I wonder if you will get this...

I just logged into friendster for the first time in what seems like, well, the first time. I saw an absolutely stunning picture of you and I just wanted to let you know that you kick serious ass.

I feel compelled to comment mainly b/c your message to me pointed me to Desi Doll, the reading of which made me smile with memories of what it was like to spend time with beautiful and brilliant women. I hope that your brilliance is still shining away.

Take care of yourself. You are missed more places than you know.
--Krum
Washington, DC

Thank you for this e-mail...it totally made my day!

From Lars, With Love

D'Souza,

I could not bring myself to watch this video beyond the first couple of seconds. I realized that one of the fish involved was my cousin, Sukino. Sukino and I shared rice paddies near each other growing up. We actually share a number of ancestors and became very close as we lived in such close proximity to one anoother - but we never got too close for obvious reasons.

Sukino looks a little feeble here and I understand from Sweetness personified that you are interested in testing out the theory about my species: Fighting Fish. Really, we just get territorial, and if you poke a fish enough it will eventually do a lot of things. Poor Sukino!

Anyway, I pass this video I found on YouTube along in hopes that you spare my life. I imagine that my relative Sukino is a good indication of how well I fight...I mean, I got caught didn't I? I swam from that net but came face to face with my arch nemisis Shinto. I figured the net and life in your home would be better than any plans Shinto had in store for me.

Please, don't make me defend my territory!
Let me float in this vase with the bamboo on this black ledge above the rice cooker perched precariously on the red shelf below me in your tiny kitchen; reminiscing about Sukino and I, back in the day, in the rice paddies.

Your fish,
Lars

NYC has Me

I thought you were sleepless.
No, that’s Seattle.
I don’t sleep.

I thought you had Sunshine.
No, that’s Florida
I have the Sunshine Theater.

I thought you had…
Oh, never mind.
What do you have?

I have bodegas around the corner
Posters of the sole 9/11 mourner
I have the crossroads of the world
Black and white sailors as nurses swirl

Year-round rooftop gardens flowering
All around me buildings towering
Natives and transplants cowering
All around me love is souring

“Empire State” they all hail--
Thieves rotting in jail
Kids on parental bail
My elderly aren’t frail
Ships arrive and set sail
I’ve withstood every gale
To Christ’s cross some nail
Sirens of all manner wail
My people seldom trail
Irrespective of life’s ail
I brew the perfect ale--
All other cities pale!

I have color
I have class
I have flavor
I have sass

I have you.

Elegy for Someone I Never Met

From Ashes to Ashes
From Dust to Dust
Another father laid to rest.
Another teen fails breathalizer test.

This time it's not just NEWS.
This time it's real.
This time it's Her Father.
Hoping this is the only time.

Eulogy escapes
Empty embraces
Exhausted faces
Family paces.

Sexy Six

“The next and last stop on this train will be Brooklyn Bridge,” the garbled voice of the subway sputtered.

I smiled mischievously at him.

We’d been fighting, recently. What would have been usual for most couples was unusual for us. The stress of him being promoted to Senior Manager was co-mingling with our newly established co-habitation to create a tension we were ill-equipped to alleviate.

As the doors opened and the last spray of passengers disembarked, I pushed him firmly into the two-person purple seat on the refurbished 6-train. Grabbing his thick black hair, I yanked his head back and thrust my face firmly into his unleashing a provocative kiss.

He didn’t fight me. He didn’t protest. He wasn’t alarmed by the closing doors.

Just as the train pulled out of the Downtown station to loop around to the Uptown side, I hiked up my flowing orange skirt and straddled him; my knees felt cold against the hard seat. Before he could utter dissent, I reached down and unzipped his trousers, my tongue drawing X’s on his—distracting him—as I pulled him inside me. I bucked as the train rocked.

Our bodies were locked as the 6 train skidded around the first precarious, dimly-lit bend pulling past the carcass of a former station; around the horseshoe towards the lights of a breathing station.

My body tightened as I realized the brevity of the ride. He responded to my stiffness, wrapping his arms around my waist, soothing my tension with his fingers—playing his song into me. His encouragement to get me focused on us—to stay in the present moment—failed. I lost my nerve.

I jumped off him suddenly, straightening my skirt, instinctively raking my fingers through the mass of curls on my head. He looked up at me quizzically. Sitting in the seat with his hair tousled and his pants undone he looked as vulnerable as I’d ever seen him. His velvety brown eyes melted mine as he stood up and zipped back up. I couldn’t tell if he felt rebuffed or relieved.

“Are you mad?” I asked, tentatively, as the doors opened.“Mad at you? No, why?”

“I dunno. I just thought you might be mad. Forget it.” I muttered, embarrassed.

“Why would I be mad? I have the coolest girlfriend in the whole world. How many people actually do it on the 6 train?” His smile was as wide as his pride.

“Did we really do it though? Does that count?”

“Oh, it counts if we make it count. I say it counts! What do you say?”

I knew he wasn’t just talking about the train.

I smiled back, relieved, “We are going to make it count!”

Opal 2 for 1 Tuesdays

I used to go to Opal all the time when I lived on E. 54th St. but my loyalty dwindled when I moved to the UES then FiDi. Now it's squarely between FiDi and SpaHa, so my allegiance has resurfaced in light of their 2-4-1 deal on Tuesdays.

Yesterday, I was sitting outside with my friend--she's preggers--and she complained incessantly about maternity clothes being too revealing and cleavage boasting. I couldn't really sympathize on either count but her general negativity made me seem like the paragon of Sweet optimism--odd, that was!

Incidentally, she's due next month, she continues to imbibe intoxicants in increments irrespective of her indiposed status. I'm not sure I condone it but I certainly don't condemn her choice.

Turkish Kitchen

I'm going to dinner at Turkish Kitchen today with an Afghani colleague.

I LOVE that Donner Kebab...mmm, been craving it all day! I can practically smell it...half an hour to go.

Gloom and Doom

This weather just puts a damper on my sass. I feel no pizzazz and the energy levels are dipping dangerously low.

Will not go on a gloomy tangent...no doom will befall me.

Coinstar

I put 302 dimes, 43 quarters, and 2 dollar coins into this nifty machine at the Duane Reade on Broad St. After charging me 8.9cents/dollar, it gave me $39.08. Hazzah!

Tomorrow I return with my ziplock bag full of nickels and pennies. I'd be happy with half that loot...fingers crossed.

Betta: Lars

We went to Petco on Sunday and purchased a red Betta fish and black Betta gravel.

Our original plan had been to buy two goldfish but given their brief lifespans sans filtrated tank, we opted for the longevity of a Betta in a bowl.

I have a vase with three stalks of bamboo purchased from Ikea. The Betta--I named him Lars--now swims in the vase on a black, upside L-shelf D'Souza bought from Linens N' Things.

D'Souza has his heart set on a larger fish tank but I thought it best to start with Lars. He seems to enjoy his new digs, swimming rapidly up and around inside the conditioned water amidst bamboo above glistening gravel. Photos to follow.

Waging Weekend War

D'Souza and I spent the weekend fighting.

Nothing major...per se. His share of asinine statements and justifications of them follow.

The way he kicked off the weekend:
D'Souza: "I mean I'm sure you thought you wouldn't be here 5 years ago. I'm sure you thought you'd make a lot more of yourself by this age."
Clearly not the topic of conversation one wishes to have at work on a Friday afternoon.
His Justification: "I thought I'd be a lot farther along at this age. I meant it the same way for you as I did for me. I think of myself as a failure."
Not sure how this makes it alright for me. It's interesting that he is quick to note how non-judgemental he is...hard to see that from this statement.

Highlight from Saturday morning:
D'souza: "I hope he dies."
In reference to my grandfather who is my heart's delight and is actually sick at present. Incidentally, he is not my granddaddy's biggest fan.
His Justification: "Well, I just said it like you say it about your stepdad. I meant it as a joke."
Of course, this did not assuage my tears. If anything happens to my Acha....sniffle.

There are others...oodles of them. These just stuck in my mind.

ACLU's Morning Greeter

Of course, I sent this right along to the Tea Girls...

I am with Jo's query below:

"So, does this mean that “ACLU Jews” are the anti-christ (in other words, Jewish people who work at the ACLU), or does it mean that the ACLU AND Jews are the anti-christ? Or is it telling the ACLU that Jews are the anti-christ — ACLU, Jews are the anti-christ. That last meaning would only work if this man were missing a comma. I’m guessing there’s a good chance he’s missing a lot of things..."

Sticks and Stones Won't Break my Bones

But words will always hurt me.

I'm sensitive and I'd like to stay that way. circa 1996 Jewel's first album.

D'Souza and I had a fight today. Never good to fight at work. Even worse to sit in tears at your desk--hard to sell your monitor made you cry.

Boo. Friday the 13th sucks.

She's Come Undone

After Memoirs of a Geisha I became a believer in Oprah's Book Club. Secret Life of Bees gave credence to my choice and She's Come Undone has sealed the deal. Like I always say, "First time is just chance, second is coincidence, but three times...that's a pattern!"

The book isn't a page turner but I couldn't help but turn all the pages this weekend as D'Souza complained about how much work he had to do and procrastinated. He put up shiny, new ceiling lamps we had purchased this Saturday from Home Depot and installed an Ikea mirror in the shower. No, you sickos, he wants to shave his tough beard in the shower so he needs it to ensure minimun chin cutting.

Dolores Price the unlikely heroine is given voice by Wally Lamb. Just as I had balked at Arthur Golden's penning of that geisha's story this book had me checking the jacket cover just to validate--a MAN wrote this?!

Incidentally, I kept imagining Dante Davis--Dolores' husband--to be a spitting image of a boy in my writing class I recently learned was engaged. Not sure why...something about vulnerability and being a writer. Something about being rail thin and tall; teaching English to high school students--all meshed together seemed complete--Dante D=Brian G.

I won't give it all away but I will say that fight as we might we are prone to model the mistakes of our parents--therapy and food can only create awareness or avoid facing it--it won't shake behavior off its trajectory. The other big message in the book was "Take a risk. Engage outwardly." Not lessons I needed to learn, but in the spirit of relating to the novel and identifying with the protaganist I took it all to heart. I'm not an emotional eater but I found myself drowning in it as I read...mirroring Dolores Price.

Reading about depression slapped a bout of it into me: I couldn't get out of bed until nearly 1pm today. I remembered how I had battled the urge to stay in bed for the majority of my junior year of high school. How I'd fought against it my freshman year of college--the year I spent mostly hungover. How living in a windowless room last year had sent me spiralling back to sleeping through stress to avoid my problems and the people who questioned this choice. Renewal through slumber I defined it, but it really was escapism. Avoiding the harsh truth of living...nay, surviving...coping via not dealing.

I have a window now. I have D'Souza. I have my health. I have Luckey. I have a job--of sorts--I'm taking this great writing class...what more is there? My life is good. Grand even, as Norman liked to say. What possible right did I have to be depressed?

Sitting at home all weekend spooning Haagen Dazs chocolate chip cookie dough into my mouth waiting for the morsels I spoonfed D'souza to melt on his tongue before I could put more in him before it found its way into me.

I'm not Dolores Price. I'm not Dolores Price. I'm not Dolores Price.

Lunch Date

As I hurry down the steps of 125 Broad St. I instinctively reach for my cell phone from the recesses of my purse to check the time. He hates when I'm late. I'm not! Just as I heave a sigh of relief, my phone starts vibrating--I turned off the ringer at work, seems the most courteous approach--it's him.

My eyes scan the street ahead to see his signature strut in a navy suit with white pinstripes; reminds me of a page break in Word. His tattered brown, leather shoulder bag hangs awkwardly at his side, try as it does, it can't match his stride. He balances his weight like an athelete bouncing from side to side--it doesn't sound it--but it's the picture of masculine grace. Even in a full suit, you can see his shapely physique. The wide shoulders narrowing at the waist where the white shirt pinches into his black belt with an over-sized silver buckle. Perched on the bridge of his thick nose, his sunglasses below his geled spiky hair, give his face the sleek contour of an aerodynamic insect. His lips are pursed in a look reminiscent of Ben Stiller's in Zoolander: Magnum. As I drink in this picture, I realize I haven't been breathing since the moment I spied him. I exhale.

I check an impulse to run towards him, my curling hair flying in the breeze. I take measured steps toward him ensuring my heels aren't clicking too loudly on the concrete. He sees me and hangs up. His face lights up in a wide smile; his teeth are lightening in the dark sky of his face. I feel my face flush as my lips part reflexively mirroring his mannerism. My pulse quickens in time with my pace. We meet in the middle of the block...my pink polo and black, drawstring skirt in sharp contrast to his business attire. We kiss--softly, slowly, sensually.

Living with D'Souza doesn't keep me from sneaking out to lunch with him on leisurely summer Fridays.

Couch Doctor

Once the ordeal of packing is done, the wait for the movers kicks in...once they finally arrive and load up the truck you realize the dust that has accumulated under everything you owned must now be cleaned up so the person who will occupy the space that was yours will have a fresh start...meaning you clean for a stranger but lived in dusty squalor. Ironic?

After the truck has been unloaded into your new home, you understand that it isn't nearly as big as you imagined it to be in the drunken moments of euphoria that enveloped you when you jumped up and down hugging the broker for taking 15% of your annual rent. Next you note that while packing was a fucker--at some point you stopped being tidy and just started throwing shit willy nilly into boxes and taping them shut--unpacking is going to be a motherfucker. So you distract yourself by compiling long lists of things you need from Wal-Mart, Ikea, Target, and Home Depot...giving little thought to the fact that everything on the list costs MONEY.

Finally, you start breaking down boxes by unburdening their contents onto rickety white shelves in an organzied fashion; fervently hoping your glassware doesn't meet a shattering fall while you sleep on a mattress on the ground a few feet away.

Amidst these glaring realities the movers discovered that the couch doesn't in fact fit through the narrow doorway of your new abode. Thankfully, the smidgen of outdoor space includes an arch above the doorway--the perfect enclosure to stand the beloved couch sideways--as it awaits the couch doctor.

Yes, there is such a thing. What he does is disassemble, move in, then reassemble the couch seamlessly for a small fee of $275 plus tax. Yes, you could buy a cheap couch for that price but the Ethan Allen couch mother gave me--the only remnants from her single parent house ownership period that I claimed--easily costs 15-20 times the couch doctor charges for a house visit. So atop the $420 I forked over to the movers with tip, I'm out another $300.

Damn, moving is expensive.