I Left My Change In San Francisco

I’m in. Well, yea. You guessed it. I wasn’t looking forward to coming because I was here last summer. And I froze my booty off. I hate going to California and then it’s cold. It seems very wrong. It’s not supposed to be cold in Cali.

Got in early yesterday morning. My room wasn’t ready yet, so I walked over to Fisherman’s Warf. It was sweltering hot! I had brought a sweat shirt and jacket because I was still freezing from the plane ride. But I stripped down and enjoyed the heat. I don’t think the people there liked it very much, but I did.

I looked in the shops. Explored a bit. Sat on a bench to listen to some live street music. There were lots of homeless around though, begging. It was close to lunch time and I was starting to get hungry. So, I stopped at In and Out. I usually don’t eat that stuff, but you can’t get that in New York, so I decided to try it. Got my stuff and sat at an outdoor table to eat. I passed a little homeless woman holding a cup, on the way.

So, here’s my thing with the homeless. I pass so many homeless folks at home in Manhattan, that I can’t give to everyone. Therefore, I really don’t give to anyone. It’s a shame, but you can’t give to everyone.

I didn’t give anything to the little woman with the cup. But I sat down and kind of ate across from her. I felt a little guilty doing that. But I did. There was no place else to sit.

Half way through my burger and fries, a woman came out of the Sunglasses Hut across from me. She started talking to me about a dog she saw in the eye glass store. I answered her and smiled. Then, she asked me for money to buy some In and Out. I’m thinking, Oh snap! She got me. I told her I spent my last dollars on what I was eating. She asked for a nickel or a dime. I reached into my bag and pulled out some change and gave it to her, then offered her my fries. She turned it down.

I just wanted to get rid of her without a fight.

I look across at the little homeless woman across from me, and I could swear she shook her head at me. But, no, she couldn’t have.

The woman I gave the money to left, then came back and spoke to me again. I answered again. Looked over at my little lady, and sure enough she gives me a dirty look. I think she’s pissed at me! I can’t believe it. This lady is annoyed with me. I guess she was pissed because I gave the one homeless woman a dime and gave nothing to her. And to boot, I sat right in front of her and ate.

I high tailed it out of there after a few moments. I didn’t want an altercation with her just in case she was feisty.

I think I like the homeless folks in New York better. They are much more polite.

Eat Shit Purge

The movie, Eat Pray Love is out, with Julia Roberts. I’m boycotting. I boycotted the book too. I boycott all of Oprah’s books.

I was intrigued when I first heard of the book because everyone was reading it. But then I saw the author’s interview on Oprah. And I didn’t get it. So big deal, she ate some pasta, walked around in bare feet for a couple of weeks, then met some old, hot Latin dude and went home. What the fuck? What’s all the damn fuss about?

Do you think she would have given two shits about the pasta if she had met the hot Latin guy first? Nope. If she met the hot guy in Italy before gorging on bow tie pasta in pink cream sauce, she would have avoided gaining twenty pounds and been done with it. Screw praying with the monks. I’m outa here!

But no, she had to go on her journey. Gain ten pounds. Find peace. Then, meet the guy. Like she was never gonna meet the guy until all that happened?

I think it’s bullshit.

It all sounds so philosophical until she meets the hot dude. Then, it’s bullshit. Because why are we never happy until we meet a guy? Why couldn’t Julia do all the stuff; eat the pasta, meditate. Then go home? And write the book.

No. She wasn’t happy enough.

Until she found a man.

Gee, ladies. Whatever happened to us not needing a man to fulfill us? I guess that’s all out the window. ‘Cause Oprah says so.

It's Raining Cats and Dogs. Not Men.

I know that people are animal lovers. They love their dogs. They love everything about their dogs. They love their dogs’ poop. They love their dogs so much that they don’t mind touching their hot steaming load of poop with their bare hands. So much that they’ll walk around holding the hot steaming poop for while, until they find a proper place to put it.

They love their pooches so much they'll step over a homeless person to be sure man's best friend shits in the place of its choice.

Sometimes I think many folks love their pooches more than people.

I don’t want to offend anybody here because I am aware of how people feel, but I’m just stating some observations.

I was out to dinner one night with my BFF, Tara. It was like 500 degrees out. We sat outside at an Italian restaurant. We thought we’d have a relaxing dinner. And we were. But all of a sudden we both heard whining. Where was it coming from? The table next to us. These two twenty-somethings were kvetching about God knows what. And they wouldn’t stop. It wasn’t just me. They were making Tara crazy too. Then, a friend of theirs drops by. The friend has two dogs with her. What the…?

This isn’t the first time I’ve witnessed this. What’s up with people bringing their pets to restaurants? And what’s up with them being allowed in with their pets? I don’t get it!

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love animals as much as the next guy. But I don’t want them at my dinner party. For various reasons. Hair in my food, being one of them. A trip to the emergency room being another.

Listen, some people are very allergic to animal dander. My sister, Sookie, has a serious allergic reaction to dogs and cats. If she’s exposed, un-medicated, she can’t breathe.

People come into restaurants with their dogs. The dog may be on a leash or in their purse, but they’re in. And the weird thing is, the restaurants allow it. I have a problem with it. I love my dog too, but I don’t feel it’s appropriate to bring a pet to a restaurant. It is unsanitary, impolite, stinky, and people have very bad allergies to pets. So, it’s wrong for people to bring them there, but even more wrong for the owners to allow it. That’s all I’m saying.

The same thing goes for airplanes. I was on a flight with Sookie a few months ago. She is highly allergic to animals, including house pets (cats and dogs). If she knows she is going to a home with pets, she needs to medicate prior to the visit. If she doesn’t she has a severe allergic reaction, which could land her in the hospital. So it’s serious.

So sue me.

Families & Babies & Strollers. Oh My!

The Upper East Side is over populated with families pushing strollers. So much so that you can’t even friggin’ walk down the street without tripping over one of them. You can’t even get past them. They take up the whole damn block.

The hot husband, the frumpy wife, the three-year-old and the stroller. I hate them. I hate them all. Is that wrong of me? Am I a bad person? Am I just bitter because they are not me? I don’t know. But that’s the way I feel and I’m not the only one. My other single BF’s on the UES also feel the same way.

You can’t spit without hitting a pregnant woman and her stroller. What’s up with that? I thought there was an influx of single women in Manhattan. Why do all of them seem to be pregnant or breast-feeding? I’m sick and tired of it. And they are all over 35. I’ll tell you that. They are not young.

And the fathers in their plaid shorts and flip-flops are so attentive, they really piss me off.

Not to mention, the kids are brats. On the bus, on the train, on the street, in restaurants. The kids don’t shut the fuck up. Their parents or nannies let them be loud and disrupt the whole place. Whatever happened to, “Children should be seen and not heard.” Whatever happened to that? That’s how I was brought up. If I made a peep in a public place, I’d get my head handed to me. Right there. In the public place. And then again when we got home.

Now, the children run the roost. We value their opinion. Why? They’re two! What the hell do they know? They don’t even know right and wrong. They’re never taught it.

Time out my ass.

And I’ve learned not to go to a restaurant at six o’clock. If you do, you’re in for family night. Frumpy Mom, hot Dad, screaming two-year-old, breast-feeding infant. So much for a relaxing dinner.

I hate them and I think they should be banned from restaurants, along with the people who bring their dogs out to eat.

Reasons 2

When I got home, I immediately got on my computer. I had tried searching for him in the past, without luck. But those times I only used his first and last names. I got the idea to add his middle name and see what came up.

I looked on Facebook. No luck.

I Googled his full name. A few names popped up. But how could you tell if one of those was him?

My Space? Nope.

I typed in the high school name and graduation year. But you had to sign up and pay in order to get info.

Then some sites came up which do credit checks, etc. One gave several names and relatives names.

I was getting closer.

Then a site gave several partial email addresses that he might have. That gave me an idea. I could type in is first initial and last name, then do “...@hotmail.com, ...@aol.com, ...@yahoo”, etc. So I did.

I did like six emails like that. I wrote, “Eric? Is that you? I just heard “Reasons” tonight on WBLS Quiet Storm and thought of you. If this is you, please write back. I’d love to hear from you.” Something like that.

I did it. Then, just forgot about it.

The next day, I received a few emails saying that those emails didn’t go through. Something about, “Undeliverable” or “Error” or something.

“Oh well,” I thought. I’ll have to think of something else. I just didn’t know what that was yet.

After 11 PM that night, my Blackberry chimed. I had an email. I ignored it. Probably Shecky’s telling me there was a big shoe sale on. And God knows, I do not need one more pair of Christian Louboutins. Come to think of it, can one really ever have enough Louboutins? I think not.

And further more, now that I have two Blackberries, I’m flippin’ tired of looking at that damned thing all day long. (Is the plural of Blackerry, ‘Blackberries’?)

I digress.

About 20 minutes later, I took a look.

The email said. ‘I only know one Blue Shoes Manhattan. Who is this?”

Hmmm. Maybe I’ll write back. Maybe it’s him. How many people even know anyone named Blue Shoes Manhattan? My heart was pounding.

I wrote on my Blackberry, “Did you live on Sesame Street in xxxx Town?”

He says, “Were you best friends with Sookie?”

I’m like, “Were you buddies with Bill Compton?”

“It’s me! Blue Shoes Manhattan!”

“I can’t believe it’s you! I’ve missed you forever!”

What? My high school crush missed me forever? He ignored me throughout four years of high school!!

I wrote back, “I’ve missed you even longer than that.”

It was really him. My high school crush!

This went on for hours. It was really so exciting. I can’t believe I really found him and he was receptive and didn’t delete me!

I fell asleep writing to him.

The next day we started again. He asked if he could call me. I agreed.

So, I spoke with him the next day. It was so surreal. Like a dream. His voice was the voice I remembered, just a little more polished. He would never call me in high school. How I longed for him to. And now, 30+ years later, there he was, on the other end of my phone, speaking of how nervous he was to talk to me. How happy he was to hear from me. How lucky we were to have found each other.

I didn’t want to get off the phone. I didn’t want to wake up.

Turns out, however, he was married. Has been for 20 years. Two grown children.

But of course he was. It’s me we’re talking about! If he were available, he probably wouldn’t have missed me or he wouldn’t have written back, or something. (Not that there’s anything wrong with me, but that’s just my luck.)

One thing I know, if I died tomorrow, I’d be satisfied in the fact that Eric, the love of my life, liked me too.

Oh, My Aching Back

My back went out last week. Holy mother of God! What a nightmare! What pain. It’s a week and a half later and I’m still on my back, and not in a good way.

It is not the first time this has happened. It happened twice; once about five years ago, and just three months ago. It’s really weird. It’s not like it happens when I’m doing something strenuous. It happens when I’m placing down something light or reaching for something. This time, I was at a painting party. Painting about four strokes with the roller. When,

Bam!

Snap!

You can hear it pop.

When it snapped the other day, my nephew told me he heard it.

So, I was perfectly fine … and … Snap! … Next thing I knew I was on the floor, holding my neon green paint-filled roller in the air, as my sister, Sookie, stepped over me so not to ruin the painted area I was just working on. I asked my niece to give me tequila shots in order to numb the pain. She reluctantly did as she was told.

Sookie is so over me. She is always picking up the pieces of my messes. And I get into a lot of trouble. Always have. The first time this happened, I was alone in my apartment, dressing for work.

Snap!

And I fell on my bed. Excruciating pain! Took me two hours to crawl over to the phone. Sookie came from Long Island, mind you, to help. She took me to the chiropractor. I couldn’t get any clothes on without pain, so I went to the doctor without a bra or underwear. Talk about bacteria on my couch! I was wearing a ripped T-shirt and unzippered pants. Well, what can I say? I couldn’t get them zipped without hitting the ceiling. And my hair. My hair immediately goes from soft curls to wire spikes sticking straight up.

Sookie’s like, “Aren’t you going to do anything about your hair?”

I’m like, “No!”

When it snapped this time, Sookie told me the same thing happened. My face contorted and my hair, which I just had gotten done at Ouidad earlier that day, went from pretty to shitty in a matter of minutes.

I went for an MRI today. I’d never gotten one before. I figured just the bottom half of my body would need to go into the thingy. But the technician started setting me up headfirst.

Side note: I had to strip for this. I was only wearing a hospital gown. Mind you, my hair was plastered down in a clip so that it wouldn’t just stand straight upward. Like a caged wild animal. But she asked me to remove it for the test. Up it went! Oy! Then I remembered, as I lifted my legs up onto the slab, that they are not shaved and they still have a little paint on them. Now, let me explain. My legs are hairy because I’d been growing them out in preparation for waxing. When the incident happened no waxing was going to be happening. There’s some blue paint on one leg because I haven’t been able to reach down to wash it off. So sue me.

So, as I lie down on the slab, I make a joke and say, “Listen, my legs are hairy. I need a waxing. Do you think you could wax them while I’m here?”

The technician really didn’t get it. But I thought it was hysterical.

I lied down. She was giving me instructions and earplugs, when I glanced back at the mummy’s tomb I was going to be rolled into for twenty minutes. I freaked. I began to panic. I didn’t think that I could get in there in that space and be still for twenty minutes, or for twenty microseconds for that matter. I sat back up. I tried to compose myself, and breathe. But I really didn’t know if I could handle it. I was ready to walk out. Then I thought, ‘If I had a blindfold, and couldn’t see anything, maybe I could do it.’

And just then, the tech suggested the same thing. I placed the blindfold on and immediately began to calm down.

Tequila probably would have worked just as well.

Reasons

The other night I was parking my car, in a really great spot as a matter of fact. It was around midnight. WBLS “The Quiet Storm” Show was playing on the radio. That’s a popular New York radio station, or at least it used to be, that plays R&B and soul. It used to be the home of the late, great DJ, Frankie Crocker, who passed too soon about ten years ago.

Well, as I said, I was parking. It was a warm summer night. Stars were out. I had my windows and moon roof wide open. I was enjoying the beautiful New York summer night, when Phillip Bailey started to sing “Reasons”, by Earth Wind and Fire. I’ve loved the song since high school. When I hear it, the same thoughts always come to mind, but this time they hit me hard. I was back, at a junior or senior high school party, slow dancing with my high school crush, Eric. I could smell his cologne. See his hazel eyes looking down at mine. Feel his arms around my waist. My head resting on his shoulder. I could feel my heart race. The feelings I had when Eric was near. The memories were so vivid, they brought tears to my eyes. I missed him so.

I closed my eyes and let the music take me back there. Let it waft over me like an ocean wave. Over and over. I hummed along. I felt the pain of unrequited love, 30 years later, as if it were today.

Oh, Eric. Where are you tonight?

I don’t know why, but I really don’t think I’ve ever felt the way I did for him, for any other man who entered my life later. I wonder if that feeling’s been what I’ve been looking for all of these years. The feelings I never found again. Someone who made me feel the way Eric did. No one ever did. No one ever measured up. I wouldn’t settle for anything less. And so, now I’m alone.

Eric and I never went out on a date. I only loved him from afar. I believe he cared for me too, but he was always too shy to show it. But every so often, at a party, we would dance. And the world would go away. And my world only consisted of him and me.

I’ve thought about Eric often over the years. Wondered how he was and what he was doing. I looked him up online, with no success.

But that night. That night … was different. After hearing the song, getting out of the car, on my walk home, I decided I was going to try harder.

And I did.