Dreams

I had a strange dream last night. I dreamt that DeShon was getting married and I had to go. The wedding was either going to be in Atlanta, Puerto Rico or New Jersey. An old woman from my church in Tennessee was telling me all of this and when I acted put-out by the whole thing, she said, "Well, it's a good excuse to go to the Caribbean". I was relieved to find out it was going to be in New Jersey, though I was not happy that it was happening.

I found him in New Jersey. Everyone was there in a shabby house that felt like a home. His brothers and my brother. After I found him, we snuck conspiratorially into a bedroom and started kissing. People kept opening the door, and as they tried to wander in, I screamed at them to get out. He smiled down at me as we lay on the bed and told me it was us who were getting married. He then mentioned that I had better take a shower. I rolled my eyes as I looked down at my discheveled clothes.

I looked at the clock, it was 8:35am. I asked what time it started, knowing it would be sooner than I would like; I hate rushing. He told me 10am. I was annoyed. "Why do we have to start so early?" I asked. He said "Because my best friend of like 50 years, Roger, needs it to be at 10am". I asked, "What is he allergic to, 11am’s?" I thought to myself, “the wedding can’t start w/o the bride”, but I knew I did not have a say, Roger had changed his schedule to be there. I looked at him and told him in a pouty voice, “this is not going to be the wedding I wanted". I was still smiling a bit, I knew in my heart he would make it up to me. I felt pretty good, though a bit disappointed things would not be exactly how I wanted them to be and that other people were still more important. I felt good though.

I woke-up perplexed at this strange vision. I had a dream that Steven got married right after we broke-up, I felt crushed. And it actually happened. This was different, it was like the dream sequences you see in movies, the ones that have some meaning your subconscious is trying to push through.

I don't know what the dream meant. I know that I miss him like crazy, but another part of me knows that even though he might be the right person, now is not the right time. Again, it is like a movie, two people whose lives continue to brush past one another's, but cannot connect until later. I haven't heard his voice since he left for Vegas on Sunday. It's only been a few days, but I know that he is probably doing something of a "Fi Detox". I understand. He needs time to sort through all this the same way I do. For now, I will have faith and stay the hell away from Facebook!

After spinning I headed-off to work. I spoke to my mother briefly and told her that I had been wait listed at CUNY's Journalism Graduate School. She was thrilled. I must say, her excitement was catching. It is not the worst back-up plan in the world. I know I am going to write. I have to keep telling myself that I am already a writer. Who knows how I will make the jump from being a writer to a paid writer.

The possibilities washed over me, filling me with the feeling you get when you meet a new lover. Not the blind, carefree feeling of falling in love, but the quiet anticipation of potential. I suppose you might call it hope. Funny how intoxicating that can be. The tentative, guarded joy that things yet to come can give you.

Reading Ruth Reichl's books have made me fall madly in love with her, and give me a watercolor-like image of what my own future may hold. When I started the experiment I wanted a life of friends, adventure and interesting conversation. Though I still want those things, I have another desire to add to the list: I want to create something. I don't want to edit or manage or assist. I want to create something from nothing. Perhaps that is what draws me to writing. I am not a painter or a musician, but I can take people somewhere new or somewhere familiar with my words. I can invoke laughter and tears with words on a paper that was once blank. This is what I want to do, hopefully I can find a way to do it and make a living!

I had an idea the other night. I was out with Em in the Lower East Side and we had just tried the new bun restaurant BaoHaus. It did not come even reasonably close to living up to it's hype. Disgusted, I went on a critical rampage, ending with the comment that "David Chang shits on BaoHaus". Through fits of laughter, she begged me to become a food writer. She said that the way I write and the perspective I have is beyond entertaining to her. I chuckled and told her, "You tell me where to start, and I'll go full speed ahead!"

Later that evening, I was lying in bed reading Chelsea Handler's newest bio "Chelsea, Chelsea Bang, Bang". The outlandishly unruly woman has softened a bit since finding herself in a monogamous relationship, but is still one crazy, hilarious bitch. "I wonder if she would like a food commentator on her show?" It is clearly an insane idea, but hell, we have hilarious social commentators, such as herself and Joel McHale, why not take the same sacrilegious approach to culinary review? It may be a silly idea, but it is surely going to be a bizarre niche that will land me the success I crave. Perhaps I am insecure, but my history has shown me that I am much better at forging new paths than competing on the road more traveled.

Dreams, dreams, dreams. Funny how you can have them while sleeping and while wide awake and in both cases you end up with nothing more than vague watercolors to follow or interpret. Thank God for faith, without it life would probably be one big nightmare.

Working in the Nut House

Sometimes it is hard to see the humor in a situation when you are the one in the middle of it. Well, I found a way to see the now obvious hilarity of working for an insane, cat loving, cougar at RRA, and like before, I am beginning to see the clear comedic value of my current job working for "The Man".

Ironically, I actually work for three women at the government institution that is the VA hospital. Yes, three. I have dubbed them little boss, middle boss and big boss. Little boss is a boss in name only, acknowledging that we are really more peers than anything else. Middle boss only appears to praise me to my face or to stir-up drama behind my back, depending on which way her bipolar pendulum is swinging on any given day, and big boss is the one who gives me my assignments and the one who usually protects me from middle boss's tantrums.

More about the holy trinity later. The most recent source of insanity has been provided courtesy of what I call our "rehab hires". I always wondered how the morons roaming the halls actually acquired the coveted government positions. In an enlightening conversation with Little Boss, I found my answer. There are several avenues to government employment; you can be an extremely qualified military veteran with a perfect record and a college education (like me), you can start working at the hospital while in high school as a part-time helper and simply stay put until they offer you full-time work, or you can get hired as part of a rehabilitation/ADA initiative. Yes, many of our blue collar employees are recovering drug addicts and mentally deranged individuals. Why they think a mentally ill person is the right guy to courier medications between floors or sort the mail in a hospital is beyond me. It does answer quite a few questions though.

Up until last Friday I was merely bemused and a bit wary of these particular employees. There is a medicine courier in our Brooklyn hospital who looks remarkably like the hunchback of Notre Dame and has the interesting penchant for screaming inappropriate rants at unsuspecting bystanders. Entering the elevator one day, he was able to screech out "Fucking fat-ass" at a woman who just missed the closing doors. He continued mumbling to himself as the elevator descended and exited the elevator just in time to scream another unintelligible insult at the first person he saw. When I asked about this peculiar man, all anyone would say is, "oh, that's just Allen". Okaaaay. This was before I learned about the "rehab hires" and I was left a bit confused.

Back at the Manhattan branch, I was sent to the basement on a supply run one day. The rather fascist supply girl barked at me to come back after 1:00pm. I learned that we are only allowed three of any given item and supply is only open one day a week from 1-4 in the afternoon. Okaaay. When I returned at the appropriate time, a line had formed and everyone was waiting anxiously for the disgruntled clerk. While we waited a man kept wandering into the hallway screaming "Do you know Paul Smith? Where is Paul? Where is Paaaaul!?" Everyone ignored him, which was my first indication that perhaps he was not addressing us directly. After he disappeared into the mail sorting room, the screeching began. The noises brought to mind the cries of Sloth from The Goonies. I was more than disturbed by the animal like noises coming from behind the wall, but what I found equally disturbing was the lack of response from my fellow line inhabitants. "Am I the only one hearing this!?" Seeing the zombie-like stares of those around me, I thought it best to keep my concerns to myself. Talk about Twilight Zone!

A short while later I learned about the unusual hiring practices employed by our great bureaucracy. I have not returned to the basement since and thankfully I have been able to avoid these employees except for the occasional lurching woman who pushes an empty cart around the hallways, until last Friday that is.

After conducting discharge rounds on Friday I grabbed a coffee and began reading over my notes on the way back to my office. I was walking through a set of double doors when a man emerged from them, holding the door behind him. Taking a sip of my coffee, I passed him with out a word. He turned almost immediately and shrieked "OH, you're not going to thank me for holding the door?" I glanced over my shoulder and mumbled "Thanks" and went back to my notes, thinking this was the end of it. I was mistaken. Half way down the hallway I heard the man come back through the door and he promptly began shouting his objections. "I don't hold the door for nobody and you not even gonna thank me? What is your problem bitch?!" I spun on my heels to face the barrage. Not today homie, not on a Friday! "Excuse me? I obviously was thinking about something other than you and I did not notice you" I began as he continued ranting, "You need to relax, calm it down man!" He continued grumbling as he retreated back out the door as the large travel clerk from my office came through. Her eyes became even more enlarged than usual as she asked me what the hell was us with him. She was rather impressed with my aggressive stance, commenting that "Felicia's the wrong one, she'll buck up on you!" Cackle, Cackle. I wonder what type of hire she was....

Let's recap: Crazy people and drug addicts roam the halls, the clerks I work with consist of an obese cackler who often is unable to complete her tasks because of the errant globs of cheese from her danishes and a man who sings to me under his breath. The office I inhabit is a storage room for another department and the man who runs that department likes to come in and simply hover. I have yet to figure out if he is trying to intimidate me or hit on me. He might be gay actually. I have three bosses, two of which exist only to alternate between befriending and sabotaging me and one who assigns me outlandishly huge jobs and they tells me that my good work is making other employees jealous. A large part of my position is to manipulate the other employees into giving me information to bring back to Big Boss and into thinking that I know what the fuck I am doing. Oh, and I am the lowest paid employee in the department.

One definitely flew over the Cuckoo's Nest, the question is who is crazier, the patients on the 17th floor psych ward or the employees making a larger salary than I am? Perhaps I am the nut, I am finally starting to see the hysterical reality that is my 9-5.

Roller Coaster Climb

Well, my writing has been noticeably non-existent lately. I suppose I just haven't wanted to face my thoughts, or I am simply overwhelmed by the number of thoughts and have not known where to start. That's the bitch about getting behind in anything, whether it's phone calls or deadlines, they always grow to monstrous inconveniences when left to fester to long!

I have also been a bit busy playing house with my ex. It is just so easy to fall back into things, pretending nothing has changed. Well, D. came back from Vegas and I decided to just enjoy the familiar, fun company of my best friend and lover of the last 3 + years. The first week he was back we partied and played and acted as though we were on an extended vacation. The next week I was at Gus's apartment cat sitting. I had him over once, and had plenty of adventures in cat litter and free movies on Roku to keep me occupied.

The following week my brother came out for a visit. It was great to see him and show-off my city, but fate being what it is, I had the freakin' flu the entire time and he was under the weather too. We invited D. out with us a few times as well. It was one evening that week that I decided to go a bit cyber-stalker on his ass. Never a good look on me, but I stumbled upon a message from an online dating service and I was rendered helpless against the subsequent sick curiosity. It was upsetting to see that he was actively "chatting" with women who were not me. It had to start sometime, I guess I have been waiting for that particular hammer to drop for a while now.

My brother headed back to school and I left Gus's apartment and moved back home. Emotionally and physically exhausted, I threw myself back into his arms for the rest of the week. We talked about the "cyber girls" and he said he was just testing the waters. He clearly did not owe me an explanation, but he is incredibly accommodating to my craziness. This weekend he moved all his things out and today he kissed me goodbye and headed back off to the desert for the next six week shoot.

I am now sitting in my newly organized apartment missing him. I tried looking through a few Timeout New York singles profiles, but they just made me miss him more. I am such an extremist: I either crave singlehood or marriage, not much in between. I suppose it is starting to dawn on me that it is not completely up to me whether or not we are together. He is an active party in this dissolution as well. This knowledge is bruising and liberating at the same time.

Control may be comforting, but it also comes with a great deal of pressure. All I can do is sit back and see what happens. The truth of the matter is; we have fun together, we are comfortable together, we know each other like family. On the other hand, I want to be with someone who is totally sold on me and for all his adoration, he is still not completely convinced that I am his end-all-be-all. I also want a man who can take care of himself and this is his time to prove that he can stand on his own two feet. Yes, this is how it has to be. As kind as he is to me, these last few weeks of playing house have made it clear that he has moved on more than I have. I am once again in the position of caring more than he does and that is just not good enough.

I'll tell you what I want; I want to start an amazing career. I want to start building a grown-up life that is challenging and rewarding and exciting. That is the extent of my lust. I have finally gotten to the age where I realize that a man cannot change my life, no man can give me what I truly long for. Once I have the life I desire, then love will come into focus.

So what now? I'll just keep pushing. I am once again playing the wait and see game. I have applications out at NYU and for a new job at ICE. We'll see where that takes me. And yes, I will keep writing, just keep chronicling the inevitable comic tragedies to come! Hey, it's me, and if I know one thing its that I attract a particularly hilarious brand of craziness. I don't think I would have it any other way. No more tears, it is time to laugh like a maniac and hold on tight, cause this roller coaster is just getting started.

The Dead Zone

I found myself asking a familiar question today as I drudged down the gloomy gray staircase at the hospital, "How the hell did I get here?"

Yes, I have asked this question many times over the last few years. Today it was spurred-on by a meeting with my boss, a meeting that confirmed my paranoia was well placed and left me angry and deflated. Basically, I am doing a great job, but I need to do more menial work so other people in my department don't get jealous. Politics. She tried to reassure me by saying, "Don't worry, you have a great career ahead of you here, the rest of them are not going to go any farther." Wow, that might actually matter to me if I wanted a career in a government hospital!

Trudging back down the stairs to my shitty office (that I was told is not actually mine and will be recouped as soon as they can find another hole for me), I began to bitterly ask that tired old question. Immediately I heard my mother's voice in my head: "You wanted to live in New York. You are living the dream and this is just how you a paying for it!" My mother is not big on pity parties. But really, when am I going to start working in a field I actually want to grow in? When am I going to be able to answer the question, "what do you do", without giving a "but soon I'll be...." at the end of my job title? I hate to put all my eggs in one basket, but that seems to be precisely what I am doing with NYU. I just pray I get in, that my eggs don't all scatter and crack.

I signed-up to be a mystery-eater. It pays a whopping $15 per article plus the cost of the meal, but hell, if it turns out that it isn't a scam, it is a great way to practice my writing. Perhaps it can be a good preview of what life as a restaurant critic would be like. I am not sure if it will appeal to me at all, but as with most things, you won't know until you try.

Other than that little project, the rest of my day went by as usual. I left the hospital feeling utterly exhausted and dead inside. The government, or any uninspired work I suppose, can truly gnaw at your soul. I wandered down 1st Avenue to my CSA's Meet Your Farmer's event. There I heard two people talk about their food and their passion. It was nice to see pictures of fresh vegetables that made my mouth water. I began to feel a bit livelier.

See, when I get in "The Dead Zone", all I want to do is lye down and phase out. Bring on the coffin! I have to force myself out into the world where the pretty things I love, like food and friends and New York herself, can nurse me back to health. Spring seems to be here, but there are still some icy winds blowing through me.

One day I hope that my job, my day to day pursuits, will bring me to life instead of forcing me to fight-off spiritual death. I don't know what that will look like, but I am going to keep searching and experimenting until I do. For now I will cling to the remedies of gastronomical dreams and fanciful friends, for now I will bring myself back from the brink as best I can.

The Island of Misfit Toys

Here in the land of misfit toys….

I have been waiting a lot lately. This morning I waited in a long line for my government subsidized metro card and again for my first cup of coffee of the day. I suppose waiting is the name of the game right now. Looking around me at the bland crowd, I realized that this must be the place where all the invisible masses of unremarkable people on the streets of Manhattan must be headed. Walking through the city, I generally only take notice of the beautiful, stylish or outlandish,all the others just kind of blend together. I don’t think I am unique in that way, I bet a lot of people do it. Looking around this hospital I see that I am surrounded by them, their blandness adding to the bleakness of this place.

Taking a closer look you will find that this is not merely a bland way station, it is also a little shop of horrors. There are, of course,the sick and deteriorating old men, but take another look, the employees are not all what they seem either. I used to marvel at the fact that these people had government jobs when they are so notoriously hard to come by. Apparently, other than being a military veteran with a good education and clean background, you can acquire one of these position simply by working here part-time as a High school student and never leaving, you can actually have a severe mental of physical handicap and get in on some other government program, or, my favorite, you can have a serious drug problem and work here as part of your rehabilitation.

Yes, I admit it, when I see them limping around the hospital,screaming unintelligible babble, or even just looking content in their mediocrity, I cringe. Holy shit! Case-in-point: a mass e-mail just went out and it is grammatically incorrect. Then instead of than, I know they have no idea they made the mistake. This type of thing iseverywhere: the letters on the signs are crooked, people useprint-outs with different typefaces, taped over each other to make nameplates. This place is a shrine to minimal effort. I pray that I don’t look like them. The residents, no wonder they walk through the halls speaking only to one another. I don’t blame them for relishing the fact that they are “just passing through”. I suppose I am too, I just wish it were as obvious as their purple embroidered scrubs.

I know I could shine here, but I don’t want to shine in a place like this, where the bar is set so low. I want to shine in a place I can be proud of. I suppose I am afraid of becoming like these people:invisible, boring, old, unremarkable.

The ones who are not total freaks, the normal simple ones, they remind me of a time when this would have been more than enough. I remember being with Steven, planning on moving to Tampa (because he wanted to)and working at the VA there. Simple 9-4:30 work, steady pay, good benefits. All that leaving time to have barbecues and parties with my delightful man. Even thinking about it now, it feels like enough, andit feels terrifying because I remember how he tore himself away from me, the way that in the end it was only him that made that future enough.

I have always had two competing sides: one of them craves the exotic-travel, success, power, novelty; the other craves simplicity- small towns, nothing to reach for except your family and friends, back yard parties and attainable cravings. Which do you think is winning?Somehow simple is never quite enough. It’s like craving a dish and being disappointed each time you eat it, yet craving it again nonetheless. I suppose all that is to say that between the disgust,fear and nostalgia; I am not fitting in here!

I know it’s wrong, but walking through the halls on my way to do rounds, being stuck behind the obese man wheezing then painfully watching the gimpy man struggle to pass, hearing the crazy man scream down the hallways; it always brings to mind the old Christmas song,“Here in the land of misfit toys….” I don’t really remember the rest of it, I just remember the hodgepodge of broken, freakish toys dancing about because there on that island, they were normal.Hopefully, I can get out of here with an ounce of humanity and style,because I have a feeling that if left waiting here too long, I will become the one screaming through the halls.