'm not going to be number two!"
Keep in mind -- and Thank Fucking God -- there had been no nakedness up to this point.
He walked me downstairs to get a cab.
I ran away from him up first avenue. Z, I thought, Z will help me, he will talk to me, he will calm me down, he will give me mellower weed to soften all this. Phone calls to Z -- unanswered (it was late after all). I'm on 5th Street, now, and I go into Fish Bar, looking for Z, after making swipes at my tears to try to be more presentable. By the way, that's a sad, scary crowd of drunks and losers that sits there night after night.
Maybe EVG is around with a bowl for me to smoke. Text him but no reply.
Back onto 2nd Avenue, into a cab. Using my "Mad 20" to get home. Doubled over in the back of the cab, sobbing.
Get home, feed cats. Sit on floor of bedroom, sobbing some more.
Peel off clothing and crawl naked into bed.
Horrible, horrible night. Because, apparently, my capacity for humiliation and abasement is limitless.
Delete EVG from my cell phone -- AGAIN.
Resolved: Give EVG's level, which he left at my house, to Z to give back to him. I can't won't mustn't be around people who are dangerous to me.
Resolved: Stay out of the East Village after dark. It's fucking 'Salem's Lot over there, with vampires who take the blood I am willingly and foolishly opening veins for. (Not you, Z, you know that, but let's stick to brunches for a while, umkay?)
Decided to take MK up on his offer to see his new apartment. That's code for "Have Sex," people. Met him at Sin w/Z, whose girl came out as well.
Had a couple of beers there, then on to a sushi restaurant at the corner of E 4th and 1st Ave. I can't for the life of me remember what it is called.
Ate a lot of sushi, with hot sake. Mistake #1: Sake on top of beer.
Made our way to MK's new digs, which are actually quite cute and probably the steal of the century in the East Village at $1500 a month. But still a bachelor pad -- computer sitting on upturned crate, TV on floor in doorway of bedroom. A real candidate for a Queer Eye makeover.
But -- he did have a good bottle of wine AND weed. Mistake #2: Marijuana and wine on top of sake on top of beer. I had one hit off his bowl -- harsh weed, set me choking. that was enough for me. Meanwhile, I watched in fascination as he smoked, and smoked and smoked.
Oh my god, my ex boyfriend has become a pothead. This was a man who I saw drunk maybe a half dozen times the entire time we were dating. He was the original Have One Drink and Nurse the Second All Night guy. And here he had gone drink for drink with me AND was firing up again and again.
And then he started to tell me a story. About his current girlfriend, how he believes she cheated on him, she denies it, but he has evidence, blah-de-blah-de-blah. He was pacing and angry and there was so much dark energy coming off of him that I didn't recognize him. Time had changed him
The realization came over me slowly. (I'm a slow learner). This wasn't a sweet reunion of two old lovers who would make love one last time, then part with all of our happy memories intact. This wasn't a misty tale of love lost and found and lost again that I would write about for the Sunday Times "Modern Love" column.
This was a Revenge Fuck.
I began to cry. And I couldn't stop. I put my hands over my eyes like a small child and began to sob. MK appeared shocked, scared. He never did know what to do with my tears. No one ever does. I do such a good job of faking people out with my "I'm impervious to pain" facade, that when I cry people become frightened. I got up and pulled on my boots.
"I have to go right now."
"Why are you crying?" He tried to comfort me -- had his arms around me.
"I used to be your number one girl!" I wailed. It was the only coherent sentence I could form. "I'm not going to be number two!"
Keep in mind -- and Thank Fucking God -- there had been no nakedness up to this point.
He walked me downstairs to get a cab.
I ran away from him up first avenue. Z, I thought, Z will help me, he will talk to me, he will calm me down, he will give me mellower weed to soften all this. Phone calls to Z -- unanswered (it was late after all). I'm on 5th Street, now, and I go into Fish Bar, looking for Z, after making swipes at my tears to try to be more presentable. By the way, that's a sad, scary crowd of drunks and losers that sits there night after night.
Maybe EVG is around with a bowl for me to smoke. Text him but no reply.
Back onto 2nd Avenue, into a cab. Using my "Mad 20" to get home. Doubled over in the back of the cab, sobbing.
Get home, feed cats. Sit on floor of bedroom, sobbing some more.
Peel off clothing and crawl naked into bed.
Horrible, horrible night. Because, apparently, my capacity for humiliation and abasement is limitless.
Delete EVG from my cell phone -- AGAIN.
Resolved: Give EVG's level, which he left at my house, to Z to give back to him. I can't won't mustn't be around people who are dangerous to me.
Resolved: Stay out of the East Village after dark. It's fucking 'Salem's Lot over there, with vampires who take the blood I am willingly and foolishly opening veins for. (Not you, Z, you know that, but let's stick to brunches for a while, umkay?)
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Not Sexy, Honey
Chin pubes.
You know what I'm talking about. Those wispy non-beard beards that so many hipsters seem to be sporting.
Although as an identifier of Hipster Loathsomeness, they are as effective as the spots on a leopard.
You know what I'm talking about. Those wispy non-beard beards that so many hipsters seem to be sporting.
Although as an identifier of Hipster Loathsomeness, they are as effective as the spots on a leopard.
Like Awakening From a Dream
Waking up a 5:00 this morning, I felt miraculously cleansed. I don't know what my subconscious was doing last night while I was asleep, but there were no scary dreams with menacing tall men, and no interruptions from the Barnyard (that would be the 1st floor of my building, you know, where the animals live), or at least none that I'm aware of.
In fact, when I woke up this morning, my brain, my psyche, my conscience, my karma -- they all felt scrubbed. As if I went through some cosmic carwash in my sleep, and not the cheap $10 wash that's just hot water and soap. I got the undercarriage scrub, the hot wax, the buff dry, with a vacuum of the interior to boot! Actually, it's better to call it a karmic colonic.
I haven't reached any decisions about what I will or will not do...but for some reason, I woke up and felt as if I had come back to center somewhere in the night.
The Big Dave frenzy appears to have blown through, like a summer storm. Now, this doesn't mean I don't still find him to be a ravishing man, because I do. But I've sort of stepped back and can look at him with detachment, sort of like looking at a poster of The White Roses instead of seeing the real thing. I can admire him: his sheer immense presence and gorgeousness, the completely compelling sound of his voice (a rumble that burbles out of the side of his mouth), and the utter fascination with which we regarded each other for a couple of weeks. I felt fear and suspicion not because of anything he did but because I was feeling fearful and suspicious of myself and my own patterns of behavior.
Like I said, I don't know what will happen or not happen. Will I sleep with him again? Who the fuck knows? If it happens, it happens.
In fact, when I woke up this morning, my brain, my psyche, my conscience, my karma -- they all felt scrubbed. As if I went through some cosmic carwash in my sleep, and not the cheap $10 wash that's just hot water and soap. I got the undercarriage scrub, the hot wax, the buff dry, with a vacuum of the interior to boot! Actually, it's better to call it a karmic colonic.
I haven't reached any decisions about what I will or will not do...but for some reason, I woke up and felt as if I had come back to center somewhere in the night.
The Big Dave frenzy appears to have blown through, like a summer storm. Now, this doesn't mean I don't still find him to be a ravishing man, because I do. But I've sort of stepped back and can look at him with detachment, sort of like looking at a poster of The White Roses instead of seeing the real thing. I can admire him: his sheer immense presence and gorgeousness, the completely compelling sound of his voice (a rumble that burbles out of the side of his mouth), and the utter fascination with which we regarded each other for a couple of weeks. I felt fear and suspicion not because of anything he did but because I was feeling fearful and suspicious of myself and my own patterns of behavior.
Like I said, I don't know what will happen or not happen. Will I sleep with him again? Who the fuck knows? If it happens, it happens.
They're Called Boobs, Ed
We who have them know the looks, the leers, the sidelong glances. The porny-corny fantasies that run through men's minds when they see us, that you think we enjoy being poked in the chin with your pinga (don't get me wrong, in the right moment, sometimes we do).
I've had them since I was about seventeen, when my body finally caught up with my hormones. My sister who had moved to Tokyo and returned after two or three years away, greeted me in the airport with a screech, "My God! Where did you get those tits?" My adolescent self squirmed in self-consciousness as travelers turned to see -- who was the girl with the tits? There was some envy in her voice -- I have three tall, flat-chested sisters.
Somewhere along the way Mom's DNA got so watered down as to be virtually indistinguishable in my physiognomy. Only in certain lights, at certain angles, do you see the Ryukus etched in my face and body, and it's at those times when someone will invariably ask, "What ARE you?" My favorite answer is: "American." It's so indubitably true, with the mishmash of cultures and ethnicities painted across my features, but it has the effect on the asker of both frustrating them and embarrassing them. It brings them up, makes them see that there is something vaguely impolite about the question.
They try to redirect the question. "Yes, but where are you FROM?" Don't they know I've become expert at answering this question? "I'm from Pittsburgh." They grow more frustrated and know perfectly well that I'm being deliberately obtuse. I'm not going to play along with their game of needing to know. And that's what it is. People feel that they need to know these most personal details about you -- strangers in bars have asked me this question as if it is perfectly normal conversation. I think people have a need to identify, to classify, to pigeonhole you into a category, because this makes them think they know who you are, what you think, how you will behave.
I've come to love the game, because before I become bored (which I inevitably do) and walk away like a cat that's through tormenting the mouse, we've gone through all the questions finally getting to, "Where are your PARENTS from?"
Ask right out, kids. "What is your ethnic background?" I'd appreciate it more.
But back to the boobs. So the mishmash of ethnicities that make up little ole me, Okinawan-Slovenian-German-English-Irish (I could throw in a little Cherokee, because it seems like every person in this country proudly throws in a little Cherokee-in-the-woodpile -- does it just sound cooler?-- but that would be an exaggeration and a lie), the petite Asian influence seems to have passed me by with the exception of maybe an almond tilt to my eye and a certain Oriental flat-assedness. You could drop a plumb line from my mother's shoulders and not hit anything till it gets to the floor. I did get that from her. Maybe occasionally there's a certain Asian inscrutability to my expression, but I attribute that to hours watching how Mambo sometimes just looks at me and mimicking it.
What was left was all the robustness of Eastern Europe and the Austro-Hungarian empire -- peasant stock that's made for work and birthing. That means carnal appetites and hips and lips and boobs and a definite nose on my face. (My mother's nose is a thing of doll-like beauty, the epitome of elegance and perfectly-flared hoity-toity nostrils). I have my father's proboscis, a proud, straight nose, a senorita nose, a nose that may very well have wandered out of the middle east at some time in the distant past. One of J's lovers, a fey young Syrian boy, barely out of his teens, upon meeting me, exclaimed "You could be an Iranian princess!" A compliment. I arched my neck and smiled a Cleopatra smile at him.
I keep wandering away from the boobs. I can't do anything about them. They are there. I've accepted that it is useless to try to hide them. I've stopped wearing camo-clothes to disguise their abundance. I call them "The Girls." They even have names. Louise and Ramona. (get it?) They love the moment when I arrive home at night and release them from their underwired bondage and lovingly massage away the scars and marks of brassieres. You could build bridges with my brassieres, there is so much structure in them.
But I see you looking at them, even if you don't think I see you. We who have them are experts in the looks you give them. Even the most politically correct among you have to cast a glance at them. The least politically correct among you can't seem to control your eyes. You can't help it, we know. We who have wit and intelligence and sass, we know that you are looking, and we look at you and catch you in the act and don't pretend that you haven't done it to make you feel better about doing it. We stare into your eyes as if to say, "Go ahead, look. But know I see you looking." Sometimes you look and we see avidity and hunger and from the right person we welcome that look, it brings to our minds all the promised sensual pleasures we will enjoy from this flesh. Sometimes you look and we will call you on it directly..."Hey! Asshole! My eyes are up here!"
And in the right moment, you will be looking into our eyes and what you see there will be much, much more fascinating and sensual than any part of our flesh, but we both have the anticipation that what's in our eyes and our brain and our soul is projected outward to be shared in a fleshly, sweaty connection of concupiscience and physicality and every now and again, love.
I've had them since I was about seventeen, when my body finally caught up with my hormones. My sister who had moved to Tokyo and returned after two or three years away, greeted me in the airport with a screech, "My God! Where did you get those tits?" My adolescent self squirmed in self-consciousness as travelers turned to see -- who was the girl with the tits? There was some envy in her voice -- I have three tall, flat-chested sisters.
Somewhere along the way Mom's DNA got so watered down as to be virtually indistinguishable in my physiognomy. Only in certain lights, at certain angles, do you see the Ryukus etched in my face and body, and it's at those times when someone will invariably ask, "What ARE you?" My favorite answer is: "American." It's so indubitably true, with the mishmash of cultures and ethnicities painted across my features, but it has the effect on the asker of both frustrating them and embarrassing them. It brings them up, makes them see that there is something vaguely impolite about the question.
They try to redirect the question. "Yes, but where are you FROM?" Don't they know I've become expert at answering this question? "I'm from Pittsburgh." They grow more frustrated and know perfectly well that I'm being deliberately obtuse. I'm not going to play along with their game of needing to know. And that's what it is. People feel that they need to know these most personal details about you -- strangers in bars have asked me this question as if it is perfectly normal conversation. I think people have a need to identify, to classify, to pigeonhole you into a category, because this makes them think they know who you are, what you think, how you will behave.
I've come to love the game, because before I become bored (which I inevitably do) and walk away like a cat that's through tormenting the mouse, we've gone through all the questions finally getting to, "Where are your PARENTS from?"
Ask right out, kids. "What is your ethnic background?" I'd appreciate it more.
But back to the boobs. So the mishmash of ethnicities that make up little ole me, Okinawan-Slovenian-German-English-Irish (I could throw in a little Cherokee, because it seems like every person in this country proudly throws in a little Cherokee-in-the-woodpile -- does it just sound cooler?-- but that would be an exaggeration and a lie), the petite Asian influence seems to have passed me by with the exception of maybe an almond tilt to my eye and a certain Oriental flat-assedness. You could drop a plumb line from my mother's shoulders and not hit anything till it gets to the floor. I did get that from her. Maybe occasionally there's a certain Asian inscrutability to my expression, but I attribute that to hours watching how Mambo sometimes just looks at me and mimicking it.
What was left was all the robustness of Eastern Europe and the Austro-Hungarian empire -- peasant stock that's made for work and birthing. That means carnal appetites and hips and lips and boobs and a definite nose on my face. (My mother's nose is a thing of doll-like beauty, the epitome of elegance and perfectly-flared hoity-toity nostrils). I have my father's proboscis, a proud, straight nose, a senorita nose, a nose that may very well have wandered out of the middle east at some time in the distant past. One of J's lovers, a fey young Syrian boy, barely out of his teens, upon meeting me, exclaimed "You could be an Iranian princess!" A compliment. I arched my neck and smiled a Cleopatra smile at him.
I keep wandering away from the boobs. I can't do anything about them. They are there. I've accepted that it is useless to try to hide them. I've stopped wearing camo-clothes to disguise their abundance. I call them "The Girls." They even have names. Louise and Ramona. (get it?) They love the moment when I arrive home at night and release them from their underwired bondage and lovingly massage away the scars and marks of brassieres. You could build bridges with my brassieres, there is so much structure in them.
But I see you looking at them, even if you don't think I see you. We who have them are experts in the looks you give them. Even the most politically correct among you have to cast a glance at them. The least politically correct among you can't seem to control your eyes. You can't help it, we know. We who have wit and intelligence and sass, we know that you are looking, and we look at you and catch you in the act and don't pretend that you haven't done it to make you feel better about doing it. We stare into your eyes as if to say, "Go ahead, look. But know I see you looking." Sometimes you look and we see avidity and hunger and from the right person we welcome that look, it brings to our minds all the promised sensual pleasures we will enjoy from this flesh. Sometimes you look and we will call you on it directly..."Hey! Asshole! My eyes are up here!"
And in the right moment, you will be looking into our eyes and what you see there will be much, much more fascinating and sensual than any part of our flesh, but we both have the anticipation that what's in our eyes and our brain and our soul is projected outward to be shared in a fleshly, sweaty connection of concupiscience and physicality and every now and again, love.
Monday, March 13, 2006
My Favorite Short Story
For the longest time I kept remembering it as a Fitzgerald story, but it's actually Irwin Shaw.
I remember reading it in a freshman lit class and even though I was naive about relationships I felt all the sadness and desolation of Frances.
I wonder if it was some sort of premonition?
I remember reading it in a freshman lit class and even though I was naive about relationships I felt all the sadness and desolation of Frances.
I wonder if it was some sort of premonition?
Reading with Glee
"I, Lucifer" by Glen Duncan.
THE Fallen Angel is offered a deal by the Big Man -- inhabit an earthly body in a well-behaved manner and win re-entrance into the realm of celestial beings.
I've read it before, but picked it up this morning again, and grinned my way through the first 20 pages. It is so, so wicked.
EV Guy came over on Saturday and Sunday to hang brackets and shelves. He needed a book to read on the subway, so I loaned him "Breakfast of Champions." (It's small and fits into a jacket pocket...its main selling point at the moment).
When he came back on Sunday he said he was enjoying it and found it completely hilarious. Strangely, I was somewhat relieved by that. Vonnegut isn't everyone's cup of tea, he can be a little out there, with his drawings of assholes and underpants, but he is undeniably brilliant. And I know I've said it before, in my old blog, he's a pissed-off and brokenhearted patriot.
It did occur to me that now EVG has a book floating around in his world with my name written on the flyleaf. If I'd been thinking, I probably would have torn it out. I'd prefer not to have any tangible evidence of my existence in his life. I'd much rather be a concept than a reality.
THE Fallen Angel is offered a deal by the Big Man -- inhabit an earthly body in a well-behaved manner and win re-entrance into the realm of celestial beings.
I've read it before, but picked it up this morning again, and grinned my way through the first 20 pages. It is so, so wicked.
EV Guy came over on Saturday and Sunday to hang brackets and shelves. He needed a book to read on the subway, so I loaned him "Breakfast of Champions." (It's small and fits into a jacket pocket...its main selling point at the moment).
When he came back on Sunday he said he was enjoying it and found it completely hilarious. Strangely, I was somewhat relieved by that. Vonnegut isn't everyone's cup of tea, he can be a little out there, with his drawings of assholes and underpants, but he is undeniably brilliant. And I know I've said it before, in my old blog, he's a pissed-off and brokenhearted patriot.
It did occur to me that now EVG has a book floating around in his world with my name written on the flyleaf. If I'd been thinking, I probably would have torn it out. I'd prefer not to have any tangible evidence of my existence in his life. I'd much rather be a concept than a reality.
I F^&*%ing Did It
I am back into the size 10 jeans this morning after a month and a half of cereal for breakfast and dinner (well, mostly -- there was one lapse into McDonald's breakfast, but that was necessitated by the multiple tequila shots the night before on an "Office Outing.")
I may look a bit like 10 pounds of sausage in a 5 pound sack, but goddammit, I did it.
Wahoo.
I'm feeling a tad self-congratulatory right now.
Didn't get the Sunday ride in -- got a 1/2 mile down the road and the skies opened up, so turned around and went home. But now I'm on fire with lust for my bike.
I may look a bit like 10 pounds of sausage in a 5 pound sack, but goddammit, I did it.
Wahoo.
I'm feeling a tad self-congratulatory right now.
Didn't get the Sunday ride in -- got a 1/2 mile down the road and the skies opened up, so turned around and went home. But now I'm on fire with lust for my bike.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Last Night's Dream
A restless and disturbed night for me, first time in a long time.
Went to bed at about 10:30, quite early for me. Here's the dream:
It was nighttime. I was in some sort of urban parkland, but lost. I could see that there were residences surrounding this "wilderness" but I didn't know how to get out or how to get home. It felt like a park in Brooklyn or Queens. Definitely not Manhattan.
Had a feeling of panic -- fear of the dark and what could be lurking in the bushes.
Called EVG on my cell phone, and he said he would come to find me and show me how to get home. I hunkered down where I was and waited, and when he appeared out of the brush, I could see that there were a couple of shadowy figures behind him. I couldn't see their faces but the shapes were female. He was partially in shadow -- I could just make out his face, and for the first time his size seemed vaguely menacing and dangerous to me.
At that moment a realization appeared in my head, as if written in the sky in lights: "You are one of many."
He held out a hand as if to help me, and I smiled, reaching out to touch his arm.
"Never mind," I said. "I think I can find my way home on my own."
As I turned and began to walk away, Mambo decided at that moment that he needed me to not be asleep anymore.
I woke up and saw that it was only 1:15 in the morning.
Spent the rest of the night drifting between half-asleep and wakefulness.
Doesn't take a shrink to figure that one out, huh?
Went to bed at about 10:30, quite early for me. Here's the dream:
It was nighttime. I was in some sort of urban parkland, but lost. I could see that there were residences surrounding this "wilderness" but I didn't know how to get out or how to get home. It felt like a park in Brooklyn or Queens. Definitely not Manhattan.
Had a feeling of panic -- fear of the dark and what could be lurking in the bushes.
Called EVG on my cell phone, and he said he would come to find me and show me how to get home. I hunkered down where I was and waited, and when he appeared out of the brush, I could see that there were a couple of shadowy figures behind him. I couldn't see their faces but the shapes were female. He was partially in shadow -- I could just make out his face, and for the first time his size seemed vaguely menacing and dangerous to me.
At that moment a realization appeared in my head, as if written in the sky in lights: "You are one of many."
He held out a hand as if to help me, and I smiled, reaching out to touch his arm.
"Never mind," I said. "I think I can find my way home on my own."
As I turned and began to walk away, Mambo decided at that moment that he needed me to not be asleep anymore.
I woke up and saw that it was only 1:15 in the morning.
Spent the rest of the night drifting between half-asleep and wakefulness.
Doesn't take a shrink to figure that one out, huh?
Spring is trying to spring
And in keeping with my current mindset -- I just don't trust it. Kinda like that guy from the East Village. I just don't trust it.
I'll believe it when I see it.
But ever optimistic -- I will go home and prep my bicycle for the potential ride on Sunday.
Project Runway ended like a balloon with a slow leak. The judges chose Chloe Dao, turning the whole show into Project Boring.
I am pathetically excited for "The Sopranos" to start up again on Sunday. 21 months we've gone without Tony & Company, and it's been like the best cliffhanger EVER.
I'll believe it when I see it.
But ever optimistic -- I will go home and prep my bicycle for the potential ride on Sunday.
Project Runway ended like a balloon with a slow leak. The judges chose Chloe Dao, turning the whole show into Project Boring.
I am pathetically excited for "The Sopranos" to start up again on Sunday. 21 months we've gone without Tony & Company, and it's been like the best cliffhanger EVER.
Wednesday, March 8, 2006
Not Sexy, Honey
Those fake orange tans, whether spray-on or tanning-booth induced, are not sexy.
Ladies, you all look like Oompa-Loompas.
Ladies, you all look like Oompa-Loompas.
Tuesday, March 7, 2006
Why is it the Single Woman's Fault When a Man Cheats?
This is actually something that has been on my mind ever since The Affair started.
Once I was ensconced in it, it seemed that everywhere I looked or turned around, everything in the world had something to do with men cheating. Segments on the "Today" show! Articles in magazines! Advice columns on websites! And every single one seemed to have the same underlying theme:
If a man is cheating on his significant other, somehow, someway, it is the "Other Woman's" fault. SHE is the man-stealer. SHE is the sinner. SHE is the mountain lion lying in wait on some tree branch, waiting for that helpless-yet-attached male to trot by so she can leap on his unsuspecting neck, drag him off to her lair, and devour him.
I was IM-ing with a friend the other day, a very close friend, as it happens, to whom I admitted that finally I bagged the Big Guy on Saturday (more on that story later). I wasn't the she-lion in this situation. I was, in fact, the pursued. And while I didn't exactly resist, I did delay for a couple of weeks. I asked him to not tell his significant other about it, because as cool as she is, I know that she will NOT be cool about this. And my pal, whom I shall call "Z" here, told me that she feels strongly about "women lying in wait to steal other women's men."
Then, there was also the conversation, held with "Z" and Big Guy about how "you chicks don't look out for each other, you're ruthless and you'll go after a married guy without thinking twice about it."
Then, there was another conversation I had with "Z," who when I told him I had initially resisted Big Guy's advances, congratulated me with this phrase: "You saved him from himself."
Okay. Now. All of this tells me that society is ready to excuse the man, the one who is supposedly IN the committed relationship, under the guise of, "Well, everyone knows men are weak and stupid. It's a WOMAN'S job to rescue them from their baser, animal natures."
Well, I have one thing to say to that.
Bullshit.
A guy who sets out to cheat on his significant other, whether she's a girlfriend or a wife, is making that decision without the help of some femme fatale. Absolving them of responsibility from their actions because some female tempted him is a specious argument at best.
As a society, we are completely conditioned to believe this is true! That it is The Other Woman's fault! We have internalized this as part of our societal belief system so thoroughly that in an affair, if it is discovered by the significant other or someone else, everything is completely turned on the Other Woman.
It is not my responsibility to burnish the conscience or behavior of any man. I'm sweeping on my own side of the street, I enter into any relationship believing and trusting that the other person has made peace with their own conscience and karma.
And you know what? That old business of, men are being dragged through life by their dicks -- I don't buy it. That's just their lame excuse for bad behavior. And remember, I am a woman who loves men. My best friends on this planet are men.
I don't know. Maybe I'm a little cold-blooded about this, but damn. I've got enough work getting good with my own self, I can't take on responsibility for anyone else.
I entered into the relationship with F with my eyes open and rationally. I didn't have, and still do not have, any guilt about doing it. Believe me, i keep waiting for the guilt to come a-knockin' but it hasn't. Nor regret. (Guilt and regret are just kissin' cousins, aren't they?)
I just had to get that off my chest.
Once I was ensconced in it, it seemed that everywhere I looked or turned around, everything in the world had something to do with men cheating. Segments on the "Today" show! Articles in magazines! Advice columns on websites! And every single one seemed to have the same underlying theme:
If a man is cheating on his significant other, somehow, someway, it is the "Other Woman's" fault. SHE is the man-stealer. SHE is the sinner. SHE is the mountain lion lying in wait on some tree branch, waiting for that helpless-yet-attached male to trot by so she can leap on his unsuspecting neck, drag him off to her lair, and devour him.
I was IM-ing with a friend the other day, a very close friend, as it happens, to whom I admitted that finally I bagged the Big Guy on Saturday (more on that story later). I wasn't the she-lion in this situation. I was, in fact, the pursued. And while I didn't exactly resist, I did delay for a couple of weeks. I asked him to not tell his significant other about it, because as cool as she is, I know that she will NOT be cool about this. And my pal, whom I shall call "Z" here, told me that she feels strongly about "women lying in wait to steal other women's men."
Then, there was also the conversation, held with "Z" and Big Guy about how "you chicks don't look out for each other, you're ruthless and you'll go after a married guy without thinking twice about it."
Then, there was another conversation I had with "Z," who when I told him I had initially resisted Big Guy's advances, congratulated me with this phrase: "You saved him from himself."
Okay. Now. All of this tells me that society is ready to excuse the man, the one who is supposedly IN the committed relationship, under the guise of, "Well, everyone knows men are weak and stupid. It's a WOMAN'S job to rescue them from their baser, animal natures."
Well, I have one thing to say to that.
Bullshit.
A guy who sets out to cheat on his significant other, whether she's a girlfriend or a wife, is making that decision without the help of some femme fatale. Absolving them of responsibility from their actions because some female tempted him is a specious argument at best.
As a society, we are completely conditioned to believe this is true! That it is The Other Woman's fault! We have internalized this as part of our societal belief system so thoroughly that in an affair, if it is discovered by the significant other or someone else, everything is completely turned on the Other Woman.
It is not my responsibility to burnish the conscience or behavior of any man. I'm sweeping on my own side of the street, I enter into any relationship believing and trusting that the other person has made peace with their own conscience and karma.
And you know what? That old business of, men are being dragged through life by their dicks -- I don't buy it. That's just their lame excuse for bad behavior. And remember, I am a woman who loves men. My best friends on this planet are men.
I don't know. Maybe I'm a little cold-blooded about this, but damn. I've got enough work getting good with my own self, I can't take on responsibility for anyone else.
I entered into the relationship with F with my eyes open and rationally. I didn't have, and still do not have, any guilt about doing it. Believe me, i keep waiting for the guilt to come a-knockin' but it hasn't. Nor regret. (Guilt and regret are just kissin' cousins, aren't they?)
I just had to get that off my chest.
Monday, March 6, 2006
Oscars 2006
Here's the conclusion I reached as I slogged through yet another 4 hours of Oscar boredom. It's a tedious chore to watch the Oscars every year, yet we do it every. single. year.
You sit through bad jokes, uncomfortable speeches, a lame "In Memoriam" montage, and at least one clip segment featuring Gary Cooper as Lou Gehrig, Scarlett O'Hara standing on the hill or Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman (or all of the above).
No one even has the balls to dress in a bad dress that we can make fun of.
I feel like I've been to the dentist.
You sit through bad jokes, uncomfortable speeches, a lame "In Memoriam" montage, and at least one clip segment featuring Gary Cooper as Lou Gehrig, Scarlett O'Hara standing on the hill or Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman (or all of the above).
No one even has the balls to dress in a bad dress that we can make fun of.
I feel like I've been to the dentist.
Night of a Thousand Cab Rides
When you finally manage to surgically extract a friend from the East Village to venture into the 'burg, as I did on Saturday night, you just have to take what happens in stride...
H and his girl E came over for dinner. I made a lovely penne florentine and we hung out in my little apartment drinking beers before setting out on what would end up being a car service adventure with lots of high hilarity.
This was one of my "Christmas in Brooklyn" weekends (No-L), so not only was it a coup to get H out here, but he came willingly in a cab. This is a guy who practically needs TNT to be blasted away from the nexus of his life at 2nd Ave & 5th Street (one of those "I get nosebleeds above 14th Street" people), so I considered it a gift that he was willing to travel across the Big Water to the Land of Annoying Hipsters. It's the smallest things that make me happy.
Car Service Ride #1: First we headed to a Complacent Nation party/art event out at 313 Meserole...upon our arrival in the barren industrial wasteland known as "East Williamsburg" (Bushwick by any other name), we learned that the party had been moved around the corner to another space. This seemed to confuse our cab driver, even though a guy in another car had said, "I know where to go. Follow me." This had the inexplicable effect of making our cab driver go really slow.
Enter the party space after paying our $10. Get our hands stamped. This immediately makes me feel old, as hand stamps have that effect on me. We enter, and of course, as it is not yet 10:00 we are wayyyyy too early. We are the chaperones at the prom. We are the old folks in the room. H in his Columbia jacket, E in her perfectly-tailored black, and I in my Hellytech. We look like tourists from Colorado dropped into the middle of ArtWorld.
Well, we reasoned, let's look at the art and the self-consciously arty kids running around in their pirate costumes (um, kids, I may be old, but the pirate thing is playyyyyyyed out. Arrrrgh.) Time to flee the scene and head off to see R's pal Jay Collins' band playing in the hood.
Car Service Ride #2: Following the e-mail instructions provided, we proceeded to another address on Meserole St... and no Jay Collins! Turns out his instructions were BAD and we were supposed to go to Meserole Avenue. We had a drink in a restaurant that felt like the last outpost before indian country, Mojito-something. The owner was nice enough to plant us at the bar and call us another car service.
Car Service Ride #3: Meserole Avenue and Manhattan Ave. We walk into what is clearly an outpost for the Russian mob, and a decidedly unwelcome welcome by the earpiece wearing Mr. Clean lookin' thug. Ummmmmm - we seem to have missed Jay. We back away slowly from the gangsters and trot around the corner. Well, what the hell? Now we're in frickin GREENPOINT and have no idea what to do next. So, when in doubt, just get onto the next mode of public transportation that makes itself available.
B43 Bus: We don't know where it goes, but a quick look at the map at the bus stop shows a stop at Metropolitan and Driggs -- close enough to home that we hop on. Note to self: You don't want to be The Drunk People on a New York City bus... you tend to be the ones causing a scene in one way or another. Pure serendipity -- the bus is now going down Graham Avenue, back to Williamsburg!
We pour out of the bus gratefully and I steer our intrepid trio up the block to the Pour House. H feels as if he achieved drinkers' nirvana -- rock and roll on the juke, cold beer, a pool table, porn on the television and a back room where we can smoke with the bartenders' blessing!
It was an adventure, and if it hadn't been for the spirit of "oh well, we can't control this, let's roll with this," that pervaded the evening, someone would have thrown a hissy fit. But we were all in such high spirits that we were all unfazed by the spitballs being thrown at us by the universe. It was just High Plains Comedy from one end of the night to the other.
All in all, a fine, fun evening with good friends.
H, I really dig your girl, even if she thinks I'm a ho without a conscience...
H and his girl E came over for dinner. I made a lovely penne florentine and we hung out in my little apartment drinking beers before setting out on what would end up being a car service adventure with lots of high hilarity.
This was one of my "Christmas in Brooklyn" weekends (No-L), so not only was it a coup to get H out here, but he came willingly in a cab. This is a guy who practically needs TNT to be blasted away from the nexus of his life at 2nd Ave & 5th Street (one of those "I get nosebleeds above 14th Street" people), so I considered it a gift that he was willing to travel across the Big Water to the Land of Annoying Hipsters. It's the smallest things that make me happy.
Car Service Ride #1: First we headed to a Complacent Nation party/art event out at 313 Meserole...upon our arrival in the barren industrial wasteland known as "East Williamsburg" (Bushwick by any other name), we learned that the party had been moved around the corner to another space. This seemed to confuse our cab driver, even though a guy in another car had said, "I know where to go. Follow me." This had the inexplicable effect of making our cab driver go really slow.
Enter the party space after paying our $10. Get our hands stamped. This immediately makes me feel old, as hand stamps have that effect on me. We enter, and of course, as it is not yet 10:00 we are wayyyyy too early. We are the chaperones at the prom. We are the old folks in the room. H in his Columbia jacket, E in her perfectly-tailored black, and I in my Hellytech. We look like tourists from Colorado dropped into the middle of ArtWorld.
Well, we reasoned, let's look at the art and the self-consciously arty kids running around in their pirate costumes (um, kids, I may be old, but the pirate thing is playyyyyyyed out. Arrrrgh.) Time to flee the scene and head off to see R's pal Jay Collins' band playing in the hood.
Car Service Ride #2: Following the e-mail instructions provided, we proceeded to another address on Meserole St... and no Jay Collins! Turns out his instructions were BAD and we were supposed to go to Meserole Avenue. We had a drink in a restaurant that felt like the last outpost before indian country, Mojito-something. The owner was nice enough to plant us at the bar and call us another car service.
Car Service Ride #3: Meserole Avenue and Manhattan Ave. We walk into what is clearly an outpost for the Russian mob, and a decidedly unwelcome welcome by the earpiece wearing Mr. Clean lookin' thug. Ummmmmm - we seem to have missed Jay. We back away slowly from the gangsters and trot around the corner. Well, what the hell? Now we're in frickin GREENPOINT and have no idea what to do next. So, when in doubt, just get onto the next mode of public transportation that makes itself available.
B43 Bus: We don't know where it goes, but a quick look at the map at the bus stop shows a stop at Metropolitan and Driggs -- close enough to home that we hop on. Note to self: You don't want to be The Drunk People on a New York City bus... you tend to be the ones causing a scene in one way or another. Pure serendipity -- the bus is now going down Graham Avenue, back to Williamsburg!
We pour out of the bus gratefully and I steer our intrepid trio up the block to the Pour House. H feels as if he achieved drinkers' nirvana -- rock and roll on the juke, cold beer, a pool table, porn on the television and a back room where we can smoke with the bartenders' blessing!
It was an adventure, and if it hadn't been for the spirit of "oh well, we can't control this, let's roll with this," that pervaded the evening, someone would have thrown a hissy fit. But we were all in such high spirits that we were all unfazed by the spitballs being thrown at us by the universe. It was just High Plains Comedy from one end of the night to the other.
All in all, a fine, fun evening with good friends.
H, I really dig your girl, even if she thinks I'm a ho without a conscience...
Wednesday, March 1, 2006
My Special-K Challenge
A desperate pudgy chick will resort to almost everything in the pursuit of losing a few pounds. I admit to resorting to THE SPECIAL K CHALLENGE.
It started when I pulled on a pair of the "fat jeans" I bought last fall and couldn't get them to button or zip without EXTREME discomfort. We're talking 10 pounds of potatoes in a 5 pound bag uncomfortable.
It's taken a month, but I finally mustered the courage to pull out those jeans once again. Well, folks, I'm here to tell ya -- the goshdurned Special K diet worked. I got the jeans on, with room to spare. (ok, it was just millimeters, but still, it was a tiny bit of room). The acid test, I sat down in them and didn't immediately feel my legs go numb from having the circulation cut off.
Now, back in my younger, thinner days, 6 pounds would be something you *noticed* if I lost them. 6 pounds was the difference between choosing the size 6 or the size 4. (Yes, and I once had a 24 inch waist, not that you'd ever guess from looking at me). These days, 6 pounds is virtually invisible -- but I know they're gone. My jeans tell me they're gone. My guess is that no one will notice until I shed 16.
And I don't care if it makes me vain or shallow (I never pretended NOT to be either of those things, after all).
And yes, realistically, I know it's not the cereal. It's the reinforcement of healthy eating habits -- you know, all the old saws your mommy taught you -- eat breakfast every day, eat a healthy lunch, and don't stuff yourself at dinner. Walk more. (my poor abused knees are thanking me for making them carry a little less weight.)
I'm not thinking that any miracles are going to happen -- this took a month, after all. Ahh, the perils of being "of a certain age" and having your metabolism slow down to a speed called "Glacial."
It's a start.
And spring bicycling season is just around the corner. So not only will I be increasing the aerobic (fat-burning) activity, I'll finally get back my rock-hard quads. Snap you in half with a squeeze of the thighs.
Although -- since it appears I won't be getting laid anytime soon (despite the mad flirtation with the supertall hottie in the East Village - DAMN! I should have just taken him home when I had the chance, but that's a story for another post) I'll just have to enjoy the impending mad muscle tone for what it is... enhancing my beautiful, strong, sturdy legs that I once hated for their strength and sturdiness. The 29" inseams that once were the bane of my existence now make me sure that I'm just that much closer to the earth. No fragile thoroughbred stems for me, my legs are the legs of a draft horse, a Clydesdale, a peasant farmer, a coal-miner's granddaughter. They are powerful and strong. The other day I was in the shower and I bent over to soap my legs and was struck by their quiet grandeur. They aren't willowy and long. They are redwoods, they are El Capitan, they are Half Dome. I love them.
Finally.
It started when I pulled on a pair of the "fat jeans" I bought last fall and couldn't get them to button or zip without EXTREME discomfort. We're talking 10 pounds of potatoes in a 5 pound bag uncomfortable.
It's taken a month, but I finally mustered the courage to pull out those jeans once again. Well, folks, I'm here to tell ya -- the goshdurned Special K diet worked. I got the jeans on, with room to spare. (ok, it was just millimeters, but still, it was a tiny bit of room). The acid test, I sat down in them and didn't immediately feel my legs go numb from having the circulation cut off.
Now, back in my younger, thinner days, 6 pounds would be something you *noticed* if I lost them. 6 pounds was the difference between choosing the size 6 or the size 4. (Yes, and I once had a 24 inch waist, not that you'd ever guess from looking at me). These days, 6 pounds is virtually invisible -- but I know they're gone. My jeans tell me they're gone. My guess is that no one will notice until I shed 16.
And I don't care if it makes me vain or shallow (I never pretended NOT to be either of those things, after all).
And yes, realistically, I know it's not the cereal. It's the reinforcement of healthy eating habits -- you know, all the old saws your mommy taught you -- eat breakfast every day, eat a healthy lunch, and don't stuff yourself at dinner. Walk more. (my poor abused knees are thanking me for making them carry a little less weight.)
I'm not thinking that any miracles are going to happen -- this took a month, after all. Ahh, the perils of being "of a certain age" and having your metabolism slow down to a speed called "Glacial."
It's a start.
And spring bicycling season is just around the corner. So not only will I be increasing the aerobic (fat-burning) activity, I'll finally get back my rock-hard quads. Snap you in half with a squeeze of the thighs.
Although -- since it appears I won't be getting laid anytime soon (despite the mad flirtation with the supertall hottie in the East Village - DAMN! I should have just taken him home when I had the chance, but that's a story for another post) I'll just have to enjoy the impending mad muscle tone for what it is... enhancing my beautiful, strong, sturdy legs that I once hated for their strength and sturdiness. The 29" inseams that once were the bane of my existence now make me sure that I'm just that much closer to the earth. No fragile thoroughbred stems for me, my legs are the legs of a draft horse, a Clydesdale, a peasant farmer, a coal-miner's granddaughter. They are powerful and strong. The other day I was in the shower and I bent over to soap my legs and was struck by their quiet grandeur. They aren't willowy and long. They are redwoods, they are El Capitan, they are Half Dome. I love them.
Finally.
Just Another Night in Crackville
Ah, the lovely Nancy Colon was at it again.... I was roused from my lovely Nyquil coma by the sound of a fight in the hallway.
A few minutes later I heard the all-too-familiar crackle of police radios downstairs, punctuated by Nancy's familiar bellow, the incessant barking of her dog, and many slamming doors. Finally quiet at 12:30 or so... I thought the cops came and took away Nancy's dog, but got more of the story this morning....
Fragments of conversation overheard: "You can talk to him at the nine-oh (90th Precinct)...." "...do you want us to take you too?" "waaaaaaaaahhhhhh. it's not FAIR...." (Nancy's usual plaint when the cops come - after all, she is the victim here, right?)
Found out this morning she and her "boyfriend" Frankenstein (another known felon, the cream of Bushwick) tried to run a shake and bake on some guy -- she lured him into her apartment for sex, took his money, then Frankie jumped out of the closet and proceeded to chase the guy out of the building. Funny thing is, this guy was so pissed, he went to the police. Within minutes there were two or three undercover units parked outside the building, hauling Frankie's ass off to jail. Yet again.
Now, the interesting thing is that the cops who showed up were detectives, not patrol cops. In "undercover" units (ummmm, guys, even a naive semi-midwesterner like me can spot those undercover cars from 500 yards. At least invest in something other than Chevy Impalas...) and not blue-and-whites.
My speculation: The guy was sent in on a buy and bust by the cops (or maybe was a cop himself). Would an illegal Mexican immigrant go to the cops if a prostitute stole his money? No, he would disappear into the weeds for fear of "La Migra" grabbing his ass. How did the NYPD get those undercover cars there so fast? I mean, within minutes of the fight, they were there. And their goal must have been Frankenstein, otherwise they would have taken Nancy in on prostitution charges, right?
Nancy's train actually derailed at Ho-town on the *way* to Crackville last night.
Just another night in the ghet-to.
ACS, I got two words for you: Nixmary Brown. Or how about these two words: FOX NEWS.
A few minutes later I heard the all-too-familiar crackle of police radios downstairs, punctuated by Nancy's familiar bellow, the incessant barking of her dog, and many slamming doors. Finally quiet at 12:30 or so... I thought the cops came and took away Nancy's dog, but got more of the story this morning....
Fragments of conversation overheard: "You can talk to him at the nine-oh (90th Precinct)...." "...do you want us to take you too?" "waaaaaaaaahhhhhh. it's not FAIR...." (Nancy's usual plaint when the cops come - after all, she is the victim here, right?)
Found out this morning she and her "boyfriend" Frankenstein (another known felon, the cream of Bushwick) tried to run a shake and bake on some guy -- she lured him into her apartment for sex, took his money, then Frankie jumped out of the closet and proceeded to chase the guy out of the building. Funny thing is, this guy was so pissed, he went to the police. Within minutes there were two or three undercover units parked outside the building, hauling Frankie's ass off to jail. Yet again.
Now, the interesting thing is that the cops who showed up were detectives, not patrol cops. In "undercover" units (ummmm, guys, even a naive semi-midwesterner like me can spot those undercover cars from 500 yards. At least invest in something other than Chevy Impalas...) and not blue-and-whites.
My speculation: The guy was sent in on a buy and bust by the cops (or maybe was a cop himself). Would an illegal Mexican immigrant go to the cops if a prostitute stole his money? No, he would disappear into the weeds for fear of "La Migra" grabbing his ass. How did the NYPD get those undercover cars there so fast? I mean, within minutes of the fight, they were there. And their goal must have been Frankenstein, otherwise they would have taken Nancy in on prostitution charges, right?
Nancy's train actually derailed at Ho-town on the *way* to Crackville last night.
Just another night in the ghet-to.
ACS, I got two words for you: Nixmary Brown. Or how about these two words: FOX NEWS.