Sunday Breakfast

They got together at their little diner this morning again. Four women at different stages of their lives, gather around greasy omelettes and scalding coffee to dish on everything that already happened, is currently going on and shall come to pass.

Nope, once again it is not “Sex and the Bronx”. I bet you those bums stole the diner idea from us. But yes, my three old friends and I gather whenever we can and talk over coffee, eggs and toast at our noisy and warm diner in the Bronx. There is a lot to talk about. One of us (la femme fatale) lives in Chicago, adopted two dogs, and now wants to adopt a kid. One of us (the prim seductive preppy) came full circle and is now once again living in the Bronx with the love of her life, which once again proves that people are linked to some locations and destinies and will never change them. The third one (the diminutive artist) is still where she was all those years ago, debating over her life, career, boyfriend and the Bronx… forever debating. Not decided yet. I, the fourth one, (not the oldest, or the smartest, or the blondest, but certainly the meatiest) have changed yet one more apartment, maybe accepting her fifth simultaneous job, and still in search of that elusive love that never comes my way.

In a way, there is progress. My friends are all in commited relationships, happily living in sin. Don’t ask me why. My preppy seductress refuses to get married and relinquish her independence, even as she rushes home to lovingly prepare her non-husband’s sandwich for work. The dark eyed femme fatale unconsciously touches her engagement ring while she talks about the perfect poor little orphan waiting for a mommy and daddy to save him, yet she has no set wedding date either. And the artist is simply living two realities. Do I detect a trend here?

I am not saying that the world has turned down on its head since it is the women who avoid the last link to the old balls and chain, while the balls and chain are clamoring for it. I am just saying that I am turning traditionalist. I do not understand why they do not get married and start with the next stage of their life. In my eyes, they have already relinquished their independence and their egoes to make room for the dual one or whatever it is that couples replace singlehood with. Once you find the person you want to be shackled with, the rest is pretty easy no? It does not look like it.

It suddenly hits me why I have so much difficulty accepting their situations. I want to see the fairy tale’s happy ending unfold in front of my eyes. This year has been a bit surreal, what with my ex-crush and his ex-girlfriend both expecting children at almost the same exact time, engaged but not married;  my baby nephew changing every minute in front of my eyes (apparently engaged but not married yet); and everybody else popping babies left and right. I discover once again that I am still waiting for the big finale, the one that will make it to the books, or the stories for grandkiddies, or the romantic movies we might write.

Well, I go back home and blow a wish on my peppermint tea. Here is to white weddings and happy endings for my friends through which I will vicariously live.

gloves

Gloves, gloves, Gloves

All you need is gloves

pam-pa-ram-param

all you need is gloves

pam-pa-ram-param

all you need is gloves

gloves is all you need

Listening to Poetry

I belong to this strangely mismatched but fun group called Albanian Language on Meetup.com. The idea is simple, Albanians and Albanian language hangers-on get together for different activities of Albanian nature in NYC. Sometimes, very interesting things happen to them.

The last was the poetry Luljeta Lleshanaku and her American assistant/MC read at Posman Books in Chelsea Market.  This is where you can find more information about her:

http://www.complete-review.com/reviews/albania/lleshl.htm

The reading was interesting and well organized, even though it was difficult to hear from the other end of the room. I had never been faced with her poetry before (my failing, i seem to have an allergy to poetry) but it was good to hear it spoken out loud. The translation into English was also surprisingly good and I want to hear good things from her in the future.

The room was full and that was a happy thing. Ms Lleshanaku herself was kind enough to sign our books and I happily walked away with Fresco and Child of Nature, as well as my mismatched companions. We were looking for food. Poetry readings are very tiring affairs.

We went to Maccelleria, an Italian restaurant in Chelsea owned and staffed by what else? Albanians. I have been there once before and I liked it. Everything went well, except my outraged waiter friend who strongly suggested I’d not add parmiggiano to the linguini in clam sauce because they did not go together. But I am long past that period when a waiter’s look could made me wither and fret for my manners, so by God I asked for cheese and added it under his horrified eyes.

My travel home was made easier by the conversation in Albanian with an Asian Linguist colleague who spoke my language much more coherently than our current prime minister. He even had an Albanian name. Who knew?

His gall made me come home and open my half forgotten Japaneze method again. I was determined to learn. Then I fell asleep.

All in all, a good evening.

Where are those good old fashion values? (from Family Guy theme song)

I do not know what is wrong with American guys nowadays.  Like, you message someone you are having a girls’ night out and he sends you a message back saying: “Yeah baby, send me a lot of pics of you and your drunk girlfriends!!!!”

Boy, you don’t even know me like that! You ain’t paying money for my girl on girl site, you ain’t never taken me to dinner and you never met me before. How you gonna ask for pics of me and my girlfriends?  It would be different if we met at a bar, while our mixed chinchilla group is having a great time and you buy a round of shots for everyone and ask us to pose for you. If the girls are game, I’m game too. I’ll even do the fake lesbian thing if you are cute enough. But over the phone???!!! You are barking up the wrong skirt Chucky!

I wish Chucky the SMS-happy guy was the only one because I would have dropped his patootie in a second. Unfortunately, he is an improvement before Fireguy who was a true firefighter and had me all on fire with his messages until he sent me a nekkid pic of hisself out of the shower. Haven’t you heard of the shrink factor??? If you ain’t got it, please don’t flaunt it! Big nono. This is the only time when you don’t show your banana muchacho otherwise the girl swings over to the next little monkey in big town who has the sense to keep his banana unpeeled until it is truly needed.

Well, I do not know what happens to men and cameras nowadays. In the beginning, I thought the girls were the worst culprits showing their boobies and whatnot, but no, the guys will show it all, the sausage and two veggies, the banana with nuts (and sometimes without). In the beginning I used to not know what to do (If you turn your camera off immediately, it shows you’ve had it swinging in your face before, so don’t get all virginny on me now) so I would just sit and stare and blush to my ears.

I mean, they obviously had something to work out and I was the unfortunate spectator. I mean camera ads three or four inches anyway and boy, did they need it. I mean I was disgusted and fascinated, until pretty soon I was just disgusted. Now I’ve learned how to tell them spot on so I cut them off before both of us get embarrased.

I never liked taking pictures of me  or even doing on-camera performance. I never liked sexting either, but it appears to have become the new predictable trend, that everybody knows but me. I think they should put out a monthly, something that says: “Yeah, beware. If you tell people you are going to bed they tell you they wished they were there with you and ask you if you are wearing the edible red thong.” I am in the bed by myself dummy why do I need the thong? How about “I am wearing my flannel longsleeved pijamas with yellow ducks?” How is your flag holding its drooping head now, huh?

Anyway, I suddenly got the urge for the “Family Guy”  theme song. Hate the show, love the song. And my beautiful wine sloshing in my stomach indignantly.

Highlander’s monologue (edited)

Highlander’s Monologue

Aghrrr, to have a powerful fist
punch this dumb mountain straight to his heart
So that he feels what it means to be weak
And squirm in agony like a wounded giant 

I, his bogeyman, a disturbed phantom
Heir apparent to suffering and endurance
Wander his belly with my ceaseless hunger
And the frustrated screeches of unapeased insticts 

The mountain stays dumb, even if every day
I rummage his back playing with death
Toiling for our meager daily bread
Deceived by hope, the cruelest of His jokes 

The mountain stays dumb and in dumbness laughs.
I am in pain, and in pain expire
What about me? Hey! When will I laugh?
Or must I first irrevocably die?

Aghrr to have that powerful fist
Punch the dumb mountain straight in his heart
See him squirm under my unlawful hit
And enjoy it immensely with a laughing cry

Another blues song (rated WSP for wallowing in self=pity)

He never said it, 'twas no hope
By all rights I shouldn't cry
He only gave me enough rope
For the wind to string me by

I can not blame him for this
I knew when I was going in
I would just be a stolen kiss
and an improper fleeting whim

I lost my magic as a muse
The inspiration was no more
I held on but it was no use
he still hurt me to the core

Now I'm a badly written verse

A notch made on a leather belt

A point for drama in reverse

A road travelled but not felt

Thanksgiving

We are not very sure on how to celebrate Thanksgiving, since it is not our holiday. But it involves turkey, wine, friends and therefore it is an excuse to break out the kiddie table and fight about politics with the cousins. I have a lot of cousins and a big apartment to fit them all in. And the turkey has already been slaughtered so we might as well roast it and eat it (or at least try). And it is close to the November feasts which we never celebrated anyway but still enjoyed what with the days off and the solemn concerts of yore.

This year’s Thanksgiving started in the morning with my dad who, after trying my mom’s patient for half an hour, suddenly started  giving thanks for the big apartment we were in, and the nice weather we were having. He proclaimed he was giving thanks every hour on the hour for something.

The womenfolk including yours truly were hard at work on cooking. I know that Thanksgiving is one of the holidays with a very set menu but my mom took one bite of the yams one year and declared disdain for all foreign food that cannot decide whether to be sweet or salty, spicy or mild and tries to be all. so she cooks what she wants, and I buy the rest. (Yesterday my manager was horrified at the idea that I would buy apple pie, not pumpkin for Thanksgiving. She told me that the only way I could have apple instead of pumpkin was to eat it with an wedge of cheddar cheese. I could see her horrified face as my mom took out the pershesh. Turkey innards are for stuffing purposes only. I learned this when my cousin reduced her New Englander cousin-in-law to tears when she stole the turkey’s heart for her pershesh).

However, I decided to get involved this year and do some shrimps, sauces and other little things here and there that do not require much work ( i hate work) but can still be eaten. In the end, the heaped table did not make sense at all but it smelled wonderful, if i do say so myself (I can because I ate half of it). We had the turkey, the pershesh, the shrimps scampi, the tzaziki sauce, the russian salad (who the russian call french and the french call it good to eat) and the seaweed salad in honor of the new neighborhood. Truly international.

There were kids playing, grownups drinking and singing out loud, other grownups discussing politics, religion, origins, ancients napping in a corner and one baby who watching it all with interest. At one point, my little cousins came to me very excited. “wow they said, “we did not know you drew stuff”. I had forgotten I drew stuff. Once upon a time. Very long ago. I drew stuff. they kept on watching me with newfound respect throughout the evening.

I had a dejavu. I remembered how excited I was when I found my uncle’s notes on how to kiss girls, how to talk to them and make them go home with him. there were several models of love letters and some unsavory descriptions of taking their bras off, but I did not wear a bra then so I did not pay it very much attention. However, I was hooked on the kissing part dreaming night and day about the special one who would say the right words and would position me just so, before he brushed his lips sweetly with mine, slowly blowing on them and mingling our breaths before he would truly attach his lips to mine and whisk me away to eternity. There was something with the tongues too, but the notes emphasized that it could be done only if the girl wanted to, and I did not see the point of it. It wasn’t in the movies.

And tonight, my little vixens found a secret of their old cousin. I felt a bit like a rite of passage was completed. They would remember me later as the cousin who could draw. It beats being remembered as the cousin who could eat and be a scary witch after three glasses of wine. And sing the baritone instead of the soprano.

My dad gave thanks several more times today, once about his beautiful nephew, then the internet connection and then other things. He seemed so proud that he had figured out the meaning of Thanksgiving all by himself and kept asking everyone: “Well, what are you going to give thanks for? What makes you most grateful?”

Well, having him for a father makes me very grateful. And the fact that he is still an innocent wonderful man who is not afraid to figure life out and give thanks for it. And a lot of other mushy-lushy stuff that  I do not want to dwell in right now. it does not jive with the figure of the cool older cousin who can draw sexy supermodels.

No Comment Needed

I am sorry for the inconvenience mail to you.

How are you doing there ? This is Pradip from India.

I have read your profile in the site, It is very interesting and realism, its very much impressed me. Friend if you have a little time to visit my profile it would pleasure to me. And a sort note from you would be nice.
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I do not believe this personal match % system here.Understanding and mental concrod is great chemistry in conjugal life . I believe in monogamy system. Hello I have never been married persona and still virgin and 43yrs. old, look my picture, hope you may like me.I have no kid also.

I have feel to seen your picture in the site that you are a sober personality,family oriented,pleasant looking . I am feeling loneliness and need a woman in my life and who will take care me.I am need a woman not only for sex, need as a friend as my guardian and as one part of my soul.It does not matter for me that we come from different countries, different religion,different color/type, Height and speak different languages. Need only peaceful and happiness life. Built a new home, new life, new family. Where two souls live together with happy life and love each other, take care of each other until to death. We Indian are believe wife is half part of husband soul.And we respect the woman as there are motherhood nature. Our mythology said Women are the supreme power in the earth.

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If you would like to acquaintance with me as a Indian Person then you can mail me more about you. I am waiting 4 your reply.
T H A N K Y O U
Take care
Pradip
India
)
============================================

We like to party.

I decided to have a party the moment I set eyes on my new apartment. Roomy, with big windows, two bathrooms and (gasp) a balcony. And it is within walking distance to public transportation. I love it.
I do not know why, but while my mom and my sister see the apartment and think in terms of curtains and carpets, I think in terms of parties and how many drunk people I can fit on the pull-out sofa.
I love giving a good party, something where everybody’s shoes are off and the neighbors are knocking because of all the yells and laughter, and the pants are half-way down. I do not care very much about expensive wines and crystal all over the place, but the cups have to be full at all times, and the tongues and teeth have to be black. Not reddish, not slightly purple, but black.
So, tonight I had a party. A housewarming party to be exact. American style with no Napoleon or baclava. I invited cousins, I invited my old friends, I invited my new friends, my everyday friends and my work friends. So many friends, it felt like a wedding. But hey, not everybody comes right? In this case, wrong. Almost everybody came bearing gifts and smiles, old gossip and new gossip. My ex-crush was there with fiancee and ex-fiancee who was there with her fiancee. My friend, her brother, her boyfriend who hate each-other to death came (thankfully at different times) and behaved themselves. My cousins came with their crazy gossip and fake blood. My in-laws came and actually enjoyed themselves, as did I. And I had my token Americans and my wonderful but fleeting twins who better stay longer next time or I will make them talk to my dad.
To stop myself from looking like I normally look, I had my hair cut and blow-dried, and my mustache waxed. The Korean hairdresser charged me twenty dollars and took one hour to do my hair. He knew only three words in English “You want bang?”. Seeing my confusion, he mimicked cutting my bangs and then I understood he was not offering me the Korean Surprise Special, but a hairstyle. Of course I wanted no bang, just a plain haircut with a long V down the back, which I got and enjoyed all evening.
To stop my guests from being food poisoned, I had my sister cook and my mom fix the apartment. Another two bright ideas which ended in success. There was couscous cooked in chicken hearts and all kinds of fat and pork roast. See, we do believe that any dish, no matter how healthy has a great potential for becoming a heart attack. But it was excellent.
To keep them from becoming bored, I unleashed my dad. My dad is not like other people’s dads. He has very outlandish ideas that belong to him alone and no one else. He is the only man I know who is 60 and still cooler than me. He has this habit of arguing his point until he completely and totally obliterates your belief in your own argument. And the moment you agree with him, he starts arguing your point, leaving you confused and in need of aspirin. But it seems to work wonders with the men especially after bottles and bottles of wine and beer. They did not even need the music.
So the party was a success. And now I have the recipe for a success party:
1. Have a credit card.
2. Make your sister cook, your dad talk and your mom clean the dishes.
3. Have your brother-in-law (Angel in disguise) buy the drinks.
4. Do not let your Korean hairdresser give you bang.
5. Do not worry about the guests but about their empty glasses.
6. Enjoy your own party.
And start making plans for the next one.

once more with feeling…

no matter how many times we fall for it, fighting with you is always a surprise. we’ve been hundreds of time down this thorny path, we’ve left hair, blood, fingernails and peace down its barbed bushes, but it always catches us by surprise.
once it was about me crying every three seconds and storming off upset to observe my tears in the bathroom mirror. it gave you the idea that my tears were always like waterworks and i could turn them on and off whenever i wanted. now you cry too sometimes. i wonder if this means you understand my tears better. i wonder why you should understand me better in the first place.
you say i do not understand you. you always feel my disapproval deep inside and are half convinced that it is envy. is it? i am not sure i am built for envy. disrespect yes. it hurts to see that in your eyes, the disrespect for the person you say is closest to you, the hurt coming from the one who you bare yourself to. is it true? is it? how do i do that? am I that uncomfortable with your openness?
we both know when things precipitate and despite that, we still say the same things we have said a million times before. i don’t love you, you don’t respect me, i can’t express anything and you bare it all. i am your closest friend but your only in my top twenty or so. old old old. but still gold. or in this case that sticky sickly tar we used to make gum off as kids which would get on to our clothes and which would cause us both to be punished.
strangely, i do not feel any kind of hurt from you. it comes from not being understood, it comes from being frustrated to the point of madness, because only you can get to me like this. only you can profess love when you resist me this way. only you can call me on my strange and scareddy cat personality, only you know where my skeletons lie. and i am more scared by the fact that you have never seen them, but you know exactly where they are and why.
it is an ongoing circle suffocating us both, preventing us from achieving what we want most…to live happily ever after. after all we are all royalty in our way, even if we do not speak in the same language. we are warring frenemies who profess love. i worry that we have lost it, but since we are both in tears, it means that it is still in there somewhere hiding and sticking its poisonous tongue at us.
we separate because it is late and we always have living to do, but it is certainly not over. we won’t stop looking for that rosy happy ending, and maybe expect each-other to fall into line. it won’t happen of course but at least the family affairs will be affairs to remember.