Things That Make You Go ...

Lili Taylor is the first celebrity I've openly flirted with. I've blogged about it.

Now she's going to star in a Lifetime series as a therapist who needs "a little therapy."

Hunh.

Speaking of needing a little, my therapist pointed out that my debt to George doesn't obligate me to a lifetime of friendship with him. She held up the mirror (figuratively) to remind me that I've contributed to the household in ways that he valued. And that ultimately, he's a destructive person who's lifestyle is not conducive to the way I want to live, so if I don't want to be friends with him, I need to make the boundaries firm and stop sending mixed messages.

To which I say, "You betta WORK, Ms. or Mrs. Therapist!" Again, worth every penny.

(I'm sure I'd have said the same thing if I were in her seat, LOL.)

You Just Can't Make This Stuff Up

So yesterday I skipped out of church early. I had a real nice time of worship and I didn't want the Pastor to bring me down. (How blasphemous is THAT? I know it was a wrong mindset, but I am readjusting my faith from "Punitive God" to "God, Full of Grace." The Pastor that I figured was about to preach is not on-board my faith-shift. So I skipped out.

God forgive me. (Which, being Full of Grace, He will. And in learning that He will, I also forgive myself. Because I'm happy that I went at all yesterday.)

And out I come, skip-to-my-loo, when who do I look up into the surprised face of?

George.

On the corner of Broadway and 50th. He was just coming from not-seeing the play Tarzan (because he had waited for his son, George Jr., and Junior didn't show. Big shock. So sad how George has no idea).

And get this ... George had a dried blood stain, a palms' width (with fingers spread) on the inside of his jeans' thigh. He explains that the day before, he had picked a pink bump that he though was a pimple, and it started bleeding and wouldn't stop.

Yeah. The day before. So he was wearing the same pants he had on the day before, with a huge 24-hr old bloodstain. He was staying at the hotel suite that he let me stay in over Christmas.

And he wanted me to fall in and hang out with him for the rest of the evening. And I'm not ready. I felt a great swell of compassion for him and how lost he seemed. What he looked like was one of the 888,000 homeless people in Manhattan. I felt a shameful buzz of embarrassment standing there speaking to him. All those feelings whirring around inside. Which means I'm not ready to be his friend yet.

Just let me get all my stuff out his house first and secure my cat to the no-kill facility. Just give me some space. Then maybe. Maybe.

Why hesiation?

Well this morning, after I left NYC, went to my old gym for an hour of buffosity, and returned to George's house to consider what to take next back to my NYC digs, and I find my cat's food bowl tipped over and all the food, (both for the upstairs cats' and my cat's) eaten.

I left on Saturday. Two days ago. And neither George, nor George Jr., fed the cats. Junior was there this morning, and he doesn't have a car. So he was there yesterday. And George was there on Saturday. And Friday.

I'm so out. The shelter will treat my cat better than the both of them do their own cats.

And it'll take a minute before I'm ready to step back to him and try to be his friend.

And I'm not going to worry about it anymore.

Sittin' Up In My Room

MY room.

Paid for with MY hard-earned money.

THAT'S what I'm talking about!!

I neglected to mention that this room came with cable, a television, a huge computer desk, internet, both wireless and plug in, a set of dressers, a deep wardrobe (ala The Lion, The Witch, and The...), and air conditioner that works, and MY TWO WINDOWS LOOK OUT OVER BROADWAY!!!!!! But again, I'm across from Isham Park, so I'm looking into nothing but green leaves.

The sound of traffic below is about to put me to sleep at this laptop, let me tell you. It's the city's lullaby to me.

Roommate #1 has left the country and Roommate #2 left me a nice note and explained where I may put my things in the bathroom and kitchen, and that he won't be back until tomorrow.

The hallways in my (MY!!) building are long and high, reaching back into the depths of the block. They are bright blue, lined with apartment doors. The thick coats of paint speak with an ancient voice, but the one I hear the loudest is the one that speaks like my First Apartment on Riverside Drive. I swear. I've never felt like this before, in all the apartment houses I've visited. But while moving in, every time I came up to this floor I felt like my child-self looking down my First Hallway, 35 years ago. Therefore, it must be bigger than the First Hallway was, because I'm bigger now.

In every way.

I went downtown after I brought all my clothes into the apartment and I haven't unpacked them yet. I just needed to get on the train with the knowledge that when I was done with my site-seeing, I was not getting in my car and driving to Jersey. I apologize if you were riding the A train between Dyckman and 42nd St, or you were on 40th St where Midtown Comics is, or on the M6 Bus heading north up 6th Ave., or in the Barnes & Nobles at Lincoln Center, and you were made uncomfortable by a rakishly handsome, broad-shouldered fireplug of a black man with a salt-and-pepper goatee who was grinning like a loon.

Because that was me, and I meant no harm. :D

Stay tuned as I get back into the swing of my city and tell you how a woman with a perpetual scowl chased an elderly couple away from her on the M6 by habitually digging her index finger up her nostril and slowly rotating it to affect one of the most disgusting excavations I may ever have witnessed in all my 42 years. Or how a couple at the 168th A/C train station kissed on each other as though they had just discovered they were about to be the parents of a child neither one of them was old enough to raise, and how their joyless faces evoked more compassion from me than envy. Or, stay tuned as I let you know if I again see the dreadlocked, earthy woman of color who looked to be in her thirties, reading voraciously after she got on in Inwood and rode the train with me until I disembarked at 42nd St. Will Alan approach her next time? Will he get his face slapped? Or will he find true love in a pair of eyes that furtively peek over the rim of a paperback?

Time will tell! And so will I!

(Edited for spelling errors. 'Shows to go ya' how excited and tired I was last night! :p)

Man, My Keys Are Heavy!

Because I got four new ones!!

And they all work. Front downstairs lobby door, and two for the apartment door. And one for the mailbox.

Now I have to get a digital camera. Because I LOVE my new neighborhood, and you just have to see it! I knew that place existed, but I didn't KNOW it was so beautiful from the inside out.

There are two train stops right in the area, one above and one below ground. The one above ground runs the length of Broadway (The Number 1, for those not in the know) and it will take me to my favorite Barnes & Nobles. The below ground (The A Train) is the one I'll be using to commute to the bus station, and will also serve as my express to Downtown locations.

Ich bin New Yorker! Wiederholt.

Universe Playing Fair

Two years ago I was facing eviction and homelessness, and my friends were pouring money into me like fingers in dykes. Then like Sam in "Transformers", a big hand swooped out from nowhere and grabbed me before I fell to my death.

Grim Jester watched the rescue and had to acknowledge the Presence of Something Bigger Than Us. Because he had already known that I staked a claim on Christianity, and my rescue was completely outside of myself. When Grim Jester admits there's a God, then you really take stock in the possibility, let me tell you.

With that in mind, and the growth of character that I've experienced since My Hero and My Friends and You Guys, I've been fine in the pursuit of the new place to live.

Tonight I go get my keys to the new place. It wasn't a scam. After I get the keys, Roommate #1 is leaving to hit the road in his musical pursuits and will be back in a month. Roommate #2 has a strict routine of getting up at 5 AM. He's an actor and real estate agent. He keeps himself in shape, as well as likes comicbooks.

I move in tomorrow. And when I wake up on Monday morning, no one will be left home. Because "The Universe" is playing more than fair with me. "It's" being benevolent.

PS--My eye stopped twitching since the AM of the 4th.

PPS--I'm still seriously procastinating in finding my cat a new home. Grim Jester is contemplating taking her, but there is the Humane Society near me where one of my Friends got her cat from. It's a no-kill facility. I just need to call them to see if they have room for my cat. If no one adopts her, she'll just live with them.

Get Here

Because I got inspired just a moment ago.

YouTube is the time-killer! It will suck out your soul! And I love it!

My Right Eye, Lower Eyelid, Keeps Twitching ...

... for about three days now. I suppose there's some stress seeping out through there, because I've been too happy to let it bother me otherwise.

Then Worst-Case Scenario Man stopped by for a chat.

My actual moving date was delayed for a week because the roommate who has the apartment in his name wanted to let "my" room's present occupant take another week to leave. It all seemed on the up-and-up. I was at the apartment again on Friday and explored more of the neighborhood. Across the street is Isham Park which affords lush green hills, a view of the Palisades, and open air --if that's your bag. But if I don't climb the steps to get to the top of the first hill, then I keep myself surrounded by the beautiful NYC architecture (this is practical in the months when all the green turns brown and barren). So on Friday I left my security check and this coming Friday (payday) I give my July-minus-a-week rent. This way, I don't even have to borrow the money from MTFD.

Cool, right?

But Worst-Case Scenario Man came by and told me that it's all a scam. They took my check and will never let me move in. They line up prospective renters all week, approve every one of them, then take their security deposits and leave Inwood never to be traced again.

That's an elaborate scam, I'll admit. Worthy of David Mamet. I hope it doesn't apply to me, though. I don't make a good movie hero. Wait, yes I do. Samuel L Jackson-style. Kicking doors down and cussin' m-f'ers out until they GIVE ME BACK MAH MONEY!!

But the lessor's room looked far too cluttered to have been a sham. And I have his name and his profession, and saw proof of his occupation in his room, and can track him down on the internet (done) because he is a semi-famous musician.

So take THAT, Worst-Case Scenario Man. I have defeated you again!

Meanwhile, I'm growing more and more melancholy about giving up my cat. I've had her for at least 7 years now. I got her in Springfield, MO when she was just a kitten, straining through the bars of the shelter with paw outstretched and protesting mouth wide open in high meow. How can I toss her back to the bars? Is her life nothing more than an amusement for me to use and discard? Is she a person, or just a pet?

And will she recover in a new environment, or will she wither and die, heartsick by our separation?

Best case scenario--she's just an animal, and animals survive. She likes people--she'll thrive with others.

But I'll miss her. That's the thing.

No, I gotta move on. I got to replace cats with Woman. If I'm lonely without my cat, then GOOD. Maybe that'll give me the strength to step up to the plate and get this life of mine filled.

But SHHH! Don't tell my Woman-To-Be that she's just a replacement for a feline. :)