Now let’s say that your husband picked up on your gasp with his super spidey senses and bolted out of the room and into the kitchen as though his penis were on fire. Now, you’ve got a bit of a situation, because your husband’s frenzy has awakened the drama-radar of all the other emotionally distressed nutcases on your floor, and everyone is now peeking their heads out of their doors to see what the issue is. Drugs? Police? Rape? A gunfight? Oh, it’s just a mediocre cook who burned her hand on her potatoes. Not nearly as interesting as the Wendy Williams show. But then, while most of the emotionally nutcases will simply go back inside and continue watching the Wendy Williams show or whatever shit-tv program they were watching, one of them, the “friendly one” will hang about in the kitchen and act concerned.

“Are you okay? I saw your husband fly out of his room…”
“I’m fine.”
“Oh, did you burn yourself? You should run some cold water…”
“I’ve already done that. Thanks.”
“Do you have any ointment?”
“No.”
“I think I have some.”
“Thanks, but it’s really not that bad… hey, where are you going with those?”

Because then you realize that your husband, always the hero, is trying to save the day, by absconding with the offending half-cooked potatoes.

“I wasn’t done with those!”
“But… but… you burned yourself, and I was just…”
“Put my potatoes back on the fire, please, babe.”
“Okay…”

And the drama has been averted… until about five minutes later when a fork drops out of your hand and into an empty sink, causing no breakage, burnage, or other form of carnage, except that the “plink” sound awakens your husband’s spidey senses yet again…

taken from unwinnable.com

Did I mention that it’s been a long day?

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Just saying.

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Photo by Jane Tam taken from janetam.com

It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Bensonhurst. The last time I was in Bensonhurst, I was teaching a class of middle school students how to pass the SHSAT. I loved children back then. That was more than a lifetime ago.

It’s hard to describe Bensonhurst… but it’s one of those places that when you’re there, you know you’re there. It’s one of those places in Brooklyn where the subway runs in open air, where there is paint peeling off the columns and graffiti marking the walls of what probably were gorgeous Dorian-styled stations a hundred or so years ago. It’s one of those places with rows of two-family semi-attached and stucco houses lining every side street and little ethnic shops (it used to be an Italian neighborhood, but now it’s more of an Italian-Russian-Jewish-Chinese-Black-and-Mexican neighborhood) lining the main streets. It’s a place with a lot of light. There are no tall buildings.

You know when you’re in Benson-hoist.

Why am I talking about Bensonhurst anyway? Because I was there earlier today. I had a mystery shop in a post office. When I was done, while I was waiting on the N-train platform for the train to take me back to my regularly scheduled life, an older Italian gentleman commented on my humming (so I must have been humming… I do that sometimes).

“Life is beautiful. Look around! Everything is beautiful! This pillar here is beautiful!”

That pillar there was losing most of its paint and was stained by several unverifiable substances. Somehow though, when he pointed it out, I could only see what it used to be, and then it became beautiful.

taken from davethewinemerchant.com

There was something so lively about him; he exuded a kind of joie de vivre that one doesn’t often see in New York. Actually, you know, how do you say joie de vivre in Italian? He had the thickest accent I’ve heard in a while. I couldn’t understand most of what he was saying until he asked me my age. I told him.

“Ah!” he said. “You could be my grand daughter!” Um, no. No I couldn’t. He thought about it for a moment. “If you were ten years younger, you could be my grand daughter.”

“Ten years is a long time.” And I’m black. In case you hadn’t noticed.

“Eh, it’s not so long. You could be my daughter though. I could have a daughter your age.” Not one who was black…

“Actually, my husband could be your son.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. My husband is Italian.”
“Oh? From what part?”
“I don’t know. His grandmother was from the old country, but his father was from New York.”
“Then probably he doesn’t know either.”

Oh, wait, I didn’t tell you that my grandfather-in-law was a New Yorker? Well he was, though he has been dead for years, and though my husband had never been here when we met. In fact, he was from Bensonhurst.

Go figure, right?

I’m going to have to tell my husband when I see him tonight that I met one of his uncles in Bensonhurst…

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taken from sheknows.com

So this whole being-a-grown-up-thing is starting to wear me out a little. Yesterday I woke up at 7am so that I could could breakfast and get out of the house by 9am. I don’t even remember where I was going so early except that it was Very Important that I leave the house on time. Well. So then I was out doing Very Important Things until I came home at around eleven or so. And then because my husband was making me angry (maybe I’ll tell this story later, but I probably won’t) I went out again to take a walk along Broadway and have some quesadillas and margaritas until one or so. Then, of course, because walking out of the house doesn’t resolve anything, I was up talking to my husband until two or so.

And then I set the alarm clock for seven am. I didn’t make it.

There’s a possibility I might just be doing this whole adulthood thing wrong…

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You see, ever since I’ve been married my life has been supremely uninteresting. Happy, but uninteresting. When I was single, and had crazy wild stories about being chased down Lenox Avenue or getting into physical fights with theives in Penn Station, I could blog all day long if I could stop doing crazy shit for long enough to write them down. Now, my wildest story is about eating fried chicken with my best friend in KFC.

Oh, haven’t I told you that story? Well then…

I was eating fried chicken with my best friend in KFC. (You knew it would begin that way, didn’t you?) I was telling him about how one of my former girlfriends had turned me on to making my own bone broth and how she used to make the most awesome soup with it, but that I never got a chance to try it until just recently. I chattered on for a bit about how I don’t really make soup per se, but I found that using broth instead of milk in an omelette not only adds flavor, but saves money because broth is much cheaper than milk. Furthermore, I found that using broth instead of water in brown rice makes for some awesome brown rice. I also wanted to experiment with using coconut milk in my brown rice, but this is obviously much more expensive than just using broth. And it’s so easy to make, I gushed at him. Just toss the used bones into a pot, maybe with the ass-end of a carrot and/or the seeds of a bell pepper, fill it up with water, and leave the motherfucker for hours on a low flame. You don’t even have to think about it that hard. I don’t add seasoning though. My husband always wants to add seasoning, but I figure you can add seasoning to the food later. That way it’s more of a blank canvas and you can go in any direction from there, you know?

I really thought he’d answer the “you know.”

Instead he just looked at me over his fried chicken and shook his head.

“Your stories were much more interesting before you were married.”
“If that doesn’t excite you then you should hear about this recipe for rendered fat that I’ve been itching to try.”

That’s about when he rolled his eyes at me.

And since you were all wondering (you know you were), the rendered fat came out amazing. Thanks, Mami!

Have I turned into one of those chicks? Let’s discuss…

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…But this post is not about my father.

I knew when I took the job that it would be temporary. Six months to a year, I told myself. Six months to a year is more than enough time to commit to a bullshit minimum wage job. That was early September. It’s been about five months now. In that time, I managed to stop looking so damn haggard all the time and buy myself a pair of jeans and a winter coat whose lining was not torn to shreds. Also, I paid down some of my credit card debt and built up a meager little savings. Perhaps more significantly than that, the information I passed along to my then-boyfriend-now-husband about how to obtain emergency housing in NYC when you’re homeless and penniless was copied directly off the postings on the walls; I would never have even had that idea were I not working in a homeless shelter. Furthermore, the plane ticket that got him here from San Diego represented nine weeks of I’m-too-proud-to-ask-my-girlfriend-for-money-but-I’m-at-the-end-of-my-fucking-rope-here and one week of pay.

I felt, as the weeks progressed, that as much as I hated it, this job was a cosmic gift with a predetermined expiration date. On that thought, I was able to relax. There was no need to worry how long I was going to be stuck there, nor was there any need to worry about getting fired. The job would eliminate itself from my life once it had reached that expiration date.

Five months. Sooner than I thought.

And yet, not a moment too soon. The job was slowly turning itself into less of an asset and more of a liability at worst and a redundancy at best. For example, the previously fifteen-minute commute to Jamaica became an issue when I moved from Laurelton to Harlem. There are other little tiny technical issues that arose as well… but I won’t get into them now. I mean, who cares, after all, right? But I will say this: Goodbye, weekend job. You’ve served me well and thanks for the memories, but I’m off to go do something better with my life now.

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i love you in ridiculous ways and for ridiculous reasons.
i love you like the music i practice and cannot ever sing well.
i love you like the dirty brooklyn-borough; i am more there than home.
i love you like the twelve o clock railroad train (transfer at Jamaica)

i love you because i don’t have enough energy for apathy.
i love you because i’m a little bit drunk and you laugh so pretty . . .

i love you like sunshine, which i don’t at all need and can live without.

i love you because every atom of me trepidates when you’re gone.

i love you like the song i heard yesterday which moved me and i cried.

i love you because you pronounce your words wrong it’s zee-tee you ninny!

i love you like the hot water in the shower; relaxing, burning . . .

i love you because you are the sweetest, sweetest thing i’ve ever known.

i love you like the songbird outside i don’t hear; i am still asleep.
i love you like music, like poetry, like everything, like nothing.

i love you because you are a fool; a bonafide, certified fool.
i love you because Queens is just way too damned far away from Brooklyn.
i love you because i think i would die if i never saw the sun.

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Of course, all that meant is that I’d completely run out of excuses.

I immediately got out a piece of paper and wrote out one of my old-fashioned Things To Do lists. The first thing I had to do was to stop doing things that weren’t working, which meant (among other things) saying good bye to all those silly online businesses that weren’t making any money. I also put yoga near the top of the list. I decided I would make it a point to go early, before I even made it to the computer lab for the day. Can you believe that before Monday I hadn’t been to yoga since… well, since fall of last year? I believe the last time I’d gone was November… unacceptable! My health is my business, isn’t it? Oh, and speaking of health, I’ve had health insurance since my hospital stay in 2010 and I have not been to a doctor since then. Yeah, I know, I’m shaking my own head as well. I put scheduling a doctor’s appointment on the list as well.

taken from foh.dhhs.gov

Random day to suddenly decide to change every damn thing about my life, huh? Well I found out later that day while I was at the computer lab that it was the Chinese New Year. Oh.

This is also my blog’s birthday. Well… not really. My first entry was technically a few days before the Chinese New Year in 2010, but meh. I’ve decided the Chinese New Year is my birthday, so it is. So there. ::sticks out her tongue:: I can be as childish as I like, considering that I’m only two Chinese blog years old.

Are there such things as Chinese blog years, or did I make that up?

Anyhow…

Something in the cosmos must have told me that it was a new year as I sat scribbling away at my list of things to do, and strangely that feeling hasn’t gone away yet. Okay, fine, it’s only been four days since then, but still. I find that I’m doing less bullshit and getting more real shit done. I’ve made it to yoga twice this week. (I would have gone every day, but by Wednesday I felt like I had taken myself apart limb by limb and patched myself back together with crazy glue.) I’ve already found one audition. I’ve scheduled a doctor’s appointment. And I’ve eaten three meals every day this week. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I know, right?

I might be a bloggy toddler, but I’m a real life grown up.

It’s okay to be proud of me. Actually, it’s okay even if you’re not. I’m proud of myself.

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He walked out at just about the same time that my husband and I did. At least, he was about to. I think he stopped and drew back when he saw that we were leaving as well. I did my best not to look behind me. Some part of my consciousness was paranoid that he would follow me like he used to, although the more sensible part of my brain knew that he wouldn’t risk an altercation with my husband.

“That man is still hurting,” my husband pointed out.

And yet, he’s still friendly to me on Facebook. But privately.

Hm…

My therapist suggested that he’s probably waiting my marriage out. At first I thought that was absurd, as I do remember the justice of the peace saying something like “until death,” and as my former friend in Harlem is likely to die a good thirty years before my husband does. Then it occurred to me (well, because my therapist suggested it) that he doesn’t take my marriage seriously, ostensibly because it happened relatively quickly. As though things that happen quickly cannot be real. Hey, reader, know anybody who got an STD from a one night stand? Yeah, things can be real and happen quickly.

And then I kind of wondered if my therapist takes my marriage seriously. Actually, I didn’t wonder that then, but I wonder now.

He has a show there tonight. My former friend, I mean. He invited me, as he always does, on facebook. There will be a really good special guest there as well. I tossed around the idea of going with my husband earlier. Now I feel like going alone, so that I can leave there alone. That’s a logical thought, isn’t it? Sure it was! Don’t look at me like that…

Oh, relax. I’m going home when I leave this lab. My husband has cooked dinner and I can’t wait to see what it is.

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