Goodbye My Lover.

It happened as I slid down the slide in Central Park. I knew it was coming. I had been trying to hold on for so long but the inevitable happened…..

My favorite pair of sandals broke.

Okay so they arent even “sandals.” It was a pair of flip flops from Old Navy like four years ago. They were brown on the bottom (at one time) with an amazing design etched in silver on the bottom. A silver strap that matched any outfit. Yea I have better shoes. I have shoes that would outshine them anyday. But I had a love affair with those fuckin things. I’ve walked beaches, streets, the Dominican Republic, even a club in those things. But it was time. Time for the end of a beautiful thing. ha.

So I half walked half dragged my feet to GAP where I promptly chose a pair to replace my old love. A rebound, yes. Suede bottom with yes, silver staps.

But don’t worry my favorite pair, you shall never be forgotten. And I’m not mad at all that you chose to snap on my way down the double slide with the mini me. I know, I know. It was about damn time.

 

I couldnt find pictures of my lovers. But these are the rebound ones I quickly bought while walking around GAP barefoot. Not too bad for 30 bucks.

Back Into Time.

So if I was married, I would be writing that last year I had an affair. But since I’m not, I didn’t. I left for a while and shit happened. And trust, shit had never happened. Not in three years. But this isn’t about the actual incident. It’s about the circumstance.

The Other Guy…

I’m guessing he was just starting to talk to a chick. I was in the “fuck that asshole” phase with Briana’s father and I pretty much pranced on his ass. But he was cute. Just not on my level. I’m here, with a baby. He’s there, being young like he had every right to. It happened once. We kept in touch for a while. But of course I ended up right back to where I had thought I didn’t want to be. A year passes, but I never take him off my friends on myspace. Of course we like to be nosey sometimes. I see the girl. He’s still with her. I look at them, and I see… me. I see me and the BD. It’s amazing. I mean yea okay maybe her being Italian (I’m pretty sure) and him Dominican might be a big part of it. But everything. The love in their eyes. The pictures of them doing random shit (Central Park, museums, etc). And its like, I know their relationship. I know that it’s her putting him onto all of these amazing things. And it gets scarier. He’s in culinary school. Yes. They are me and the BD four years ago. I don’t know, things like that are just plain weird. It’s not something you really have a position to talk about. But, the thing that bugs me, is since I feel like I see us, I worry. I’ve seen a point where they must have broke up because he wrote a poem for her. And I just know. Eh. I see him, he loves her. But he’s being a 21 year old. He probably fucks up here and there. Me seeing us in them has nothing to do with that one night stand. That has no effect on my opinion. I just feel like shes me 4 years ago. And I don’t want her to be me now. Not that I hate who I am, but I hate the negatives about my relationship. We love eachother, but we crossed so many lines, there are days where we despise eachother. And then again, I am a bit jealous. To see what me and mine once were. All I can hope is that he appreciates her. Because that’s what it is all about. If I’m right about it. But then again, why the fuck do I care?

 

Pain In The Ass. Literally.

I spent last night in St. Barnabas. No, not an island where I sipped on Pina Coladas and tanned on the beach. St. Baranabas Hospital. To get the cyst on the top of my ass drained. Friday I went to another hospital and they just gave me some pain killers and antibiotics and told me to keep heat on it. Well the heat made the cyst ready to burst, to the point that I could’t even walk. So last night I called my friend Angie and asked her to come with. After standing in the waiting room for about an hour I was called in. Spending a few hours in the hospital at night can be very entertaining. There was a crazy man who had stripped naked in the train station and they had him in a full body harness, about 10 NYPD surrounding him. The doctor looks at my ass. I tell him I have a cyst and he needs to drain it. He asks me am I sure. I wonder if I want this guy near my ass. Another doc comes, she tells me I need an anal exam or some shit. Great, more violation. The two fingers up my ass was the least of my worries. Apparantly, even when they inject the area around a cyst with numbing shit, the infection neutralizes the numbing stuff and you feel it any damn way. So he takes the scapel, he cuts it. Right away 3 CCs of blood. The nurse almost faints. He squeeeeezes. FUCKKKK. He uses the scizzors. FUCKKKKK. He squeezes more. Okay this is definitly more painful than the two epidurals. Angies pregnant and wants a sandwich. A man is suicidal. Two girls at 2 in the morning. Where are their parents? A little girl with conjuntavitus, an ear infection keeps bothering her mother. Is that Briana in a few years? God help me. A man dies after only having a fever. A fight breaks out in the waiting room over a seat. All while I have a hole in the top of my ass packed with gauze. The good part? I’ve got some strong meds and a reason to be taken care of.

What a fuckin night.

Allan Houston’s Father Day Retreat.

I’m on heavy meds from this cyst on my back but Im still taking my ass to Rucker Park tomorrow. Rebound is absolutely my favorite movie ever (The Legend of Earl Maningault) and I have yet to go to a damn celebrity tournament or any tournament at that at Rucker. Ive always been too busy. So now that I’m covering it for Ballerstatus, I’m not missing it. Who needs alcohol when you’re woozy off of Tylenol Codine. Ok, im off to lay down. Need much rest for tomorrow.

 

 

UPDATE: OK. I was in way to much pain. I so didn’t go. I couldn’t get out of bed.

To the bitch on 79th st.

So. I decided to take Briana to the Childrens Museum over on 83rd. Briana says she wants to walk and I agree, since they say theres not much room for strollers at the museum anyway. I would normally call this a dumb idea but I’m hoping she’ll be okay by next semester to walk and save my arms from getting any bigger than they already are from carrying that damn stroller plus her 30 lb ass up a million flights of steps. So we get out of the train and already she’s giving me problems. She swears she doesn’t have to hold my hand and as I’m looking in my bag for something, she starts walking up the block. My calls are ignored. I grab her and make her stop and she turns around and walks again. It’s a joke to her. Terrible twos is not the word. I grab her again and hold her arm. “Briana do you want me to beat you?” Okay so maybe the word beat just sounds so bad. Perhaps it could have been replaced with spank. But truth is I really felt like saying beat. I’d rather beat her butt for not listening than watch a car hit her and there’s no more Briana. As I’m saying this a woman with a little girl a little older than Briana walks from around a corner and says to me “Did you just say you’re going to beat your daughter? That’s so horrible….” She said more but I was so in shock I don’t remember. I could have cursed her out, told her to mind her business, but I’d only give her more ammo to walk away with. Then I’d be the ghetto spanish girl (mind you I’m white! But no one believes it, so I’m positive she didnt either) who’s subwayed her ass from uptown somewhere with the child she abuses. I’ve told people so far and both have told me they would have gone off, would have cursed the bitch out. I just ignored her. Instead I had a billion thoughts running through my head. I thought about the differences in mothering when it comes to race, when it comes to location. If I had have said that in the Bronx, no one would have thought a thing. I could have actually been beating her. Mouths would stay shushed. And its amazing to me that I’m always the one who feels so bad for a kid on the train who was only trying to look out the window or tell his or her mom about something that happened in school that day and gotten smacked, or yelled at. I was a spoiled kid. I’d lay on my moms lap while she played with my hair. But I know that having hardly ever heard no, it’s hard for me now. And I dont want Briana to be that way. I want her to be a happy kid who has it all, but if I see she’s out of line, then my hand is going to her ass. It’s nothing ghetto. It’s nothing new. We burried my grandmother with a wooden spoon, much like the one she used to beat my dad and his brothers and sister with. As I walked towards the museum I thought about the stereotypes that white people don’t dicipline their kids. That they are the ones who run wild, throw the biggest tantrums, and the moms do nothing. I thought about how people say its black women who beat their kid’s asses the most, the reason they are so quiet, silent on the train next to them. I feel like I can talk freely about stereotypes because I can’t say anything defensive without defending myself. I’m white, I have a half spanish child living in the Bronx. And that’s why I stood shut. I’m so far in between the two lines, I’m lost. It’s two totally different worlds in NYC; and I somehow mesh into both, but never quite feeling in place. I walk around with my Bugaboo downtown, trying not to let my dirty italian mouth let loose, bribes for icecream instead of threats of punishments leave my mouth. The mothers stare you down. Are you one of them? The ones who know I’m not half smile. The ones who feel just like me let out big grins. Uptown I walk around with Bri, recieving stares. My daughter isn’t wearing the same “kind of clothes.” She wears funky colors that don’t match, or a vintage dress with boots. I get the smiles and the “oh how cute!’s” and I get the looks thinking “she thinks she better than us.” Here I let out my curses and I feel more free to spank Bri on the butt after 20 warnings. I’m torn. Torn between the world I was raised in, and the world I raised myself in. But at the end of the day, my issue was not about me. It wasn’t about how I punish my daughter or where I do it at. She’s two, I know. A terrible two at that. RIght now it seems as though nothing works. Bribes don’t work. A spanking doesn’t work. She hits, she cries, she screams, she runs. I know time is the essence, but it’s becoming miserable. I see myself more and more choosing days indoors than a fun trip somewhere. I want to enjoy every moment with her, but she’s making it hard. The cute stuff causes me to laugh and forget for a moment that I’m going crazy, but at the end of the day, I’m tired. I need a break. I have a full summer ahead of me and I’m already exausted. I know, this too shall pass. But fuck you lady for butting into my business.

The mini me.

Oh how I love this little girl. But oh how she is such a bad ass. Take today for example: a simple task of walking a few blocks to fax some paperwork. She’s pushing her baby stroller with Lambchop (yes the same one I had as a baby) and a frog bookbag attatched to the back. The place I normally go to’s fax machine isnt working, so we proceed. Well being that Bri likes to do anything and everything she sees me do, we pass the train and what does she do: pick up the stroller the same exact way I carry it and starts walking up the steps. “Briana no! We’re not taking the train today! Let’s go!” She ignores me and keeps trying to carry her baby up the steps. I laugh but I know this is going to be hell. I grab her, she cries and kicks, insisting we take the train. To where? With what money? Oh how I wish she could understand those questions and actually answer them. We finally get to where we’re going. On our way back she decides to push her baby right through a mud muddle and splash! her baby and bookbag are black. “You see Briana, this is why I don’t let your ass walk!” Now when I see four year olds in strollers, I won’t ask questions.

Going Postal

So I was held hostage in the post office today. Okay not really. But it was close. They were about to close and it was only one lady working so she locked the door so no one else could come in. There were like eight of us and we had to wait for the last one to finish so the grumpy postal worker could open the door and set us free. Now I have been quoted saying several times that I wish I could have Kat Williams with me at all times so in any situation that could potentially piss me off I’d have him to say some funny ass shit to make me laugh, but instead we had a middle aged Puerto Rican doing it for him. He was quite funny telling everyone he was about to loose it and repeated a joke that I guess only I got considering I’ve seen Clueless about a thousand times… “So this is why they go postal.”

 

HA…HA