Reminisce on the Love We Had...

Reminisce on the love we had…

It’s really something else – the ability to ask the universe for something and to have your requests fulfilled. Via this blog and various other avenues, I have asked the universe to put some worldly folks in my life and this weekend past found me in the company of two beautiful, independent and driven women. We met in Fort Greene for drinks and within a matter of minutes we were chit-chatting the afternoon away while Michael Jackson tunes filled the outdoor venue. Our conversation ranged from Brazilian porn (yes, these are my kind of chicks!), to hiphop, to blogging, and everything and anything in between. The topics discussed were done so with energy and positivity. It was a wonderful way to spend a Saturday afternoon. I left them feeling, aside from overly tequilaed up, very satisfied and driven.

One of the two ladies I just met that day and the other, Sarah, I’ve known since the age of 7. Our parents began attending 12-step meetings together and she and I would play coloring books and the likes while our folks soaked up the anti-drug propaganda. Sarah and I recently reconnected via social-networking and it’s almost as if we never missed a beat. She came down to visit me the week that Daniel and I broke up and I cried into my plate of untouched mashed potatoes while she listened, without judgment, and offered a warm heart. I appreciate women like this. Sarah also happens to be finishing up her Masters Degree in Social Work from NYU, is a fully independent, smart, beautiful woman, and has little patience for bullshit or assholes. These are the kind of women I want and need in my life. These are the kind of women I most identify with.

Over our outdoor margaritas, Sarah asked if I’d yet had a lover since the breakup. “Nope. I’m fucking dying but nope.” – She told me it’s never been so evident than it was in my last posting that I’m far from over Daniel and that she thinks what I’m doing by waiting is good – and what I need. And, I agree with both of her assessments. This is what I need, and I’m far from over Daniel.
Don’t get me wrong, the days are much easier and I’m certainly a hell of a lot better than I was the first few weeks after the break up but the fact remains that there isn’t a day that goes by where he doesn’t enter my mind. I don’t know if it’s just missing him – missing someone – or if it’s outright abnormal to still have him haunt my thoughts so often. Three nights ago I had what felt like consecutive dreams all featuring Daniel’s face, Daniel’s voice, Daniel’s cock. I woke up and literally had to shake my head back and forth, much like a dog that has just finished a swim. After I ‘shook it off’, I sat in bed for a while and just thought about some of the better times:

1) The time Daniel bought me an 82 piece silverware set because I’d been in tears earlier in the day over not having matching china to host a dinner. This must sound so outrageously silly but to me, it was one of the sweetest things another human being has ever done. We were hosting a dinner for six at our apartment. It was actually our first dinner party together and my being such a domestic goddess doesn’t allow room for any imperfections. The table was set beautifully – with the good china – and the apartment sparkled. It was time to place the silverware down when I realized that I hadn’t a matching set to present. That realization was all it took to go into a downward spiral of emotion that was rooted in never being able to have nice things, growing up in a dirty drug-addicted home, and every other possible negative connection I could make to the past and present not matching up. Yes, over a fucking spoon… I shed some tears and got myself together while Daniel ran out to get last minute things for our dinner. When he came back with the groceries he handed me an 82 piece matching silverware set, kissed me on the forehead and assured me I’d never need to feel like I don’t have nice things again.

2) The sidewalk chalk Daniel bought me as a birthday gift from the cat, complete with card.

3) The Ben & Jerry’s phish food containers he gave me when I was sad.

4) The times we’d lay and watch TV – no talking necessary- my head in his lap, his hands in my hair – our bodies entangled.

5) The night we made love in our bedroom with the balcony doors opened – a breeze tickling our skin as we moved with such a synchronistic beat that afterward we both remarked on how it literally felt we were one entity.

6) The times he’d stop dead in his tracks just to tell me ‘You’re so pretty’.

And, finally, the time when in his parent’s home, we lay in our bedroom and discussing our future he said “I want to build a life with you Kitty, I want us to have all of this one day”. I just smiled and kissed him – confident in the fact that he already knew I’d been waiting to hear those words for such a long time.
I can’t help but reminisce on these things. They happened and although at this point it seems like they didn’t – mostly because of his extreme extraction from my life, I fear ever forgetting the way I felt the moment each of the items above happened. I don’t want to forget the warm love inside, the content I felt, or the security with which I believed we were living. The odd thing about the reminiscing is that it doesn’t sadden me as much as you may think. I don’t sit here and recall these loving moments with an ounce of regret or sorrow. Instead, I sort of feel lucky for having been able to feel these things at all.

Daniel is the first man I’ve opened myself up to in a long time. Prior to dating him, I’d done the casual stints of relationships here and there. I had plenty of men on whom I could call for company but I never believed in anything with them. I matter of factly chose to date losers so that I couldn’t possibly allow myself to be truly invested in what we had. If I was never really invested, I could never really get hurt – and that’s the defense mechanism I used to keep myself safe from the heartache. Then along comes Daniel and I opened myself up to something I felt was very real. I believed in him – and I believed in us as a unit. That is a serious accomplishment for me. I opened myself up - and that’s why when I sit and remember how I would turn into a giddy little girl every time Daniel was around, it’s not with tears of sadness in my eyes - it’s with a feeling of success that I’m able to feel that way at all.

Do I miss him terribly? I think that’s an obvious answer…

At least I’ve got the memories, right?

Mother Fucking Daniel

Disclosure: I'm angry.

This blog is not the only piece of written material I have out there on the Internet. I am the proud owner of a few other blog-type columns on the net and a bunch of said columns are publications with which my real identity is tied. Accordingly, I have various social media outlets with which these publications are connected. Blah blah blah. Here's the meat of the story:

Today I published an article for a column and I blasted the article out via email. I maintain a group listing for this particular column and any time someone joins or leaves said group I am notified. Shortly after my new piece was blasted out a crawl comes up on my screen which reads "Daniel xxxxxxxx has unsubscribed from xxxxx list". I can honestly say this not only surprised me but it genuinely hurt my feelings. I'm not sure what it is that is going to have to happen for me to wake up and welcome the reality check that this dude simply wants absolutely nothing to do with me but it better come soon because I'm really tired of feeling like our relationship was worthless.

I get it - we're apart. I do not call him, I've deleted him from my facebook and any other social media outlets. I do not email, do not IM, do not text. For all intents and purposes, I am completely invisible (Hi, Emily Previn). Is it so wrong for me to expect a certain level of support on my personal endeavors, though? This particular column for which this article was blasted out is an actual paid gig. The money earned is damn near nothing - but for each click I receive, I get a tiny piece of change - and you know what? It adds up. It's not even about that, though.

Here's the thing:

Daniel and I dated for a year and a half or so. We had a relationship that started out stronger and with more passion than almost any other union I've had in my life. I really felt like we simply understood each other. I was able to talk to him and to tell him my secrets, my fears, my desires and my insecurities. In turn, I sat and listened to his - and held him when he found himself in tears over things that may not seem tear-worthy to someone else. I didn't judge him for crying, didn't try to change who he was or toughen him up in any way. We both had our issues and it felt sort of great to have someone with whom I could be open and honest, with whom I could be weak. I always felt like we were such a strong couple because of all of this mental support we provided one and other - and right now, after having watched him completely delete yet another part of who I am from his life, I am kind of wondering what the fuck happened to all that support.

It's not about being a boyfriend or a girlfriend. It's about being a human being. My writing endeavors are not what pays the bills. I work a 9-5 just like every other Tom, Dick and Harry. My writing is done so because I genuinely enjoy it. The fact that I have some outlets which allow me to earn a penny here or there is great and I'm very lucky to have found that opportunity. Every penny counts, na'mean Brooklyn? That said, it is just astounding to me that after all of the mental support we've provided one and other that I'd see Daniel's name vanish from my mailing list.

It just seems so childish - so fucking immature. Our personal relationship has absolutely nothing to do with the topics I cover in this particular article. If it was my sitting there and discussing my heartstrings I could completely understand his not wanting to be witness to that - but, fuck - you can't offer me the simple support of just being another human being out there that is down to support a passion that lives inside of a woman with whom you shared your life, your secrets and your fears?

It just hurts, readers. It hurts to know that this man I loved - and obviously still love on a lot of levels, undoubtedly wants absolutely nothing to do with anything I'm involved in. I try to understand it and I try to make sense of it all but I come up short with each attempt. I am lucky to have folks who will talk me through it and crack various jokes. I am lucky to have people in my life with whom I can spend time and not focus on the sadness that finds its way into my mind when shit like this happens.

I am lucky.

Poppa was a rolling stone...

A few weeks ago I invited my father to attend a live acoustic show that would have been something I went to with Daniel had he not gone all loopy on me and end our relationship. The fact that my friends are somewhat restricted with respect to their artsy taste left me with little option in terms of who to invite, not that I don’t enjoy the company of my dad; I do. We made our way down to Murray Hill and settled into an authentic English pub for some fish and chips prior to the show and it was here that my father began to talk about his disdain for hipsters. I couldn’t help but laugh because I knew, undoubtedly, that my father didn’t even know what a hipster was. To prove this fact, I asked him ‘Dad, what’s a hipster?’ – to which he replied “I don’t know but I hear they are all wannabe Brooklyn” – Man, does it get any better than hanging with your dad over a pint of Blue Moon and discussing the Brooklyn wanna-be pretense of a hipster? I don’t think so, my friends.


We sat 3rd row orchestra and enjoyed the show a magnificent amount. Both of us are a bit on the spiritual side when it comes to connecting with art and it was interesting to see how the various changes in musical energy elicited similar emotional responses in each of us. On at least two occasions, the music brought us to tears which then brought us to laughter at how empathic we seem to be at times. We purchased our merchandise (A CD each; support good music!) and made our way out of the city by way of the Brooklyn Bridge, but not before making a stop down in the lower-east-side for an egg-cream at Ray’s.


If there is anything Brooklyn should be synonymous with it is egg-creams. I distinctly remember being a little kid down in Gravesend and walking to the corner luncheonette with my mother to get cigarettes or milk or lotto tickets, or whatever it was she needed, and my getting an egg-cream. They were something around $.50 back then – and they were prepared and served up just perfectly. Ray’s in the LES serves up a comparable mixture and whenever I am in the city and with a car I make it a point to stop there and grab a large-one before heading back into Brooklyn. Tonight was no different. My father has some decent egg-cream skills and when I told him about this place he immediately laughed at the idea of some spot in the now-trendy Lower East Side being able to produce something authentic New York. Soon after his first sip, however, he changed that tune and he and I enjoyed our large chocolate egg-creams as we continued our drive back into the county of Kings.


We took the scenic route to the FDR drive, taking a left off of Avenue A working our way down into the beast that is Alphabet City. My memories of this area as a child are far from coherent, but they are certainly there. I recall coming into the city with my parents as a kid – waiting for them to cop. Most of my memories involve being in the back of a car of some sort – waiting while one of them ran into a housing project. I suppose I should be happy my recognition isn’t clearer but the fact remains that I knew what we were doing there. Almost without fail, any time my father and I are in this area he points out to me the corner (Avenue C and 7th) where he was stabbed thus resulting in a decent chunk of his liver having to be removed. He wears a scar from the surgery they needed to perform on him that runs the length of his breast plate down to past his belly button. Today would be no different and as we drove past Avenue C he mumbled something or other about the stabbing. The clearer memories for him this drive-through were of the various dope-spots in the area. There was one building in particular that he pointed out in which there used to be a New Jack City style set-up. “You see those different colored bricks on the far end of the courtyard there – they’re a different color because they were nonexistent at one point. That spot used to be a hole in the wall, literally, where you’d place your money and out would come your heroin”. I suppose to some this type of conversation would be interesting? The ever-changing face of NYC was sitting next to me and, in a way, I had my own personal tour guide pre-gentrification LES. I wish I could see it that way – but I suppose I still have a lot of shit to work through.


Seeing as I have been trying to write this post for weeks now and any time I sit down to get started something (like the TV, my email, my cellphone) distracts me from actually tackling the feelings that go along with the story in the posting, I realize that I definitely do have some tension to work through with respect to my childhood. Tension is probably, no it’s definitely an understatement.


The truth of the matter is this: I am the child of drug addicts. My mother and father are both recidivists in the world of addiction and although at time of print for this posting they’re on a sober-run, I have absolutely no idea how long that will or won’t last and that is terrifying. Daniel would often ask me how I can even still have a relationship with my parents after all they’ve put me through – and my only answer is “they’re my parents” – And, they are my parents. I love them regardless of their battle with drugs and will continue to love them accordingly. Love is one thing, but tolerance is another and this last year I pretty much exiled my father from my life for a period of time.


It was moving time for me and Daniel - he was coming from Queens and I from Brooklyn so it only made sense to schedule our moves for the same day and meet up at the new apartment. Daniel’s folks had given him some extra money to assist in any moving expenses (shocker) and my plan was to hire some day-laboring illegals and use my father’s pick-up truck to transport the little amount of stuff I was actually taking to the new pad. Days before go-time, my mother who loves to watch a drama fire spark, called me and expressed her concern with my father’s mixing of Xanax and Oxycontin. As I listened to her talk about it – and express her concerns in a manner to indicate that her problems were of the utmost importance and with little regard to the fact that I was in the middle of planning a stressful move, scared of giving up all of my shit, and just generally under a lot of pressure, I became so aggravated that I flew off the handle and started screaming and yelling like a maniac. Two days later I had a discussion with my father in which I told him that unless he sought help for his behavior I wanted absolutely nothing to do with him and that this wasn’t something up for negotiation. Xanax and anything are a completely insane combination and I already lost one person I loved dearly to a Xanax cocktail, I wasn’t about to stand idly by and watch another go.


I’m not sure if it had as much to do with my cutting him off or the credit should go to the folks at his job who began to notice a difference in his behavior, but my father checked himself into a rehab facility a few months after my cutting him off and he’s been clean for the last 7 or 8 months now. I’m happy he’s on the right path – but I cannot deny, at all, the fact that that can change in an instant. As such, my relationship with him is one that has me asking a lot of questions.


Is it normal, I ask myself, for a father to show his kid (albeit 32 year old kid) the spot where he used to slip money through bricks to get a bundle of dope? Is it completely acceptable or is if just my own shame with the past? There is no mistaking the fact that my father is a heroin addict. He admits to it and anyone that knows me is basically in the know – him showing me the dope spot isn’t exactly an admission of guilt – it’s really more so just a matter of fact much like pointing out a good Chinese restaurant to a neighbor. I suppose that is a bad comparison. The real question I am asking here, though, is what is it going to take for me to be more at ease with the past? Will it be forgiveness? There are tons of self-help books that I review looking for the answers and they all seem to point toward forgiveness and acceptance. Acceptance is something I think I’ll have an easier time doing over forgiving. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I even know what it specifically is I am so angry about that would solicit forgiveness.

There’s a lot of work to be done.

New York, I Love You

New York, I really do love you.

This afternoon while attempting to busy myself every which way possible in an effort to avoid doing what my company pays me to do, I was on my various sites reading up on all things NY when it was brought to my attention that the infamous graffiti artist Banksy struck in NYC last night. Apparently Banksy hasn’t thrown up anything in NYC since 2008 so the intertubes are all abuzz over this recent find.

I tried to communicate some thoughts regarding the idea of every hipster harry and their entourage running over to the piece in order to snap their picture next to it, pointing at it, or doing some other lame ass thing that hipsters do when things like this pop up all over NYC but my comments were misconstrued to represent my disdain for a difference in personal style. Guess I shouldn’t have opened my statement with a bitch-fest on skinny jeans? Either way, the person that I had a back and forth torrent with later came out to express their interpretation of the image as a doctor looking for life in NYC and being unable to find any. I thought it was an interesting concept – and I suppose to some of us out there, myself included or else I wouldn’t be looking to get out of NYC as a whole, their elucidation holds truth. The interesting thing for me was that as much as I have a difficult time in finding the positive things to see in our city these days, my first estimation when looking at Banksy’s piece was that the doctor was listening to the heart of NYC and was loving it.

If there is anything that can be said about a NYer that is true, it is that we have got some heart. There is definitely a pulse in the underbelly of NYC and even in the grittiest grimiest parts of town, the flavor is clearly identifiable. It bothers me that I forget that I love my city. It bothers me that my life’s experiences have given me this cynical approach to all of the wonderful things that are inherently New York – I already posted the Brooklyn Unite thing and I’m going to really try to run with this idea for the reason that like any abusive relationship, I want to fall back in love with the bitch.

Photo credit: Banksy forum on Flickr.

The Organic Pick-Up

Last week instead of being lazy and taking the downtown E train one stop to transfer to my downtown Brooklyn train, I decided to have a nice quarter or so mile walk into the west-village to catch my train home. I had Sade blaring in my headphones and the weather was almost as perfect as could be; the sun was still shining brightly at 5pm, and the breeze was the type that caught your hair and allowed it to have some organic movement while you walk. I was feeling great – no negative thoughts of Daniel had entered my mind – and I was off the next day to head out of town to a friends house for some much needed away from the city time. Seemingly, I felt on top of the world.

I was strolling east when I noticed a nice looking guy take a double look in my direction. He was noticeably older than I was – but his clothes and his style stood out to me and as a result, I suppose my gaze made its way over to him as well. I continued forward at the same pace I had been walking but he seemed to slow down a tiny bit. In a very adolescent yet charming way, he purposely however accidentally almost hit me with his outstretched arms while he let out a relaxing “what a great day” type of yawn. When he veered back to apologize for almost catching me with his arms, I smiled and said “not a problem”. We strolled together for a block or so and made casual chit chat about the gorgeous weather, the need to go outside on a day like this, and the whereabouts of my office with proximity to where we were currently. “My office is right over here”, he pointed to a tertiary street that only native NYers know exists – and in the next movement he handed me his card. “Do you have a card?” – In my mind I told him “no, my boss doesn’t consider me even nearly important enough to warrant a business card and even if he did my company is so fucking cheap they’d never approve the expense”. Instead, I smiled and apologized for not having one to return to him. So he did what any over 35 year old person would do these days, he asked me for my phone number – not my IM screenname, or if I had a Facebook account he could check out, or whether or not I was on a dating service, or my e-mail; he asked for my phone number. We exchanged digits right as I was about to head down the steps to catch my train back into Brooklyn and I had a Kool-Aid smile on my face for a good 15 minutes afterward.

There is something to be said for the organic ‘pick-up’. It’s been such a long time since something like that has happened to me that I forgot how good it makes a girl feel to have a man sort of court her. We are in such a digital world these days that even as I consider stepping back into the dating world, my first inclination is to activate my various dating profiles to see what’s out there. Has digital media made us that anti-social that instead of putting on a hot outfit and coloring my lips, I’ll sit at home in my living room, hair in a bun, and rock it out? I think it may have done just that.

There are various positives to doing the digital thing and highest on the list for me is that when you are engaging in an online world, you are immediately made aware of your potential matches aptitude with respect to literacy. To some, this probably sounds silly but it has become increasingly more important to me to have a partner who is able to handle their own in the literate universe. Granted, I realized there are probably myriad grammatical errors in my postings (Daniel was my resident editor!) – But on a comparison stand point, I think I do A-OK with the ink-sword and I really yearn for a partner who will bring it correct on the language tip. Believe it or not, this is progressively more difficult to find in a partner. During one of my many Daniel stalking sessions during which I read his Match.com profile, I veered off course and went to the “men seeking women” section to check out what was available with in 5 miles of my area and in the age range of 32-38. God – help – me and keep me strong; Brooklyn is crawling with the uninformed. It wasn’t a total massacre, though. There were quite a few profiles that seemed attractive enough to maybe ‘wink’ at some day and I’m sure when I’m ready, I’ll send them a little nod.

Whether or not my friend of last week calls is really immaterial for me at this point. One significant point I didn’t mention earlier with respect to my organic-suitor is that his business card told me he was the principle of a NYC based Real Estate firm. This may seem like nothing – but in a weird way this sort of validates my growth process. I realize the guy could be a complete scumbag and still have a lot of money and success, but the fact that he is a successful man at all and was attracted my way means that I am omitting something different to the world. Remember my post sometime back in which I mention that the universe watches? I believe this was a bit of an example of that happening in real time. Up until shortly before meeting Daniel, the general type of dude that was attracted my way sat somewhere on the low-level street thug scale and that has seemed to completely cease. I have no doubt that it is what I am giving out to the world in terms of my attitude and my belief that things are going to work out in my favor that is no longer attracting the dregs of society.

It must be my attitude because physically not much has changed on this end. I am still the short white girl with brown hair and strong yet nice-looking looking face that I have been for the last 10 years of my adult life. My frown lines are a tiny bit more defined now and there are some prominent grays atop my head, but all in all I am the same physical specimen. My body hasn’t changed much; I go up and down a range of 10-15lbs as often as people change their panties but all in all I lay somewhere in the range of a size 10-12 American. My tattoos haven’t gone anywhere, so it can’t be that… All in all, I really believe it has to do with looking at the world through a different lens and the lens I am wearing now is somewhat clearer than the murky frames of yesterday.

My personal efforts are paying off and it feels really good to recognize that.

Brooklyn: Unite!!

 

 

I’ve been doing some thinking – Yes, that’s what that smell is.

 

Through various conversations I’ve had recently both as a result of this blog and utter randomness, I have come to the conclusion that I have no one to fault but myself when it comes to choosing to exclude myself from various artistic events happening in the BK. Yes it is certainly true that half of the reason I avoid most of these things is because they’re generally swarming with hipster wanna-be Brooklynites who make my skin crawl, but looking past their dirty-on-purpose vintage store rags and Ray-Bans, some of these fuckers may actually have decent taste in art. I realize this statement may be met with major criticism from my fellow native BKers, but I will stand by it – for now, at least.

 

I have, in-fact, attended various artsy happenings in gentrified Brooklyn in which I actually had a decent time and got to take a peek at some interesting stuff happening. There’ve been readings, film-screenings, and various gallery-events that were not completely dominated by an unimaginative trustrafarian’s attempt to be the next Andy Warhol. I realize they are few and far between, but the reality is that they do exist and by avoiding the gentrified areas of Brooklyn, which unfortunately is where the bulk of the events are, all I am doing is robbing myself of whatever good I may be able to find in Brooklyn while I am still here.

 

My days here are numbered. That number may be high right now, but it’s certainly not infinite and I intend to, at minimum, attempt to grasp on to whatever fun can be had here while I’m still around. I’m met with a couple of roadblocks when I enter this thought pattern. As previously mentioned in a few of my posts, I don’t have a very exposed social circle. This leaves me with a limited amount of folks to which I can forward an event happening with the hopes that they’d be down to join me. Second, and this one really angers me to throw out there but I realize that I may actually be the minority at these events and it does leave me feeling a tiny bit uneasy in terms of having a go at it on the solo tip.

 

The uneasy feeling of facing these events alone brings me to a memory I have of Daniel and I at a rooftop party in Bed-Stuy this past summer. Hipsters love to take advantage of rooftops. When I was a kid, rooftops were used for taking the sun with a visor but these days anywhere north of Brooklyn’s Mason Dixon line which I might go so far as to say sits somewhere between Dark Slope and Sunset Park, rooftops are used for parties, bbqs, and late night movie screenings. Daniel and I ventured out to this event and I was literally the only non-hipster type there, save Daniel (although I am beginning to wonder about this). At some point up on the roof, the I-pod shuffled its way over to Biggie Smalls’ Gimme the Loot. This being one of my all time favorite Biggie tracks enabled me to get my bop on in a serious way. My Kitty emblazoned doorknockers bounced about freely while the beat filled the air and with my fast flow was re-mark-able as I threw out word after word along with Frank White. Daniel knew every word too, and he joined me in the little sing-a-long. We volleyed the verses like Serena and Venus – and our energy was on some serious love shit. I have to admit, I was kind of diggin’ it. Looking around me, I saw Brooklyn to the left and right. I was on a rooftop in Bed Stuy enjoying the likes of one of the very reasons I am proud to be a Brooklynite; good hip-hop ala The B-I-G. All was great and dandy until I noticed that all around me these pasty skinned, too concerned about what every other person at the party thinks about them, daddy-pays-my-rent mother fuckers, were giving me dirty looks! I mean, it wasn’t at all something I needed to figure out here, they were completely giving me the up and down eyeball thing while probably commenting inside their pigeon holed minds about my obnoxious behavior. Man, this is Biggie Fucking Smalls. This is a rooftop in Bed-Stuy Brooklyn. You want to move here and party here? Celebrate Brooklyn. Fuck another person’s opinion. Live it, be it - Rock out to Biggie – Now, I realize there is a great chance that Gimme the Loot may have been a foreign thing to the rest of the attendees. They were probably much more familiar with Juicy or Big Poppa – but don’t be giving me dirty looks cause I know my shit – you fuckers. Shortly after my realizing what was happening, my tone for the remainder of the evening changed. I announced to Daniel that I was pretty much ready to go. He wasn’t, so I went downstairs grabbed my shit and waited on the front stoop until he realized I was gone. About 20 minutes later, after at least 4 sewer rats walked by the stoop as I sat on it in the dark, the tunes of Brand Nubian and Tribe Called Quest filling the summer air around me, he finally came out. We called it a night shortly there after. He never fully understood what had changed and why I needed to get out of there – but you, my native Brooklynites, I trust you get it and that I don’t even really need to decipher the situation.

Fuck all that noise.

 

So, from that warm night with Biggie and a bunch of douche bags comes a bit of an idea. As I mentioned, I was digging the overall tone of the evening. I had my borough around me and aesthetically the night was beautiful. I really want to be able to experience these types of evenings but I want to experience them with my kind of people in tow. This means going out to events – not necessarily those that are completely hipsterfied, but going out to events that give me that same general feeling of ‘I dig this’. Artsy environments do this for me. Being around folks with brains does this for me. Unfortunately, I have a hard time finding things in my part of the BK that satisfy the need for culture and in order to get my fix, I’ll need to venture a bit North.

 

Who Is With Me?! Who’s with me?!? Who – Is – With – Me?!  (Jerry Maguire, anyone?)

 

Are any of you readers out there down with the idea of starting a Real Brooklynites meet-up type of group, in real time, where we can scout out events that may be to our liking and head on over to take advantage of whatever the evening is offering? I am talking about film screenings, poetry or spoken-word readings, (no pansy hipster shit), gallery viewings for mixed media art events, concerts, hiphop nights at bars/clubs, etc., and all other things Brooklyn history and the likes. I am contemplating creating an aggregator – or, at minimum my myself becoming an aggregator, of events that I feel us native and real Brooklynites would be attracted to and I’m thinking of including it as a feature on this blog.  What comes out of it will shape the future of the blog itself but I really believe this may be something that is needed for ‘us’.

 

Let me clarify, too, that a “Real Brooklynite” is not necessarily someone who was born and raised here like us natives. You may have moved here at 10 or even 15 and experienced Brooklyn during its more authentic period. This would constitute you a Real Brooklynite in my opinion. Anyone who did not move to Brooklyn because it was socially expected of them to do so would probably be on the same level of thought as me and those I keep company with. It’s not about geography – it’s about so much more than that. It’s about a state of mind and of consciousness. It’s about having an opinion and sticking to that opinion. It’s about expressing a thought and not being easily wavered when someone chooses to challenge that thought. It’s about being real – and being tough.
 

It’s about being about Brooklyn – not being about the social status being about Brooklyn will bring to you. Do you get that?! If you do – and you want to venture out and experience many of the things that have been somewhat hijacked by the hipster-holes, comment back to this posting and lets see what we can create.

 

Creation, hipsters. Creation. Try it on for size. I bet you an egg-cream it will look better than your too tight jeans. 

 

 

 

 

Fuck you, Daniel ---- and a little more, too!

I’ve been having a bit of a ‘block’ with respect to writing this week. I don’t know why – my thoughts run rampant on a daily basis and I’ve got so much shit trickling through my mind that I can’t even keep track of it. Sometimes I envision the scene in Hackers when the mainframe is attacked and they’re showing all the rambling lines of code – and every now and then a number or a letter becomes illuminated. I suppose the same could be true of the DiVinci Code movie. It’s a constant borage of thoughts floating through the cerebral fluid that is Kitty G.

I’ve had a lot of shit plaguing me this week – There’s the thoughts of Daniel and his would be Match.com meetups that are consistently making me sick. I know I need to not worry about this but it’s really a lot easier said than done. I think one of the major things that is fucking with me is that in his new profile, the section that asks whether or not you want kids is answered with a “definitely”.

Really, Daniel? ‘Definitely’ - ?

Cause, like, a month before our breakup you came to me on some “I never fully committed to having children, Kitty” and these remarks are what sparked one of the angriest arguments we’ve ever had. Now, all of a sudden, you’re ‘definitely’ into the idea of having children? Fuck you! – I told you from the very beginning that I wanted kids more than almost anything. My friends are having children left and right – and above all that, it’s not like I have an abundance of time left in which I can dick around. My biological clock IS ticking like Marisa Tomei’s and I’m not going to pass up the opportunity to perform one of life’s greatest miracles. Shit, even as I type this one of my friends is in the Labor & Delivery ward of a hospital in Staten Island preparing to give birth to her first child. FUCK! What the fuck, Daniel!?

The interesting thing about his “definitely” answer is that in the “describe your perfect match” section, under the ‘wants kids’, he notates that he’d be OK dating women who either “definitely, or someday, or maybe’ want children. – Do you even know what the fuck you want, Daniel? How can you absolutely want children - yet you’ll consider dating someone who may, or may not, mirror your desires? Get your ass to therapy and stop fucking with people’s emotions you heartless fuck.

I think I am slowly entering my anger phase. I wish it would be quicker and that the anger would be fiercer – but, I have to remind myself that I’ve made great strides in allowing myself to feel and that acknowledging my pain is A-OK. That said, I acknowledge that this all still hurts a hell of a lot. And I acknowledge that if I see Daniel with one of his fucking match.com dates in the Bay Ridge area, I will have to hold back on a preposterous scale in order not to spit in both of their entitled faces.

Phew -- Breathe, Kitty. BREATHE!

So – second to all that stuff, I am sort of bugging out on the whole school tip. I took the entrance exam last week and am waiting on the results. 10-14 business days is the expected wait time. It’s like a fucking gestation period… What will be birthed out of the result? I don’t know. I went ahead and did a bunch of additional research on the radiological field and job availability. Turns out that via the opening of tons of programs which suddenly offer this training, the market is completely over-flooded with candidates looking for jobs – and, well, we all know the current state of the economy. There are hardly any jobs, anywhere – even in the land of opportunity that is NYC. With this in mind, I am starting to doubt my next moves. I realize this could be my fear manifesting itself like I said it would – and I’m keeping a watchful eye on all of that. It cannot be denied, however, that facts are facts and if there are 1000 folks looking for work and only 100 jobs, my fears are very real and should be considered on a grand scale. I am looking at managing loan payments for a better portion of the rest of my working career. Do I go ahead and complete this program only to come out – unable to find work – and responsible to pay these notes? It’s a valid concern.

As a back up option to the Radiological program, I have revisited the idea of Nursing. I originally planned to try to get into a nursing program back when Daniel and I were living together. His mother is a hospital bigwig down in Florida and when Daniel and I were planning what I thought was the rest of our lives, Nursing seemed a very smart career choice for a number of reasons. Just because he is no longer a part of the future plan doesn’t mean that I should forget that there is a lot of success and, more importantly, merit in the nursing industry. I’m a caring person – and my bedside manner is amazing (just ask the trannys :P) – so, I’m sure this would be a smart career choice. The fact that all of my thoughts are centered around medicine in some respect is a bit calming. At least I know I’m not barking up the wrong tree completely.

In order to move forward and get into one of the two full time nursing programs offered in the evenings in NYC, I need to complete various pre-requisite courses on the Liberal Arts and Basic Sciences. I did the preliminary research and it looks like there are around 6 classes I’ll need to complete by June 2011. I think it’s certainly possible and I’m looking forward to this as a serious back-up consideration if the Radiological stuff doesn’t seem like the best way to go.

So, yeah – this is just a random spewing of the thoughts that are going through my mind today. I wanted to throw something out there in terms of a posting and I just didn’t know where to go with it. Sorry if it’s a bit of a ramble. I know I tend to do that on occasion. It’s the Brooklyn in me!

Speaking of Brooklyn – Tour De Brooklyn is June 6th – it’s 18 miles and it starts in Williamsburg and ends in Williamsburg with a stop off at Redhook Park. God, I never thought I’d be considering doing a bike tour that takes me to RedHook. Brooklyn sure has changed, huh? I know a bunch of you readers are Brooklynites. I see your locations on my stat-finder software ;) (big brother is always watching, motherfuckers!!) – so I am just throwing this little tidbit out there as an FYI.